Clare has just said: “That name really doesn’t suit anything else about that picture, does it?” And this observation doesn’t even account for the way the dog started snapping at the swans a few minutes later. But that’s why I chose the shot.
How Goat are good? Sorry…. How God are Goat? Surely the best band ever to hail from Sweden. OK… maybe the second, but only in more general popular opinion.
According to the advertising for this stall on Hebden Bridge’s Friday market, Norwegian socks are the best in the world. Who am I to argue? It does get pretty cold and wet in Norway. Anyway, if you want them, you now know where to come and get them (outside Norway).
Most of the kids who live in Hebden Bridge, but attend Calder High School about 2 miles away, get the bus there. But these three look to have decided to walk it — and good for them, it was a very beautiful morning, and there’s no need to walk along the main road.
Whomever preceded me to this park bench, during the shower that fell an indeterminate amount of time before, certainly left an impression. And a dry spot, one that, let’s say, is bigger than I might have left.
This scene has been seen a few times in Manchester city centre recently. All the bollards you see here are decorated with little golden bees, the bee having been adopted (I think fairly recently) as the symbol of the city. And it’s some bloke’s responsibility to go round and repaint them now and again. Actually I think they’re doing a pretty good job, but it must be hard on the knees.
The 09:47 service from Ribblehead (ex Carlisle) to Leeds is more or less on time. This is the Settle-Carlisle railway, one of the country’s finest. In the background, Ingleborough, definitely the best-looking English mountain outside the Lake District — it’s 3,730 days (or 10 years, 2 months and 16 days) since it made its first appearance on here, on my 45th birthday day out (26/8/2014). And as it’s a good place to come for a day out, on the first appearance of sunshine for about two weeks — it was worth coming back.
I’m very sure this is the latest in any given year that blackberries have featured on this blog. They really should be gone by now, and the majority of them are, having long reduced themselves to shrivelled, dusty-looking remnants. But for some reason or other, these ones are hanging on in there. I wouldn’t eat them, though.
My Mum was 80 last month — my Dad is 80 next month. We split the difference and held a joint 80th birthday party today (hence the banner across the door), at my sister’s place. Mum and Dad do seem to still like each other after over 58 years of marriage, which, of course, is how it should be. Happy birthdays to them.
My PhD student of the last five years, Sara, passed her viva voce examination today — with only minor corrections, a very good result (for a good thesis, I honestly did think) — and so took me out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant in Manchester. The place’s waiters definitely had an overblown sense of theatrics. Salman, Sara’s son, looks somewhat apprehensively at one of them striding towards us with the kind of flamethrower that, if carried outside, would probably see him arrested for branding an offensive weapon. All this just to put a second or two of extra charring on the spicy meatballs. Food was good, though.
Being 42 