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.
This scene has been seen a few times in Manchester city centre recently. All the bollards you see here are decorated with little golden bees, the bee having been adopted (I think fairly recently) as the symbol of the city. And it’s some bloke’s responsibility to go round and repaint them now and again. Actually I think they’re doing a pretty good job, but it must be hard on the knees.
The 09:47 service from Ribblehead (ex Carlisle) to Leeds is more or less on time. This is the Settle-Carlisle railway, one of the country’s finest. In the background, Ingleborough, definitely the best-looking English mountain outside the Lake District — it’s 3,730 days (or 10 years, 2 months and 16 days) since it made its first appearance on here, on my 45th birthday day out (26/8/2014). And as it’s a good place to come for a day out, on the first appearance of sunshine for about two weeks — it was worth coming back.
I’m very sure this is the latest in any given year that blackberries have featured on this blog. They really should be gone by now, and the majority of them are, having long reduced themselves to shrivelled, dusty-looking remnants. But for some reason or other, these ones are hanging on in there. I wouldn’t eat them, though.
My Mum was 80 last month — my Dad is 80 next month. We split the difference and held a joint 80th birthday party today (hence the banner across the door), at my sister’s place. Mum and Dad do seem to still like each other after over 58 years of marriage, which, of course, is how it should be. Happy birthdays to them.
My PhD student of the last five years, Sara, passed her viva voce examination today — with only minor corrections, a very good result (for a good thesis, I honestly did think) — and so took me out to dinner at a Turkish restaurant in Manchester. The place’s waiters definitely had an overblown sense of theatrics. Salman, Sara’s son, looks somewhat apprehensively at one of them striding towards us with the kind of flamethrower that, if carried outside, would probably see him arrested for branding an offensive weapon. All this just to put a second or two of extra charring on the spicy meatballs. Food was good, though.
Continuing the theme I raised a couple of days ago regarding the power of hi-vis…. these guys were on the roof outside my office window, Doing Stuff: cleaning the solar panels apparently. Which, OK, I guess need cleaning now and again. I like the mild optical illusion on this one, for all reflections are an optical illusion; the guy on the right is not quite where he seems to be.
There are plenty of reasons today to withdraw from active engagement with the world, and offer up a shit photo that highlights a slightly pleasing aspect of the day (29 million is a pretty good score on this machine). And, so, I do.
Down the years I have come to the conclusion that if one wants to simply do as one pleases in public space in the UK, there are two foolproof methods for achieving this. First, try pulling on a high-visibility coat of some kind. No one will then question your behaviour. The other is to say, “We’re filming”. You are then permitted to fill any thoroughfare with junk, block rights of way with impunity, and do so on a regular basis for months on end. Whatever forthcoming TV epic has been in production in Hebden Bridge since the summer (and we know what it is: something about a female 70s punk rock band), it had better turn out good.
Another one of my Palaeography classes in the John Rylands Library. We have moved from Hogwarts (the old reading room) upstairs and into the new seminar room, with tape still on the windows. Checking out the manuscripts themselves is always the best bit, and they need to be ready, and cared for — would that students got to sit on such comfortable-looking cushions.
Being 42 