Ahh, London. Bloomsbury. Sunset lighting up the chimney stacks, me in a pub enjoying the evening light. A day of feeling like a scholar for a change and not some glorified teaching machine. Amen to that.
Friday, at the end of a busy week, and the sun was out. I make no apologies for heading for the pub. Others thought the same, as depicted in my camera, and in Mark’s sunglasses.
Is waiting a thing that dogs would do if we hadn’t trained them to do it over millennia? Predators learn to wait, I guess. But not for their human master to come back from the bar.
The Railway Inn is undeniably close to a main road. But we don’t let it spoil our enjoyment of the outdoor seating; one of Hebden Bridge’s best suntraps. Like the rest of us, Lynn was enjoying it this afternoon.
A very limited day in terms of photographic opportunities. It was some cherry blossom again, or pub dog Reggie being mildly exploited. But he doesn’t mind this kind of thing, it’s his job.
From Luddenden — setting for yesterday’s blue-sky picture — to London, which is rather bigger, but in which the weather continues to be very pleasant. The blues seen here come partly from the sky but also this glass, which was a vivid blue and caught the eye. Clare gets on, at least in part, for the second time in three days and soon will be surpassing Joe in terms of the number of blog appearances overall.
It’s Sunday afternoon in the Railway. Meaning, it’s Karaoke Afternoon. This is a regular Sunday thing, like church. And the singing is no better. The arrival of the m.c. — here, about to start his set-up — is a sign to head to a different part of the building, out of earshot.
After ten shots in a row with no people on them, let’s admit I do still occasionally join the social world. And Whitelock’s in Leeds really is a fine place to do it: the blue plaque acknowledging that this is a pub with much history, opened in 1715 and still going very strong. Arguably this place is the best thing about Leeds, and that’s not even to diminish the rest of the city.
This is definitely a coven of like-minded females, and they’re plotting something. But I’m confident that they’re of the white persuasion, somehow. It’s the hair that gives away their shared allegiance.
I think this sums up this particular acquaintance. If the guy that you think is Jim doesn’t have a glass of red wine in front of him, then it’s not him.
Being 42 