Passengers in various states of thought and repose, as the train pulled into Rochdale on the way into work. Or, I suspect for the guy immediately opposite me, home after a rather heavy night.
At the moment it’s a case of — do I sit at home all day working, or trug into Manchester and sit in my office all day? Well, at least going into Manchester gets me a bit more exercise. There always seems to be at least one person smoking outside this building on Booth Street in the city centre, no matter how early I pass by.
It’s been a long time since I went to any kind of live theatrical performance. The last time one was depicted on here was probably 30th December 2018 (The Producers, in Manchester). In large part we can, of course, thank two years of The Great Fear for this, and that also explains why there’s been no Hebden Bridge Burlesque Festival since 2019. But this has returned, tonight was the finale, and as they needed some ushers (glorified fire marshals) I got to put on a suit and go and see it for free. We were allowed to take photos only at the end, so here’s the one chance I got. This woman, CeCe Sinclair, was the MC, and a bloody good job she made of it. She did it while not wearing much, but that’s burlesque for you. A better-than-average Sunday evening, anyway.
A Tuesday morning in Manchester. Either I was having a major case of déjà vu, or this same guy was still sat in the same spot when I came back past this point in the afternoon.
It’s Sunday afternoon in the Railway. Meaning, it’s Karaoke Afternoon. This is a regular Sunday thing, like church. And the singing is no better. The arrival of the m.c. — here, about to start his set-up — is a sign to head to a different part of the building, out of earshot.
This is definitely a coven of like-minded females, and they’re plotting something. But I’m confident that they’re of the white persuasion, somehow. It’s the hair that gives away their shared allegiance.
Another train shot, though this is a portrait of a person rather than a locomotive. Somehow yesterday’s loco just seemed much happier to be where it was. Then again, I sympathise: when is 7am on a Tuesday morning in February a time of vim and vigour?
OK, it’s a picture taken at the football again but it’s not of the football, this is a portrait of the gentleman on the right. With his shirt and tie, shooting stick, bag filled with something mysterious and impressive head of white hair, I guess I sort of aspire to be him in, say, twenty-five more years. Will this blog still be going in 2047? Will I? We don’t know either way, and I suppose that’s the point of life.
Half-time in yet another football match. An opportunity to notice that the bar manager at Brighouse Town has great hair, well lit. That’s all.
These two certainly look like they’re having a jolly time on their respective Saturday lunchtimes in Hebden Bridge. But perhaps they just feel about Halloween much the same as I do — it’s intrusive and over-the-top, and we could probably do without it.
Being 42 