Not my sticker. But I’m in agreement. I used to think my employer could be counted among the good guys, but recently they have used Covid as an excuse to strip us of a quarter of our team — and then told us, oh look, you will have more students in the coming year than ever. If I seem disinterested in my ‘career’ these days, there are reasons for that.
On an evening where the British government spasms idiotically again in a desperate effort to prove its own relevance, it was nice to be out in beautiful sunshine and to get a sense of just why people are prepared to pay large amounts of money to live in Docklands. Stay free, everyone.
I did get into my workplace today, but this is a juxtaposition that seems to sum up several things about the experience.
Hebden Bridge does have its verticals, and we don’t normally see the sight depicted here as our house lies a (scale) inch or so off to the left of this shot. This was taken from the other side of the valley, on the Heptonstall road.
Gnomon is one of those wonderful strange words use to name mundane things. In this case, the bit of a sundial that casts the shadow. This particular gnomon sits in the middle of St. George’s Square in Hebden Bridge, and was putting in a brief stint of duty as I took this shot — although this was about the only moment of sunshine in the afternoon. The shop behind — the full name of which you can probably work out — will be either a boutique or a café, as those are the only shops the town really has, these days.
“***!! Goddamn asshole!”
“It’s OK Bob. I’ve got you. Hang in there. Hey fellers! Did anyone get his number plate?”
Into September, and Manchester still seems mostly dead. It’s the cities that seem to have been hit worst by the mass lunacy. Manchester City Council puts up signs saying “Help Manchester on its road to recovery — by staying 2m apart!” This is doublethink. The only way that cities will be helped to recover is when people decide for themselves that they are going back to work there. As I have.
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.
