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…
The end of incarceration is in sight, although that’s just as well, as I’m really starting to get tired of this situation now. There is a mosquito net installed over my bed here, and I am using it, but I haven’t actually seen any mosquitoes — possibly there was one that drifted by, last week. Otherwise it’s purely cosmetic. And if you think that might be a metaphor for other things, well, help yourself.
I am aware that this is an extremely dull photo but sometimes putting up a really dull one is the only way of epitomising the day. The whole Covid testing racket is just such classic 21st century: the private sector creams off cash from us all based on claims that it’s the only way forward, there is no alternative, no dissent to be had. I pay £75 to be told I don’t have a virus that a) I’ve already had b) I’ve (twice) been vaccinated against c) I have no symptoms of. And before 8am, too.
Still, at least I have been given my official “UNINFECTED!” bar code, stamp on my forehead, tattoo, whatever. So I’m off to St Helena — a day later than originally planned, but I will be there from Tuesday. And then sat in quarantine for 10 more days, but that’s a whole other story that is still to come.
Being 42 