Back home again, my town strangely empty this afternoon. Perhaps everyone was hunkering down for the promised ‘winter apocalypse’ that is, at least according to the media, about to devour the entire Northern Hemisphere in a kind of Game of Thrones scenario. Well, it’s a little chilly that’s true, but I’m sure we’ll live.
It’s getting on for a decade since I last tried to get myself (more precisely, my left knee) round 13.1 miles, but Clare still does it now and again in her regular 2:45. Hence, the Brighton half-marathon has become an annual staple of the blog, this is at least its third appearance. Well done to all the finishers, in whatever time they make it; I know what it takes…
Our tour of the south-east corner of England continues. Once again I find myself in Brighton, on a beautiful but very cold day. A day well spent all round.
I wonder how many reputed bits of the Berlin Wall there are remaining in the world. I used to have at least one bit of rubble that was definitely part of it, because I removed it myself, on my one visit to Berlin in September 1990 when there was still quite a bit of it standing and being pulled down by tourists. Every bit of it that I could see at that time had been heavily graffitied so either this big, relatively clean chunk standing in the Imperial War Museum in London is from something else, or (more likely) this stood on the inside, facing the no-man’s land that stood between East and West from 1961-1989.
Whatever. Decent museum, the IWM, takes an even-handed view of its subject matter. And free, for now.
My extended family has not featured much on this blog, so let’s compensate for that, and thank my cousin Steve (my father’s sister’s son) for his hospitality tonight at both his home and business — the Dovecote Inn, Capel, Kent, with its fine beer and monstrous portions of tasty food (free advertising….). Cheers!
Well, the clock’s a bit blurry but you can see I have the time right, at least. In Bradford today at the start of a much-needed, half-term, half-week break from work, to see War Horse at the theatre, which as a visual feast, at least, was stupendous: but no photos allowed of that I’m afraid, so the grand City Hall will have to do. It’s at least nice that they have finished off Bradford (in a good way) after about a decade of stalled building works left the place looking as much of a bomb site as it did in 1945.
So I was just walking to work from Victoria station and turned my head to the right, checking the road for traffic, and I just saw this photo. It’s turned out as I envisaged it, I think. It’s nice when that happens.
If it wasn’t for the distinctive topography of my home town, Hebden Bridge, I doubt I would have felt inspired enough to keep this blog going for 2,370 days. I do spend quite a bit of time here — some 40% of the shots are from HB. And, well, it does look rather good in the right light. I try to do it justice.
When Elland Road has featured on here in the past (such as this pic from Feb 2012 — hey, six years ago), I have definitely been sat in the away fans’ end. I admit that down the years I have developed rather an antipathy towards Leeds United FC but nevertheless decided to make them my Championship entry in this season’s attempt of mine to see matches from as many different competitions as I can. And my verdict? Well, the fans are a fickle bunch to say the least, but they can certainly generate an atmosphere, particularly when watching their team come from 2-0 down to draw 2-2 and nearly win it with a final shot off the bar. But I’m not changing my habits, never fear. This will be the one and only shot from the home end I’ll ever publish…. (By the way, here it’s still ten minutes or so from kick-off, before you start mocking the empty seats.)
I was keen to get out for some exercise today. It seemed also that I had duties, previously unsuspected, as an object of worship for the sheep of Cumbria — on two separate occasions a flock of them followed me for some minutes. It was like a game of ‘Mr Wolf’: when I turned around and looked at them they stopped — looking (appropriately) sheepish — but then returned to follow in my footsteps when I walked on. I kept telling them I had nothing to give them. Strangely, I don’t think they understood.
Being 42 