The village of South Milford, east of Leeds, makes an exceptionally wet debut on the blog, and thus a rather grim one, despite being a pleasant place that hosted me entertainingly enough this afternoon. But it was damp, oh yes indeed.
One would like to think the Great Fear of 2020-21 is coming to an end, but I suspect absurdities like this stairway to remain, possibly permanently. An attempt to enforce ‘social distancing’ leads to everyone crowding closer together than they would otherwise have done. But it makes it look like Authority has Done Something, and we will probably never be permitted to go back and say — you know, all that stuff actually had no effect at all, did it? Too late now.
This morning was one of those occasions where a minor diversion from my usual route — in this case, leaving Victoria station by a different exit — helped me spot an opportunity for a picture. I had never noticed the S & M nature of this war memorial before. People pay to get trampled in this fashion: or so I’m informed. Actually I think the sub creature is an imp, or little devil of some kind, rather than a cherub: but the wings took longer to see.
A generally optimistic sheen to the day. Even the unused footbridge in the arse end of Victoria station has had a new coat of paint, and I suspect the pigeons know this somehow.
Four days into 2021 and Bojo the Clown runs out of ideas so puts us all under house arrest again. But I still have to go to work, now and again, along with a few other people here and there.
This is Leeds railway station, at what should be peak time on a Saturday morning.
You may think this desperately depressing scene is justified and necessary. I do not. When a crime has been committed the good investigator first asks — cui bono? It means ‘who benefits’? And who does benefit from all this — if we are not travelling, not spending money in the same places we were spending it last October, seeing friends, partying in nightclubs, going to Elland Road or wherever? I name Rupert Murdoch, Jim Bezos, Mark Zuckerberg, Eric Schmidt and all their kin as people with the most profoud vested interest in keeping us locked up through the spreading of fear and this year’s sudden, digitally-driven enhancement of what Michel Foucault called the carceral state. If I’m wrong, sue me. If you don’t like it, defy it.
Clare tells me there are both good and evil ladybirds — the latter being invasive species, of which this specimen may be an example. Whatever, it seemed to develop an attachment to me: after I took this photo of it at the railway station it then hitched a ride on my mug of tea and by now will be living it up in Manchester — or whatever the ladybird equivalent is.
And no, I do not know what the problem is with removing the label. Perhaps I should find out one day.
The notion of ‘an evening out’ largely died with the dawning of The Great Fear. This is the latest shot in any day since February 19th. We tried today, but it is cold out there, and trying to enjoy oneself is now something to be looked at askance, it makes one suspect, subversive almost. I cannot say there is much to look forward to in life right now. This chap may or may not agree with me — and so may you. But for me it’s the way it is.
Somehow the little guy on the pedestrian crossing sign just adds to the concept. We are now all islands. Or, supposed to be, by official decree.
It’s been nice to come down to London for a couple of days, the weather’s been good and I have met friends and had decent exercise. But there’s been something eerie about it, unnatural and wrong. Difficult to do much else today than post another picture of somewhere that should be very busy on this day and time under normal circumstances, but instead, echoed like an empty cathedral.
Being 42 