sompting church

a favourite tree just across the river from arundel

flooded meadows of the arun valley looking towards amberley castle

i suppose we share an interest in good tea ...

good old london brick

the east grinstead turnpike trust ... thirty four miles from bow bells

the russian orthodox "cathedral" in chiswick

as i was leaving, the juke box was playing gimme shelter

i'd like to see an anthony gormley cast of lord bassam rusting in this space

the "old" london airport at croydon

a plague of frogs in knightsbridge

"challenge", the antique tug boat, being taken back to her berth at portslade

the east grinstead turnpike trust

made in the eighteenth century, there are a few of these mile markers left on the A22 but it has been difficult to park the truck safely on such a busy main road

however, i will photograph the rest in the next few weeks and tell you their story

The Nobel Prize For Medicine Beckons

A simple cure for flu .... first ask the loved one to put on a nurse's uniform and then ask her to rub something soothingly aromatic into her chest.

Dirt

When a driver comes home from a long difficult day in need of a shower, will he be washing away occupational grime, or vocational grime ?

I'll flatter myself with the latter.

a friend has bought a new toy ...

... whaddya mean, predatory ?

it is my turn to cook ...

princesse du pain ...

serendipitously, we shall be going here very soon ...

... and i just found this in a charity shop

i've had to take a day off work as i have the flu ... let's hope there are no complications

caerphilly castle

mavis used to play here eighty years ago, although it was a bit more overgrown then

that's her investigating the ruin ... she was looking for the kitchen door

here she is at last !!!

at ninety-something, mavis is avidly re-creating the scenery of her childhood around the lanes of blackwood and pontllanfraith

mavis still paints at ninety-something but you can't see the picture

oh, what a saga .... i've got back into the editor page after re-installing windows explorer .... but now blogger doesn't upload my pictures

up before three to do some serious wrapping ....

battersea park station

after we'd dined at the national gallery, i placed the little camera on a ledge by the grand staircase in the sainsbury wing ...

... that's nelson's column and a glimpse of the millennium wheel on the right

plutarch's piccadilly ponies

window decoration in gerrard street, soho

the old crane at portslade made by stothert and pitt is being dismantled

olympus uk ok !!! they have repaired my little camera free of charge ... words can't express my delight and gratitude

i had twenty minutes to wait for a bus in sloane street, so i did some pre-valentine window shopping ... i wonder if they have them in my size ?

... i'm talking about the blond wigs, you fool !

i wonder if the loved one might like a ribcage suitcase from samsonite ... to remind her of me ?

... designed by alexander mc queen

fortunately, graff doesn't do 24/7

i love the way the graff architect integrated their classical interior and shopfront

yes, it is a lovely little black dress, but she couldn't possibly wear it to work

i wouldn't want the loved one to get big ideas about longer rails and longer wardrobes

and i'd better not let the loved one see that matching walter steiger stuff before valentine's either ...

chiswick ... new moscow-on-thames

Can't live wiv 'em; can't live wivout 'em.

A vampire wind cuts through the city and races across the river to suck the blood’s heat from the traders and night workers in the concrete wilderness of the New Covent Garden Market.

In one of the narrow draughty cafés, tired men slump in plastic seats over plastic tables that are littered with cold oily plates and half-drunk mugs of strong tea, talking quietly in a low kind of growling hum, or slowly turning the pages of the cheaper tabloid newspapers.

Behind the counter, the fierce looking Turk whose passion is football is cooking breakfasts, whilst two pretty women with East European accents are busily running the counter, making our tea, buttering our bread, and despatching our food to the tables.

The steel door creaks and a plump young woman enters hesitantly, dressed in unbecomingly heavy clothes, her drab hair tied back with a rubber band, grubby looking spectacles reflecting the cold fluorescent lights on her pale upturned expressionless face. Her mouth is small and turns down at the corners. There is a lack of the Market’s usual post-Dickensian ebullience in her demeanour; not the sort of girl to command two seconds of a stranger’s interest as she shuffles towards the counter.

She waits silently in the short queue behind a couple of Polish lads who are struggling to count out some change for their tea and cheap sandwiches, and she squints up at the blackboard where a surprising cornucopia of choice is neatly proclaimed.

The atmosphere of weary respite prevails for a few more seconds until, from the mobile phone in her pocket, a woman’s shrill strong voice speaks electrically in a loudly aggressive Cockney monotone, theatrically tinged with an annoyed mixture of curt boredom and impatience, announcing vehemently that,

“There’s a text message, you dirty bitch !”

Like a ripple centred on her cringing embarrassment as she fumbles to silence the thing, smiles begin to spread all around; and from the farthest corner beside the draughty door, a few hoarse words are spoken,

“The Salvation Army’s here, lads !”

rottingdean churchyard

synchronize your watches please, gentlemen ! it is always seventeen minutes past three in the wandsworth road

north stoke church, west sussex