One of those Fridays that drifts through a day of working at home, then I find myself in the pub as usual, and it’s well into the evening before I start wondering whether I do, or do not, have a decent photo of anything at all. And, it turns out, I don’t. So this one will have to do, as it sums up this gentleman to some extent, and his ‘oldest swinger in town’ demeanour. But classy portrait photography this is not, I admit.
It’s been a busy week, and this morning I started work at 7.30, so there was no guilt at all about being in the pub, and on at least my second pint, by half past four. It was a little too early to get started on the shots…. OK, maybe I had one. But someone else bought it for me.
The place of rescue — a skip, it seems, destined for landfill. The rescuer: Dex, that’s him behind sporting the P hat. The ultimate fate of this bear? No idea. It will probably never be seen again. The red-eye effect makes me wonder if, in fact, this is some heavily-disguised surveillance camera.
It’s quite a while since I was last in the Blue Pig, a.k.a. Midgehole Working Man’s Club, which is partly because this is one of those drinking establishments that only opens by the grace of God, or more precisely one of a small group of volunteers. If you head up that way you just take your chances. If entry is achieved, though, one can investigate some of the many literal illustrations of the name that are collected inside: these are just three of a few dozen.
Sister on the left, wife on the right. Between them, Vicki and Clare sort out as much of my life as anyone else these days. I think both of them have my interests to heart.
With this picture I have reached 15 full years of blogging — 15 x 365 = 5,475 and there have been four February 29ths. I started on 26th August 2011, my 42nd birthday (hence the title of this blog, in case you’d forgotten), and tomorrow, well, you do the maths. I suppose there have been some occasions when I have considered bringing it to an end, particularly on some days where, working at home or stuck in the office, I really have struggled to find anything particularly worth photographing. On the other hand, as I have no intention of ceasing to document things like walks, football matches and periods of travel, I imagine that deliberately leaving gaps in the record would immediately feel like I was letting myself down. So on I go. One of these days I may simply have a camera breakdown, but que sera, sera.
I am not saying that I think James Clavell’s Shōgun is the greatest piece of literature ever written, but I will happily, and, I believe, consistently claim that it is my favourite novel. It’s a rollicking good story and despite 1,243 pages there’s not a dull moment in it. It singlehandedly turned me into a Japanophile and I’ve read it at least ten times down the years. However, as you can see, I think it’s time I picked up a new copy. If anyone’s got a first edition…. let me know and suggest a price.
The second canine in a row, though this one is attending to the world far less than yesterday’s specimen. In fact this is the second photo in a week to imply that this is somewhat like I feel — looks like that weekend did a lot for the energy levels, huh?
Our acquaintance Toby is something of a scavenger, the sort of person who will go through the skip outside your house and in five minutes retrieve from it a range of interesting items that you had no idea could be found within. What he has in mind for these various 3-D puzzles, who knows — but I do not think it involves simply putting this one back together.
Some Sundays are eventful and interesting days. This was not one of them, although neither was it unpleasant. But photographically there wasn’t much to look at, so 5/7/26 will have to be marked by a study of drainage. Important stuff, though — you try living without it for a while.
Having celebrated Hebden’s attractive qualities yesterday I am also permitted to be relieved that the football season has restarted so I have excuses to leave it on Saturdays, when it becomes too full for its own good — and go drink in some other town’s pubs instead. Like Wrexham in North Wales, for example. Which, this being taken in a Wetherspoons (if you have ever drunk in the UK surely you know of these places), looks much the same as anywhere else, of course. But I don’t mind them.
