Time for the annual ‘student poster day’ where my charges are tasked with demonstrating what they might have learned over the last few weeks. Some even manage to do this: but I suppose they all try. This is happening nearly a week later than last year, and, definitively, marked my last professional engagement of 2025. As far as the University of Manchester are concerned I now do not exist until 5th January. Let there be celebrations, etc.
And most of us were listening to it — honest. (To be fair to the guy on the left, he’s keeping an eye on the Zoom room.) Golly, three days in a row in Manchester: that’s an outbreak of keenness, particularly in a week when I didn’t have any lectures to deliver.
As seen in Sackville Street Gardens, Manchester. It seems a fairly light workout. It’s a shame he wasn’t stood more in the light but maybe it works better this way. I think he knows he’s being photographed.
Time passes, we are mortal. Swifty (Derek) was only seven years older than me — but he caught pneumonia not long ago, and that was it. Today was his funeral. Too many people now who have featured on here who have died.
It’s good to have some sustenance while waiting for colleagues (and Peter is a Professor, a rank I will now almost certainly never attain) to offer their opinions on one’s writing. That paper might even get finished one of these days.
An early morning derailment at Shap, in Cumbria, meant the West Coast Main Line was completely closed. Fortunately we were heading south and not trying to get to Scotland, but I suspect this gentleman was one of the many people in Preston station this morning for whom that was the intended destination.
I am against the exploitation of Halloween when it comes to the selling of vast amounts of ephemeral plastic tat. But we had an invite to a party tonight, the costumes we wore had been worn before and will be worn again — though maybe not that V mask which I found terribly uncomfortable and which, all evening, was worn purely for the photo opportunities. C’s ‘Corpse Bride’ wedding dress was definitely getting another outing, though. Preparations are, here, still in train (pun intended).
Once more, London. I spend far more time here now than I ever did when I actually lived down south. This portrait came about because of noticing the bendiness of the windows on this Central line train. A kind of Daliesque thing? A little bit, anyway.
Can I go any lower with the self-portrait, in various ways? Rembrandt, eat your heart out. Once autumn really kicks in, the stone floor in our kitchen gets too cold without some form of protection.
A nice combination of shapes and textures on this one I think. Not that I am commenting on James’s texture. He’s just having a fag.
Being 42 