And where are all the people who should be in the empty offices, as pictured yesterday? Trapped behind these magic mirrors, in some kind of netherworld. Myth becomes life, and slowly we fade away, losing more and more connections with the reality we once knew.
Booth Street, Manchester. This is the most public of workplaces, floor to ceiling windows on the ground floor. It has lain empty for 15 months now. Today, the lights were on — yet still no sign of occupancy. The ‘evacuation point’ sign seems somehow meaningful.
On a day working at home and a quest for something, anything, to photograph, my eyes alighted on this sunlit pair of purples. Well, why not take a photo of cash. We’re seeing decreasing amounts of it — I don’t mean money (I admit that my income has been unaffected by the Covid crap and I sympathise completely with all of those for whom this is not the case), but just cash, the stuff you hold. Even then it’s all an abstraction, isn’t it. Yet look at the detail in these notes. They’re aesthetically pleasing if you ask me.
This morning was one of those occasions where a minor diversion from my usual route — in this case, leaving Victoria station by a different exit — helped me spot an opportunity for a picture. I had never noticed the S & M nature of this war memorial before. People pay to get trampled in this fashion: or so I’m informed. Actually I think the sub creature is an imp, or little devil of some kind, rather than a cherub: but the wings took longer to see.
What these socks of hers say about Clare I am not quite sure, but hey, we’re still married after 22 years (nearly). So tacitly, I guess I approve. (The text on the one on the left starts: “Being an adult is…”; the rest you can work out for yourselves.)
The rain came down, so another exciting weekend day was spent inside, thanks to Our Glorious Leaders still reckoning that indoor entertainment options will cause us all to shrivel with plague, or something. But, won’t this change as of tomorrow? My view is — don’t hold your breath.
And this movie was awful, by the way. I won’t name it. But if you can take what might have been a quite interesting plot twist and still make it as boring as the rest of the day, then that was quite an achievement.
These cards all reside in the foyer of RTQ, the tutoring service from whom Clare rents her room, which we have both been using as something of an escape during lockdown. Thank you indeed. But hey, can we leave home, legally, after Monday? There are rumours.
I don’t pose or stage photos for this blog. But sometimes I do choose them in advance. A year ago today I was walking in the Lake District. When I got home, all had changed. So, today, to mark one year since Bojo the Clown couldn’t decide what else to do and stuck us all under house arrest, here’s a tribute to a certain early 1980s rock album with which some of you may be familiar. The walls must come down, there is no alternative. How this happens is largely up to us: even if Authority will insist it’s up to them.
Nothing happened today at all, except for the news — still unofficial, but it’s looking most promising — that I will be heading off to this rather remote spot at some point in the next few months, for a research project. We got the ‘yeah, OK, we’ll fund that’ email today. And very good news that is too, for all sorts of reasons.
Joe was born on 4th March 2003, so do the sums. Tomorrow he attains his maturity and I shall be the parent of an adult. My oh my.
Being 42 