The glass of wine is not mine; in fact, nor is it Steve’s, sitting opposite, and, in part anyway, making his fifteenth appearance on the blog (thus coming in at one per year on average). You can tell it’s him: he’s the only person I encounter regularly who habitually wears this much jewellry. Drinks were just migrating to this point in space, well lit by warm sunshine. Shame it’s not the weekend, but possibly tomorrow will be little different.
If anyone in the UK has any better ideas for what to do with this Friday evening I’d love to hear them. Have a good weekend y’all.
A long-awaited visit to my family, unseen since lockdown began. A welcome interruption that highlighted how pointless all this is becoming. Why my sister Vicki was dishing out the whisky samples in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, well, that’s a story hidden beneath the surface of this picture. Particularly as I don’t even like the stuff. (I know whisky is a noble drink with much character and history: I just can’t stand it.)
Clare had an exam today and on return home celebrated with a bottle of champagne we got for Christmas. Not that she knows whether or not she’s passed or not, but who needs such a specific excuse. This shot is taken from underneath, looking out our front door, through which the cork has just flown. I tried to get the truly decisive action shot, but that one didn’t work, this one is OK though.
Well, it’s something to do on a nice sunny summer Sunday, isn’t it. Good results, too.
Being 42 