A foul day of almost constant rain, on which even the ducks were taking shelter, unconducive to any great inspiration. The only saving grace was that it was a Friday, and the forecast is better for the weekend to come.
“But how shall I know the day of my birth in future years, O Holy Seer of Signs?”
“Drew, stand beside the river and look for the day on which the sun sets between the two pillars. Thus shall you know it.”
I’m 51 today. This is now the tenth year of the blog. And life goes on, one day at a time.
It’s my birthday tomorrow, meaning today’s post marks the end of a ninth complete year of this blog. Am I feeling morbid? Not particularly, I just thought this grave (in Bunhill Fields, London) was kinda cute actually. The hair is getting greyer but I am still an old Goth at heart.
I have been thinking about this, and have decided to declare this the one and only positive outcome of lockdown –‘this’ being the emergence of a UK pavement café culture. We don’t necessarily have the weather for it, but hey, pubs and restaurants can invest in some umbrellas, as they do elsewhere. On sunny afternoons like this one, it doesn’t matter, and we can give it a shot.
In the last 145 days, this is only the third picture in Manchester. Which considering I nominally work there, shows the impact of lockdown. But today I went into campus as is normal and occupied my office and generally hung out in the places I tend to hang out when down there. The amount of re-motivation this gave me was very noticeable. Those vested interests who want to keep us locked up, who profit from it, not only don’t need to account for this kind of thing, they strive to actively ignore it. Always ask — cui bono? Who benefits?
Somehow the little guy on the pedestrian crossing sign just adds to the concept. We are now all islands. Or, supposed to be, by official decree.
An innovative approach to keeping oneself, one’s beer and one’s smoking materials free from moisture. The weather could not decide what to do this afternoon.
The square reflected in the roundel, these posts standing outside the Shoulder of Mutton pub, happily reopened, after not just the c*r***v**** crap but the floods of Feb 9th as well. You see, we need economic activity here. Which is why this new ‘local lockdown’ has had no discernible effect at all.
This is a kind-of self-portrait: look closely enough into the mirror and I’m there in the background.
It is five years to the day since I took probably my favourite picture of this blog, and certainly the one I worked hardest to get — the one of the summit of Kilimanjaro. In 2020, such expeditions have become pipe dreams, although being fair about it, there have just been nine pictures in a row that were not taken on home turf. But I am back here in Hebden Bridge for a few days at least, and there’s work to get back to. Here, there at least remain toyshop owners with a sense of wry humour.
London is, without a doubt, one of the two main financial centres of the known universe, and also a city that should be heaving with tourists at this time of year — particularly on a gloriously sunny day like this.
And it’s dead. We’re in big trouble. Ignore the politicians — they can’t think more than a week ahead.
Being 42 