They must not a wrong foot put, or they will end up in the soot. Scientists reckon the thinking part of the brain is suppressed during dreaming. So how come I can write poetry in my sleep? I was dreaming that I'd taken a photo of workmen trudging down a wintry street, where the last remnants of snow had somehow changed to piles of soot, and it was whilst trying to think of a rhyming caption that I came up with the above gem, which is certainly more ingenious than anything my waking m…
golden potshots, album created on November 23, 2013
some of the slightly better ones
nice street furniture, album created on June 1, 2014
Many towns are spoiled by modern seats and tacky-looking bins and bus-stops, so here's a reminder of how nice the traditional stuff looks.
unimproved houses, album created on April 9, 2015
The appearance of our streets has been so spoiled by the craze for "home improvements" with plastic windows and exterior wall-painting, that it's nice to see a few houses still in their original style.
- September 7, 2015On 7th August 1985, at White House Farm, Tolleshunt D’Arcy, Essex, five members of one family were shot dead. They were 61-year-old farmer, Nevill Bamber; his wife, June; their daughter, Sheila Caffell; and Sheila’s six-year-old twins, Nicholas and Daniel. June and Nevill had married in 1949 and, finding themselves unable to have children of their own, adopted a baby through the Church of England Children’s Society. June suffered depression following Sheila’s arrival in 1957 and was admitt…
- June 22, 2014I wonder if he’s still alive today: the boy I nearly didn’t save from drowning. I was thirteen, at the lido with Julie. She could swim a mile, but I could only doggy paddle. I was frightened of deep water, especially when I saw the black lines wiggling on the bottom. ‘Sixfoot’ was one of the scariest words I knew. And ten was unimaginable, deeper even than the ceiling in my bedroom. But fear comes close to fascination, and Julie would entertain me by letting herself down to the floor and…