Wednesday 31st May 2023, 6.55pm (day 4,297)

I wasn’t participating, just documenting. And out celebrating having finished the end of the latest bout of marking.
I wasn’t participating, just documenting. And out celebrating having finished the end of the latest bout of marking.
The sun is out, and Coach Party Season has opened in Hebden Bridge. QR codes now appear in local shop windows that help such visitors find locations from Happy Valley (despite the fact that most of it was not filmed here). Trinkets are bought. Some pints consumed, perhaps. Then everyone files back onto the bus and goes somewhere else. I picked this shot today just because I like the guy in the middle, caught in some cosmic revelation. Perhaps he has just seen Sarah Lancashire ascending to heaven.
Attended a gig for the first time in ages. A sign of how it has become, as I have aged: gig behaviour now is to arrive early and grab the seats (or in the case of the Deaf Institute, ‘seats’) at the back, out of the way but with a good view. The guy on the left is reading a book for heaven’s sake. But like me, perhaps he has been waiting some 32 years to see Loop play live. This is a band that last year, released their first studio album in 31 years, so they attract a patient crowd.
No comments to add to this one. Just a portrait of a friend.
For those drinkers that prefer to start earlier, 7.15pm is getting towards the hazy stage of the evening. Whatever party was going on in the other room, at this point it spilled out into our part of the pub, at least for a short time.
Another photo of a pack member — in a sense. Mark is one of the colleagues with whom I work most closely. We were recording a podcast this morning, hence the microphone.
It’s all over. In the rain that came down for most of the second half, the players of Ashington celebrate with their travelling fans, having won the play-off match 3-0. They get promoted, while hosts Glossop North End are relegated. Number 12 feels the pain.
And so, the trip back from London, and that invariably means King’s Cross is the departure point. I quite like the Giraffe cafĂ©, on the balcony above the concourse — it’s a fairly agreeable railway station all round, in fact. Maybe the guy eating the sandwich might feel his depiction is a little unflattering but at least it catches the lunchtime moment.
Everyone grows up, even Hell’s Angels. Every Sunday there will be some motorcycle club or other relaxing in the square. This lot had better gear than most.
Our neice Poppy had her 18th birthday party today, in the building ahead; we got there late, thanks to ths usual rubbish on the train line. Clare brings a dash of red to the scene, meanwhile her Dad, i.e. my father-in-law Dave, makes only his second-ever appearance on the blog in 4,250 days.