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 café, 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.
I know I’ve mentioned this before but the station buffet and bar at Stalybridge really is one of the best there is: it’s worth breaking a journey there just to visit it. And here’s the bloke in charge. Clare was mildly peeved there was no lunch to be had today but other than that it kept up its reputation.
Considering that the game being watched involved women footballers, this guy might not even have turned up to play: perhaps he just likes wearing the kit. Dialect note: ‘Eyup’ is Yorkshire for ‘hello’ or ‘what’s happening’.
I don’t feel that I have captured the social aspects of this city, which are considerable, and pleasant. What a nice place, perhaps I will never be back before I die, but if not — (as with many other places, like Saigon and Tallinn and Berlin) — that will be a shame. Viva Barcelona. There are many worse places to hang out.
Actually this photo started out as more of a picture through the window I sat before, as I had lunch: but maybe it’s subconsciously significant that it didn’t work out that way. I like the ‘cut up’ or collage effect: very Cubist.
Being 42 