My first Hebden Bridge picture in one whole month. It doesn’t seem like the pigeons have changed their behaviour much since I’ve been away: still the group callisthenics, tight circles around a carefully-chosen patch of town. They look impressive enough in black-and-white. Except for the one who’s broken formation, to the lower left.
I’ve been here before — not just in life, but on the blog, with this picture, taken on my first trip to St Helena. That one is also in black-and-white, and today that aesthetic move relieves some of the more garish colouring, particularly of the Hawaiian shirt of the guy on the left. Who, by the way, keeps saying hello to me as if he’s never met me before, whereas in the past we’ve had numerous conversations. But perhaps I am just forgettable, in a way that he is not.
On the wall of the Cape Town terminal for the ferry to Robben Island is painted a quote from Nelson Mandela: “It is said that one only knows a nation until one has been inside its jails.” And he would know, as he spent 27 years in this place. The tour was worth doing, although it’s not as evocative a place as Alcatraz, nor as terrifying as the remains of the cells displayed at the War Remnants museum in Saigon. But none of these are places I would like to spend time — or Do Time. South Africa is a place which still has its problems but, with hindsight, the fact that it now seems to have had a reasonably stable democracy for 30 years post-apartheid, and all the systems and structures (like this place) which kept it going: these reflect well enough on the country.
Until about 2.30pm on Christmas Day I had not anticipated spending December 26th in Sheffield, but at that point an acquaintance told me of a spare ticket for a coach trip to go there and see the football (Sheffield United 0-2 Burnley, in case you were interested), and so it came to pass. In fact there were quite a few games in the area postponed or abandoned because of fog, which was certainly the main weather feature of the day. This is one of those shots that looks as if I’ve post-processed it and turned it monochrome, but that’s not the case: this is really what Sheffield city centre looked like at about 1.30pm.
“Some job this is. Waiting around in line for the ice rink to open so we can be pushed around by irritating little brats.”
“Oh, cheer up, Bob. It’s a living.”
“Is it? Shouldn’t we be in Antarctica or something?”
Another day spent almost entirely in my office at home, working, and not emerging until after the sunlight was mostly gone. The Friday market in town was still open at this point, though only just, and I’m sure this guy is considering packing up his clocks and jewellry and calling it a day.
I go monochrome here simply because it feels right for the shot and it stops the bright green stripes at the top dominating it. It is not a ‘Black Friday’ reference. I hate that bollocks, in fact: especially because, as various recent conversations about this marketing wheeze have proven, virtually no one in the UK — consumers, retailers, the media, anyone — actually understands the derivation of the term. Be honest — do you know where it comes from? (American readers don’t get to answer this.)
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.
I have put in plenty of hours already this week and there are still two long and busy days to come. So no, I don’t really care that I was in the White Swan before 4pm today. And, I’m sure, nor does the other guy.
Those of us who drink in particular pubs regularly may or may not have A Spot. I wouldn’t say I do, even in the Railway. I have been found in most of its corners, at one time or another. But Tony is someone who has A Spot, and here he is, in it. If he sat somewhere else we might not recognise him.
My mediocre kit is never going to take crystal clear photos in very low light, even if I do crank the ISO setting up to 1600 or whatever. But here, the lack of clarity is just the point. Surely the gentleman to the left is about to emerge from some horrible transformation and begin consuming human flesh. Although in the end, he recovered, and we all got on with watching the evening’s entertainment (Tom McRae, as it happened).
Being 42 