And so ends February 2023, a varied month for me, some very interesting periods and some deadly dull ones. Photographically, it ends in a pub on Stoke-on-Trent station, mainly for lighting reasons. Though the beer was quite good too.
While I did get an interesting photo of Clare today it was definitely a posed shot, and I try not to have such pictures on here. Call me a pedant but it’s always been the case (and stated on the About this Blog page) — so let’s stick with it. Instead, another picture from inside a pub, or more precisely, the bar at Brighouse Town FC. We drowned our sorrows in advance, as by half time the team were 4-1 down and it didn’t get any better after that.
The ‘West Riding’ bar on Dewsbury station ranks up there with the world’s great railway station refreshment rooms. It’s quite as good as Stalybridge’s, and that’s high praise indeed. The random scattering of stuff around it, inside and out, seems natural rather than the affectations of an interior designer. It’s been a while since this piano made any music, but it remains interesting in different ways.
Finding myself, once again, in the west Leeds suburbs for an evening, I wandered into this Mexican restaurant for dinner and, as with the other diners, found myself in a training session for a new member of the waiting staff, so things were a little chaotic… But everything came out in good time and tasted fine. So I tipped generously, and tried not to get in the way.
Is it too early to be in the pub on a Saturday afternoon? When the weather outside is as grim as it was today, then no. The welcome inside was much warmer.
Half-time in yet another football match. An opportunity to notice that the bar manager at Brighouse Town has great hair, well lit. That’s all.
On 4th December 2020, a year ago, I had my one and only day of face-to-face teaching in the whole of the academic year 2020-21. The students last year had a difficult time of it for reasons that were totally (taken) out of their control, but most of them made it through. Including Mithila, seen on the left here, who as a result of having finally received her results, invited me to have a mulled wine on her at the Christmas market. Cheers, and well done all. (And hi to the colleague too, who clearly wanted to be in on the photo as well.)
Work, at the moment, consists of me banging my head against various Kafkaesque brick walls (Covid has infected the bureaucratic mindset far more profoundly than it has our physiology, and to more danaging effect) until I can’t stand it any more on any given day and need a drink. Today that point was reached about 3.50pm. Ten minutes later I was admiring the woodiness, almost meatiness, of the table in Nightjar at which I drank my first pint of the day.
Latest shot, and first shot after 10pm, since early October last year. Nights out are still not entirely a thing of the past. The Nightjar bar sits under the Hebden Bridge Picture House, and if you don’t see why I’ve appended the ‘Hawks’ to its name in the title of this post, well, maybe this painting is familiar to you.
Not an eventful day at all. I am hiding at home doing my best to get ready for things opening at uni in a couple of weeks’ time. Like these guys, but just on a bigger scale. The Nightjar bar sits below the Picture House and is one of those places that serves a dozen beers, all of them over-hopped and fruity, which is why these guys have beards.
Being 42 