Clare has her little daily projects too. Maybe that’s one reason why we’ve managed to stick it out for 25 years (and counting) as a couple. 2019 had its temperature scarf, one line per day; 2021 was recorded on this quilt, one square per day recording weather conditions. Ask C what the coding is…
The year is not going to end excitingly, but at least one can still go out, as I did today, even if just to do some shopping. This is an abstract, but the focus is right and it’s the shot I intended. I noticed the possibility of a shot of these chargers between the seats as the bus rumbled over the hills to the north, but no chance to capture it until we had stopped moving; meaning that Oxenhope can here get another day on its tally.
You still can’t buy socks or men’s underwear in any of Hebden Bridge’s multiple retail establishments, but we do now have a cheese shop. Time for some Wensleydale, I feel. The kid has made his choice too, by the looks of things.
As time passes, and an increasing proportion of my life is depicted on here somehow, ‘cast members’ will start to be lost. Debi was the subject of my post on 11th February 2013. She lives in Hebden Bridge like me, but on that day we met in Brisbane while I was on my trip there and she was breaking a three-month visit to New Zealand to meet relatives. She was a fellow regular at the Railway too and has appeared on photos taken in there. We’d seen each other less recently, though unfortunately that is true of everyone, and a state of affairs I am increasingly refusing to tolerate: there was a healthy (in all senses) gathering of people today for her service in the Hope chapel, then the wake. RIP Debi.
“I don’t care what my lot are doing. You’re eating. They’re not. I’m going to stare at you for a while.”
At times in a British December it’s hard to believe there is such a thing as sunlight, so this was a welcome burst on an otherwise grey day, illuminating those of us taking a break in University Place. For once, on this shot, I don’t mind the appearance of litter bins.
No other veg is quite so purple as beetroot. Not this rich, vibrant purple that stains everything around it, anyway. And in such a grey, alien-looking container.
I have to stand up in front of a full room next week and intone the names of at least a hundred Chinese people (amongst others); so this was a professional development opportunity that was worth the time. If the recording of this session ever gets out, however, I suspect we will go viral and be a source of hilarity on Chinese social media. A dozen or so middle-aged white academics being tutored by the very patient Luxi (pictured, as she encouraged us to place our lips correctly for the first syllable of ‘Yuxuan’), mangling tones and generally embarrassing ourselves. But at least it was only a rehearsal.
My three weeks in St Helena meant that I missed out on the first decline of winter, and have thus been plunged straight back into December chill and gloom, without the initial acclimatisation. Sights like this are thus very welcome at this time. It’s only just been lit, but it’s developing nicely.
There are three pubs in Jamestown, but The Standard is the only one that seems to be reliably open. This was my penultimate full day in St Helena and while, in some ways, I am looking forward to getting back home, I see Paranoia has broken out again in a big way…
Being 42 