I am writing. For all that it is still warm and sunny outside, the bedroom gets too warm in the evening if the curtains are left open on days like this. The outside world must be closed off, at least for today.
“Alma Mater” doesn’t seem to get a translation out of Latin to English, it just comes up the same on Google. “The place where one went to university” is the windier but more colloquial version. It’s been a while since I have been back to the campus of the University of Leeds, which guided yr. humble blogger through two, or was it three, degrees (astonishing!) and then five years of employment (staggering!) between 1993 and 2005. And, yes, I put in my time in the rooms behind the doors to the right of this shot. I like the red lines to top right, which contrast the No Smoking sign and is the only reason I might get away with the latter blemish.
Having celebrated Hebden’s attractive qualities yesterday I am also permitted to be relieved that the football season has restarted so I have excuses to leave it on Saturdays, when it becomes too full for its own good — and go drink in some other town’s pubs instead. Like Wrexham in North Wales, for example. Which, this being taken in a Wetherspoons (if you have ever drunk in the UK surely you know of these places), looks much the same as anywhere else, of course. But I don’t mind them.
When I departed from Tromsø airport on the morning of 26th April 2018 I did not know how long it would be before I returned either to that city or the country of Norway. I didn’t think it would be over eight years, though. Having had regular trips there for work, these dried up, just because these things sometimes do. But it’s good to be back in 2026 — and purely for a holiday.
Today’s was a long journey, though, thanks to an enforced 5-hour layover in Gardemoen (Oslo) airport, where one must remind the tourists of a few local cliches here and there. But why make trolls out to be sweet, cuddly, hobbit-like creatures? I’ve seen Troll Hunter.
While I try to keep this blog non-political there need to be occasional exceptions, and this is one. With our local council, Calderdale, having been taken over by neo-fascists last month, they have declared that ‘foreign flags’ are not to be flown from council property. Thus, a flag that had flown for some time in Halifax in solidarity with Ukraine has been removed, for example.
I decided the other day, bollocks to that, and ordered a specifically foreign flag — that of Albania — that has arrived and will be flying from our house once the best way to sort this has been worked out (hence the canes) and, also, when it stops permanently raining. The flag is that of Albania by the way. Why? Because I like it. And it suits the wife.
If you’ve no idea what the title of this post is referring to then obviously you do not play cribbage. But you might be able to work it out. I get two for a pair as well. No, I am not playing solitaire — the wife has just slipped away for a moment. She won this particular game, 3-2 (we know each other’s strategies so well now that basically it all comes down to the luck of the deal — that’s my excuse anyway).
Attending a ‘Names Festival’, along with a grand total of fourteen other people, seemed a hassle-free way of bringing the working week to a close. These are all names, of the four others sat at my table: three in Chinese and one in Bengali. It was suggested I add my own name, but we just have that boring old single script to work with and it was written out on my name badge anyway so I kept myself an invisible presence, at least in terms of this particular, ephemeral document.
Actually, now I make this full-size I see the sticket is very difficult to read, but hey, this one was always more about the art than the aspiration. It says “Challenge Accepted”, by the way. The challenge we have at the moment is persuading the students (who as postgraduates are supposed to still be cranking it out) to stick around on campus, though at least these two have made it.
It’s astonishing, and kind of embarrassing, quite how grubby are some of the harder-to-reach corners of our house. This one sits below the unused chimney, but that’s an explanation, not an excuse. I picture it here to shame the cleaning fairies who, of course, should be the ones doing the work.
Being 42 