The absence of recent posts and the aforementioned ‘computer problems’ are here represented by a crap photo, but that just epitomises it all. Still, I’m back up and running again now, 11 days later. Kind of.
And from the evening, to the morning — not having moved very far. These houses constitute home; although I have neatly covered up our own windows with a tree trunk.
It’s not really the aurora of course. But the sunset tonight was doing a reasonable impression of it. The nights draw in….
With no posts for ten days perhaps you thought I’d finally given up the ghost, or at least the blog had — but no, ’twas that old staple, “computer problems”. Not entirely solved now, so bear with me, but I shall start on the catching-up process at least. This encounter seems quite a while ago now, but one can see the basic curiosity-mingled-with-sheer-terror that this little dog exhibits, faced with this giant Newfoundland. Yes, they are the same species. That’s genetic engineering for you.
An abstract, but appropriate metaphor for life today. The signature on the glass says John Smith but the product is different. And, no, it’s not all the same in the end.
Hey ho, it’s September already, so I suppose I’d better go into Manchester, for the first time in four weeks. I guess the health of the city centre retail has held up there better than some other places I’ve been lately, but the huge Debenhams department store on Market Street hasn’t made it, the shutters closed and graffitied, the windows gathering dust.
August ends with a glorious evening. I certainy haven’t been among those who have complained about the weather this summer: bring it on, I say. In the distance, the northern bits of the town of Bury. Why there? It was just where the feet took me.
This was the view looking up from the dentist’s chair in which I spent a not-entirely-enjoyable 40 minutes this morning. Could have been worse I suppose — and would have been, before convenient local anaesthetics were invented.
I’ve been to more than a few railway stations in my time, and whether in the UK or elsewhere, few are as gloriously industrial as Warrington Bank Quay. Yet on the other side of the tracks — the Town Hall, parks, leafy streets.
A holiday weekend — no work tomorrow! (Unless of course you work in one of the many professions in which this idea of a mandated holiday is just a pipe dream.) But it was an excuse to go out and enjoy company and dress in silly yellow hats, if that’s your bag.
Being 42 