It was a hideous looking email, bordered with a blurry version of the Strawberry Thief in a colourway that would have forced William Morris to lie down in a darkened room and weep. And it asked a painful question, beginning with those ominous words "knew you'd know this one"...
Still, I give at least in-box space to any besotted admirer of Morris. The socialist, poet, painter, printer and carpenter, was said to have contracted medievalism by starting on the complete works of Walter Scott at the age of four - a thing I've never managed yet.
He coped with his best friend seducing his adored wife by translating The Saga of Gunnlaug Worm-Tonge from the original Icelandic. And he may have ended up turning out hand-blocked wallpapers for the middle classes but also passionately believed that the poor should not only have bread but beautifully designed circuses.
The simple but excruciating question from the Canadian enthusiast was: "Where is the main William Morris museum?" The main one, eh? That wonderful inspiring museum to a true national hero, telling a story rich in sex, drugs and country dancing, open 24/7 and housed in a lovely arts and crafts building, eh?
Well, there's the National Trust's Red House, but that doesn't open for another month, and there's lovely Kelmscott, with its infamous opening hours, still recovering from last summer's floods. And the tiny treasure crammed Emery Walker House in West London, open for a few weeks a year.
And there's the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow. I recently visited for the first time since the uproar about cuts, having pored over its new opening hours - and I wondered if it hadn't been a pitch dark and sodden January afternoon, if I hadn't known that the curator left before Christmas, and the collection was only reprieved by the curl of a acanthus leaf from leaving with him, if the place hadn't been so deserted, would it still have seemed so sad?
So instead, I suggested the Canadian head for Liberty's. It's not was it was, but at least it's open and you can get a cup of tea.
Maev Kennedy
Still, I give at least in-box space to any besotted admirer of Morris. The socialist, poet, painter, printer and carpenter, was said to have contracted medievalism by starting on the complete works of Walter Scott at the age of four - a thing I've never managed yet.
He coped with his best friend seducing his adored wife by translating The Saga of Gunnlaug Worm-Tonge from the original Icelandic. And he may have ended up turning out hand-blocked wallpapers for the middle classes but also passionately believed that the poor should not only have bread but beautifully designed circuses.
The simple but excruciating question from the Canadian enthusiast was: "Where is the main William Morris museum?" The main one, eh? That wonderful inspiring museum to a true national hero, telling a story rich in sex, drugs and country dancing, open 24/7 and housed in a lovely arts and crafts building, eh?
Well, there's the National Trust's Red House, but that doesn't open for another month, and there's lovely Kelmscott, with its infamous opening hours, still recovering from last summer's floods. And the tiny treasure crammed Emery Walker House in West London, open for a few weeks a year.
And there's the William Morris Gallery in Walthamstow. I recently visited for the first time since the uproar about cuts, having pored over its new opening hours - and I wondered if it hadn't been a pitch dark and sodden January afternoon, if I hadn't known that the curator left before Christmas, and the collection was only reprieved by the curl of a acanthus leaf from leaving with him, if the place hadn't been so deserted, would it still have seemed so sad?
So instead, I suggested the Canadian head for Liberty's. It's not was it was, but at least it's open and you can get a cup of tea.
Maev Kennedy
