The hat with the Scroogey message has been hanging around the house for years, having been acquired from I-Don’t-Remember-Where. Here it is added to a pile of gear C was intending to wear to the first in a run of her Christmas parties. Her excuse could be that it’s the only suitable headgear in the house, but that, in itself, says a lot about why it still sees use.
Maybe fifteen years ago these were in some kind of alphabetical order and general state of organisation but like molecules in a viscous liquid, they slowly rearranged themselves over time. Returning them to their original state of order has been a days-long job, only finished as I post this (Sunday morning). And it took all that time to find L. A. Confidential (which is what prompted the Sort Out in the first place).
A rapid return to the theme of purpling plums, but as is often the case in August, we seem to have a lot of them. The pears come from elsewhere than our garden but further ripening is still required.
It’s time for the annual appearance of the “Person Struggling with Umbrella” sign, and all that entails for traffic up and down the Keighley Road. I haven’t driven a car on this island since last August (the only plae I have been behind the wheel was on Ascension), and I’m just fine with that.
Never even got close to leaving the house today. The living room was mostly out of bounds, thanks to deliveries of stuff in cardboard boxes that has just kept on coming over the last few days, and some of it isn’t even ours. If Kevin from Morpeth is wondering where his box of chocolate bars is, we’ve got it, it’s one of those in the picture.
In general, I remember to use interdental brushes on my teeth maybe once a month; except when a visit to the hygienist looms, when I start to do the right things more often in order to assuage my feelings of guilt and potential shame.
Paying one of my twice-yearly trips to the dentist really was the most exciting thing done this Wednesday, hence why this is a photowhack; the one and only picture taken on a given day.
Christ Almighty you have no idea about the shite that is the local train service. Don’t think that the one you see here is pictired trundling happily onto the platform — instead it is hanging there, just for arbitrary reasons. Not only that, but it’s the first train out of Hebden into Manchester for some hours. The giuy’s face says it all. In the end I didn’t even bother.
There was no prospect at all of my leaving the house today. Thoughts — and the discussions with the Zoomland colleagues depicted, vaguely, at the top of the laptop screen — were of planning for next year, not finishing off this one. This is a photowhack: the one and only photograph I took today.
If my name were Peter Piper, could it be said that, on this blog, if I (Peter Piper) depicted a pack of pickled peppers, how many pickled peppers were in the pack that Peter Piper depicted?
If English is not your first language and any of that makes any sense, then I congratulate you.
I have nothing against the Chelsea Hotel in Toronto — if I had I would not have come back here to stay for another two weeks, on top of the time I spent here earlier in the year. But I would like to go home now, and instead, I ended up for various reasons obliged to spent almost the entire day locked in my room, working. This semi-abstract architectural shot — one wing’s worth of floors 14-27 I reckon –thereby epitomises the day. A photowhack too, meaning, the only shot taken today.
Being 42 