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.
Another less-than-exciting day: I am spending most of this week marking dissertations. One thing about the Railway is that it’s always had a very decent juke box. I don’t remember exactly what track was on at 4.40 this Thursday afternoon but whatever it was, this person was not the only one tapping at least one of their feet to it.
The weather was no worse today, and perhaps I should have made more of this, but I had done a few miles yesterday and there seemed little need to go any further than the pub, with the outside tables filling up for the first time this year. Long may the sunshine last — which of course it won’t, in Britain it never does. This couple stayed for only a short time, so presumably were being more active.
One of those rare ‘post-midnight’ shots for a given day: I didn’t get back from Wales until after 12 on Wednesday night, or was it Thursday morning. By the time I did, the wife had dozed off, so she didn’t particularly complain when I got off one final shot (so to speak). And no, she doesn’t have an ankle-bracelet tattoo; it’s insect repellent, I believe. Postscript: C did insist I add an observation that she gave me permission to use the shot…
Hmmm, a Saturday with no football (yes, OK, I’m aware that there was something going on in London along those lines, but you know what I mean). And the sun was shining. And there was work to do in the garden. All these things made a relaxing afternoon picnic, with wine, just the right thing to do. (Those are my feet, yes. Clare is unseen to the left — I didn’t drink the whole bottle myself, you know.)
It’s three-quarters of an hour into the afternoon, he’s still in his dressing gown and wearing odd socks. Guess a first year at uni hasn’t changed Joe all that much.
The rain came down, so another exciting weekend day was spent inside, thanks to Our Glorious Leaders still reckoning that indoor entertainment options will cause us all to shrivel with plague, or something. But, won’t this change as of tomorrow? My view is — don’t hold your breath.
And this movie was awful, by the way. I won’t name it. But if you can take what might have been a quite interesting plot twist and still make it as boring as the rest of the day, then that was quite an achievement.
I went on a walk today along the Rochdale Canal from Littleborough to Walsden. Along that route one passes across the main watershed of northern England, which is marked by this sculpture, and poetry that you may enjoy (although the third and fourth lines are illegible on this reproduction — my apologies). If I were to have passed water at this spot, random chance would have led to it either bouncing to the left, and thus flowing into the Irish Sea at via the rivers Roch, Irwell and Mersey. Or, to the right — to flow into the North Sea, via the Calder, Aire and Humber. A very real line — as the poem says, a “liquid equinox” — but not a visible one, not without this memorial. Nice touch.
I was resolved that today’s photo would depict a living person, after ten days of no one at all. And so it does, in part. Those of us still wishing to use the trains are doing so, casually.
It was my last scheduled teaching of the semester today. Normally we would have concluded this significant moment in the academic year by some kind of group photo, as on 4th May 2018, and said our goodbyes, at least amongst those I will not be supervising over the summer. There can be none of that this year. I sit in a room and talk to a laptop for an hour and twenty minutes and take questions here and there and that’s it. I do plenty of distance teaching anyway, so it’s not that I’m pissed off about this as such — but I miss people, and if you claim not to, then I worry for your sanity.
Being 42 