Saturday morning…. but still Friday night, in practical terms. Clare makes her way back from the party through the streets of Walthamstow. Two notable things about this picture, if we’re being statistically geeky about it: the first time London has made it onto this blog five days in a row; and the latest ‘true night’ shot, in other words, the end of an evening out, beating the previous record holder by five minutes.
My week’s work is done — time for the weekend, which started when Clare arrived to join me in London in the afternoon and I took her to see this exhibition in the Barbican. I saw one of the world’s most famous photos today — Migrant Mother — you’ll know it when you see it. But we weren’t allowed to take photos of that nor the other photos from Dorothea Lange who documented the Great Depression in the USA and the internment of Japanese-Americans in WW2, many photos from these collections were shown today and very interesting it was too.
McGlynn’s pub in Bloomsbury declares this afternoon for the French, before their game against Peru in the World Cup: note the tricolour in the window. What gets me about this shot though is how much Roy Keane looks like a little orange animated version of himself, sort of like Max Headroom….
This statue in St. George’s Fields wears her cobwebs before her like a veil. This park used to be a cemetery: London does give good cemetery, amongst other things (see Highgate). It’s one of my favourite little spots in London but not as tranquil as it could be at the moment thanks to building works, which proliferate, increasingly, everywhere. Maybe that’s why she wears the veil.
I’m sure, however, that Banksy would approve of someone else reusing his artwork in a project of their own: just as here he has used someone else’s in his. Or so it appears. I like Banksy — but then again, who wouldn’t.
After three days in a rather blue theme, let’s go monochrome, which seems somehow fitting for the fact I was in work so early this morning this car park hadn’t even begun filling up. Still, it’s my only day in Manchester this week, so let’s be acceptant of it all.
The annual Blue Pig Father’s Day race at the Blue Pig pub. Build a vessel of some kind that travels on water, make it look like a blue pig, chuck it off the bridge into the river and the first one over the weir wins. Thanks to a disastrous start (I feel I had better voluntarily resign as starter of our boat next year) we finished a comfortable last. The one with the kid’s face taped on the front was the winner. What this says, I have no idea.
It is of course impossible to produce a decent photo of people who are moving, in club lighting, with my crappy camera, without using a flash.
But one can try, dammit. One can try.
With mare’s-tails spread all over the sky and a circumzenithal arc showing off the ice crystals in the upper atmosphere… I think the recent warm weather might be coming to an end. Still, that’s an English June for you.
This is the retaining wall for Keighley Road and some thirty feet high at this point, so this foxglove is a tenacious little bugger. They’re good at getting into crevices, I have noticed: various walls sprout them at the moment like purple nose hairs. Not a romantic simile I know but what the hell.
Being 42 