Today was one of those days mentioned on Tuesday; inspiration had to be found from indoors. Fortunately the wife has recently engaged in one of her shredding binges. There is a whole landscape of information contained within half-a-dozen blue waste bags, ready to be recycled into…. well, toilet roll quite possibly. But not by us.
I don’t do “retail therapy”. I just needed a new pair of shoes. There’s a wedding coming up and certain standards are expected.
On we go with year 16…. Now I have reached the advanced age I have, spending my birthday evening at non-league football seems quite the right way of going about things. And on such occasions, the substitutes’ benches are often good sources of portraiture. There is a mixture of enthusiasm, indifference and boredom on these faces, and we are only 10 minutes into the game, I’m not even sure how many of these guys eventually made it onto the pitch. But at least it was a win, and for those of us who have been watching Brighouse Town recently, there haven’t been a great many of those in recent seasons.
Sister on the left, wife on the right. Between them, Vicki and Clare sort out as much of my life as anyone else these days. I think both of them have my interests to heart.
With this picture I have reached 15 full years of blogging — 15 x 365 = 5,475 and there have been four February 29ths. I started on 26th August 2011, my 42nd birthday (hence the title of this blog, in case you’d forgotten), and tomorrow, well, you do the maths. I suppose there have been some occasions when I have considered bringing it to an end, particularly on some days where, working at home or stuck in the office, I really have struggled to find anything particularly worth photographing. On the other hand, as I have no intention of ceasing to document things like walks, football matches and periods of travel, I imagine that deliberately leaving gaps in the record would immediately feel like I was letting myself down. So on I go. One of these days I may simply have a camera breakdown, but que sera, sera.
Last morning in Oxford: time to go home. My accommodation was so middle-class that it had one of these in the back garden, not that it looks like it gets used much these days. Is it only in Britain that we define tennis as a firmly middle-class pursuit? It’s never been my sport (and what that says about my class-consciousness I have no idea) which is why I was going to add that no tennis-related photos have appeared on this blog in its fifteen years (minus one day) but thanks to tagging, I note that one lost ball has appeared — and I think that’s still sat in the same place in the garden.
“And together now…. one, two, three, leg up and TUCK that head…. and now SLEEP.”
“Hang on, did we put anyone on watch? Ah, who cares.”
A first visit to Didcot, one of those towns that simply would not exist without railways, and specifically, the decision of Mr. Brunel (there he is again) that this was the best route for the Great Western line through to Bristol in the 1840s. This was, and still is, a major junction. Anyone who has a penchant for steam trains could do worse than spend time in the Didcot Railway Centre, which is full of them, whether standing in engine sheds or operating up and down the huge yard that nestles within the boundaries of the still-working main lines. Well worth a visit.
Dipsacus fullonum has been used as a natural comb since antiquity, particularly to clean woollens and raise the nap on them (that is, make them fuzzy, like velvet) — and one can see why. One might even argue whether humans would ever even have invented the comb had they not had the teasel as a model. As seen in Raleigh Park, Oxford, just across the road from my accommodation here.
There are nine Muses, at least according to most classical mythology. Sculpted representations of three of them currently occupy the lobby of the Weston Library, while the building across the road has some cosmetic surgery undertaken. I’d like to think I have engaged with eight of them at some point in my life although I must have done something in my karma to upset Terpsichore as she and I have never really got together.
It might be a dragonfly or possibly a damselfly: apparently they are very similar. Whichever one it is, it’s a predator, and imagine (if the scales were different) this thing coming towards you intent on murder, for surely what it actually is, is a flying Egyptian mummy/vampire.
Being 42 