I’ve been to the Tower multiple times since I was a child, and I am not that fond of it. I don’t understand that. “On paper” at least, the Tower is exactly my sort of place: it’s old to the point of decrepitude; it is peculiarly mazy to the point of being like the TARDIS “larger on the inside; and it is full to the points of the towers with quirky stories. Its history is in fact largely identical to the history of the whole historical country, a nearly circular Venn diagram of kings, queens, constables, crown jewels, marches, mayhem, and murder.

Oh, interesting stained glass, kinda random…oh wait, this the oratory where Henry VI got it.

But I don’t and didn’t enjoy the place. It was raining and cold, and my smartphone kept malfunctioning (which led me to distractedly scramble to locate a public Wifi network where I could download a new eSIM, which I found near to the spot on the Green where Anne Boleyn was deprived of her pretty head). And it was crowded with tourists to see the Jewels and the “Torture at the Tower” exhibit. Incidentally, why aren’t these crowds ever visible in my photos? Why is that?

I found the verses of Donald Fagan’s Memorabilia from 2012 earworming anachronistically through my head,

Have you seen the memorabilia?
The dusty old memorabilia
Have you seen the memorabilia?
Souvenirs of perfect doom
In the back of Louis Dakine's back room

Of course, Fagen’s referencing Cold War nuke tests. Not medieval weapons, suits of armor, sad missing princes, and soon-to-be-decapitated queens smuggled through the Traitor’s Gate. But still, it’s all just memorabilia: tragedies, triumphs, and horror reduced to “recreations” and collectibles conveniently available for purchase in the gift shop outside the Middle Tower. Did the prisoners ever get so bored and so discouraged by it all that they welcomed the short walk to Tower Hill to meet their would-be Jack Ketch?