Documentary. I got on this train at 7.56am at Hebden Bridge. A few minutes later I got off it again, at Todmorden (where this shot is taken), thanks to it being, as you can hopefully tell,. a stupidly overcrowded two-carriage cattle truck, and waited for the next one. On Monday I have to spend about 10.5 hours on a train…. what we do for our kicks, eh?
Should I be worried that I now have friends — not just ‘friends of my Dad’ — who are reaching septuagenarian status? Well, here we are. I have known Steve at least 20 years so when our friendship began he was younger than I am now, maybe that’s a scary thought too. Certainly he has appeared on this blog more than anyone else except my immediate family (me, Clare, Joe) and sneaks into the bottom right here for his 13th appearance. I guess I could have done better to photograph this event but it was a pretty low-key thing and to be honest I was knackered anyway after a long day of work. It was a nice beginning to the weekend though.
It’s been a long time since I went to any kind of live theatrical performance. The last time one was depicted on here was probably 30th December 2018 (The Producers, in Manchester). In large part we can, of course, thank two years of The Great Fear for this, and that also explains why there’s been no Hebden Bridge Burlesque Festival since 2019. But this has returned, tonight was the finale, and as they needed some ushers (glorified fire marshals) I got to put on a suit and go and see it for free. We were allowed to take photos only at the end, so here’s the one chance I got. This woman, CeCe Sinclair, was the MC, and a bloody good job she made of it. She did it while not wearing much, but that’s burlesque for you. A better-than-average Sunday evening, anyway.
Another train shot, though this is a portrait of a person rather than a locomotive. Somehow yesterday’s loco just seemed much happier to be where it was. Then again, I sympathise: when is 7am on a Tuesday morning in February a time of vim and vigour?
Asserting the “Right to Repair” electronic items is in the news (at least, the sort of news that I read); but largely it’s still cheaper to buy another one. We call places like this “recycling centres” these days but one has to wonder just how many of these items do, in the end, get reused.
A walk around the Todmorden area today gave me the chance to see from above the railway line on which I travel frequently to Manchester. The settlement is certainly packed into this narrow valley at this point, isn’t it. But the railway somehow dominates, like it’s the thing that really controls the transport here.
This is the fourth shot in a row taken outside of Hebden Bridge. The last time that happened was over Christmas, in Norfolk — and the time before that, early October. This says a lot about the last few months.
We turned up at our appointed time. We stood at the ends of our appointed lines, waiting to get the call. Some of us read the information sheets we were given, which seemed (to me) to say little more than ‘in the end, we don’t really know what this might do’. Some of us did not. Yes folks, I’ve been vaccinated.
Misty weather discouraged a walk up anywhere high, but a nine-mile stroll along the Rochdale Canal to Todmorden and back at least stretched the legs today. While not really visible on this shot, this boat did have the remnants of a ‘For Sale’ sign painted on the side; I guess by now it’s probably quite a bargain, if you’re prepared to do the salvage work.
The outdoor stalls at Todmorden market stay there permanently, and well before the presumed 9am opening time of the rest of the enterprise, this guy was out with his boxes trying to get the early morning trade. There wasn’t any, hence the title of this post. I like this shot because it’s the one I was trying to take, and the car headlight poking through the struts is the final bonus.
What, on the other hand, was I doing in Todmorden — as opposed to being somewhat nearer Manchester — at this time in the morning? Don’t ask. Just part of the Conservative Party’s Annual Autumn Travel Lottery.
Being 42 