“Hmmmff. Another day of having my needs ignored. Look at that couple over there. Eating sausages for heaven’s sake. Meanwhile, I just get another cold floor and the leash. And they keep expecting me to fetch their bloody balls for them as well.”
Maybe fifteen years ago these were in some kind of alphabetical order and general state of organisation but like molecules in a viscous liquid, they slowly rearranged themselves over time. Returning them to their original state of order has been a days-long job, only finished as I post this (Sunday morning). And it took all that time to find L. A. Confidential (which is what prompted the Sort Out in the first place).
It is now dark by the time I get back to the station after my Thursday afternoon lecture — but next week it will be dark before I even finish the class, thanks to the clocks going back this weekend. This is one of the usual ‘sculptures’ (I suppose we can call them that) put up around Manchester for Halloween, in case you hadn’t made the connection. Actually I think there’s been somewhat less overt plastic tat on display this year but maybe that’s just a personal opinion.
No attempt at artistic merit today, but this was, I suppose, a significant event and worth documenting. Along with a couple of witnesses, Clare and I gathered in her room in town (hence the various accoutrements in the background) to sign our wills. I have made it to 56+ without having troubled to write down any wishes regarding what should happen to my estate once I finally stop doing this blog…. sorry, I mean, die. But here they are. I am sure there are no big surprises within either one, but at least it is now officially unsurprising.
The courtyard within it continues to be the only truly nice thing about the Ellen Wilkinson Building, my place of work for the last 20 years and, more or less, three months. Will I miss it when I finally do manage to leave? Probably not. But it can look nice, at different times of the year.
The Post Office Tower, as seen from room 337 of the Farringdon Travelodge — this morning, but also the last three mornings. It definitely looks like a spark plug, though — or possibly, some bizarre toy (let’s not go there, though).
There are, always, worse things to do on a Sunday morning — as long as it isn’t raining, and the showers just about held off until the match finished. Not that the players of either Mala Vida (which I’m sure means ‘Bad Life’ so perhaps it’s irony) or Parthenope FCs responded to my attention by being able to score a goal between them. But hey, the backdrop was pretty good.
A day of work, even though it was a Saturday. Then, an attempt to find a quiet corner somewhere for a post-work drink — not necessarily easy on a Saturday night in Soho. But this pub on Charing Cross Road just about managed it, and afforded many people-watching opportunities through the sash windows. I pick this one because it has the feeling of being a still from a movie, and Soho just has that feeling of being a movie kind of place.
Once more, London. I spend far more time here now than I ever did when I actually lived down south. This portrait came about because of noticing the bendiness of the windows on this Central line train. A kind of Daliesque thing? A little bit, anyway.
Can I go any lower with the self-portrait, in various ways? Rembrandt, eat your heart out. Once autumn really kicks in, the stone floor in our kitchen gets too cold without some form of protection.
Being 42 