I didn’t even take my first photo of the day until after 7pm — at some point in the future I may just forget altogether, or at least, leave it too late to get anything usable. But this one is OK. It’s a quiet time, this seems to reflect that.
As seen at one end of the old bridge for which Hebden Bridge is named. I could leave this enigmatic image to stand alone, uncommented, but let me at least point out that this is a mannequin, not a real person.
Either someone from the local Mytholmroyd graffiti fraternity is concerned that an interloper is muscling in on their territory — or they’re doing one of those things where, lacking attention, they have done the equivalent of liking their own blog post. Which is it? Inquiring minds want to know.
A return to work, whatever that means these days — for me it was mainly email. But the sun was shining outside, and on the rooves of houses up the valley. 2021 was only four days old when it cranked to a halt, but things are going better for ’22 thus far. Just about.
The Huddersfield Astronomical Society must have once experienced better days, but perhaps these days is in need of some recovery work. Without getting too metaphorical about it, I’d say that’s true of a lot of things in 2022.
You still can’t buy socks or men’s underwear in any of Hebden Bridge’s multiple retail establishments, but we do now have a cheese shop. Time for some Wensleydale, I feel. The kid has made his choice too, by the looks of things.
It’s Christmas — well, nearly. Whatever one’s stance on the battle to keep us locked up, and thus, in the thrall of newly-powerful financial interests that are exactly the ones pushing for further incarcerations (I wonder why), Blue Bird is still feeling happy about this time of year.
It’s the longest night of the year. On my walk to Low Moor station in Bradford tonight, I passed through this industrial zone in which all the factories were still lit, burbling away internally, though no people were in sight. The robots may well now be in full charge. It would explain a lot about current political trends.
Two days in a row for Halifax, and two in a row clamped under an oppressive blanket of mist. In some parts of the town this morning visibility was down to ten yards. In the background of this shot, like some massive memorial, rises Wainhouse Tower, making its second appearance in less than two months and its third overall. (World’s tallest folly, etc. etc.)
The cobbled streets and misty feel give this shot a Victorian look — except perhaps for the Rolex and No Entry signs. But we can ignore them. Would the Victorians have engaged in this much paranoia? Who knows. But Brendan — see his guitar case — doesn’t seem to care, and I’m all for that.
Being 42 