Friday

Here in deepest southern England and clinging to the coast, it was the most Mancunian of days. It is perhaps unfair to suggest that Manchester is rainier than anywhere else but the monotonously wet view across my dashboard this morning took me back to 1976, to the A34, to the A6, to the end of long drives from  home back to an uncomfortable cadetship posting to a place where it seemed to rain as often as not. Rain was a part of my life then; the Orwellian rain you might find on the Road to Wigan Pier or simply use to keep your aspidistra flying. The kind of rain which moistened Lowry's Mills. The kind of rain which, in my small life, made Guide Bridge and Reddish what they were. What would a blue 76 have looked like if it were not wet? It was meant to be wet and dulled by sub-Pennine gloom.

These are the days which suck purpose from your mind and hope from your soul if circumstances have not already contrived to do so. This is a time of difficult decisions for me and the distraction of foul weather does not help to focus my thoughts. I am very fortunate that Greg drives me around a lot on my days off which allows me to observe the things which might be photographs. On a day like this anything but the most specialist photography is all but impossible so the potential subjects simply join a 'to do' list.

We braved the weather to visit Fareham and get Greg's hair cut. One thing leads to another and for lunch I had a surprisingly good baked potato. I am not disposed to procrastination and like to get things done so that when a brighter day, metaphorically or otherwise, arrives, we are free to enjoy ourselves. Such a day is already in prospect. I hope Tuesday will bring brightness sufficient to encourage travel to London where I want to absorb (and of course photogaph) Rivelino's 'Nuestros Silencios' now standing (poignantly) next to the Houses of Parliament.