There is not a great deal going on in life at the moment; the weather is poor and it feels like dead time at the end of what has, admittedly, been a rather extended summer, at least in personal terms. But like these kids, I’ve gone ‘back to school’ — not that I find it any easier to accept than they probably do.
Looking at this evening’s sky, you don’t have to be a professional meteorologist to confidently predict that a downturn in the weather might be forthcoming.
The door hides itself in the dark centre of the underpass beneath the Mancunian Way. It is always closed. Sometimes it rattles to itself in a sinister fashion, as if there is a mythical beast trapped within, and it’s the entrance to some foul dungeon, Manchester’s Moria. Today, though, it loomed open, but there were no surprises within — as the road sign and glimpsed wheelbarrow imply, just more bloody building site stuff.
A pleasant afternoon. Too bold with the tree trunk — too much sunlight? Well, perhaps I am feeling bold. Time passes, as autumn progresses it will not be long before this scene will no longer be lit at 5pm on any given day.
No commentary to make, really — just a well-lit scene that I liked, as we all went our respective ways on this Saturday afternoon. I will note that today was the penultimate day of my 40s however…
I have run through various scenarios as to how this air conditioning unit ended up in this situation, and none of them are very plausible. Nor are explanations as to why it should remain like this and not just be removed. But mine not to reason why.
An empty stage, with a performance presumably to take place shortly — whether the gathered audience are in the mood for it or not on a Sunday lunchtime.
No particular reason for depicting this pub — I didn’t patronise it — but I do like the arrangement of the tableau and the way the red door sets off the monochrome. Presumably the mobility scooter belongs to one of the two guys on the right. Although maybe they both claim it and are about to fight over it.
R. I. P. Marjorie Willetts, Clare’s grandmother, who died two weeks ago aged 93 and who was buried today in Morecambe.
Difficult to know how, or even whether, to represent such an event on here but this picture largely sums it up for me. There is a splash of colour but otherwise the day was rather grey and sombre.
(For the last picture of Clare and her Gran, see here…)
I’ve always been prepared to state that the Belgians do the world’s finest beer. And it’s very nice to finally come to their country and test this out for real. Has my mind changed? Not in the least.
Being 42 