Having a brief sitdown before I head out to the theatre in half an hour. I have just downloaded yesterday’s pix. Today being grey and cold, Tuesday’s sunshine seems to belong to another planet.
Somehow, it is easier to be amused when the sun shines. Goodness only knows what these two were doing with their cardboard friend.
The Three of Us
The Prudential building is full of fab details and certainly not a retiring sort of building. I did wonder about this huge pink number in the terracotta and rubbed brick environment though.
Just in case you aren’t familiar woith the Pru, here are a couple more photos.
Through the Arch
At the risk of sounding like Pangloss or Pollyanna (is there some rule that all over optimistic characters have names starting with P?) there is a bright side to the deluge that has kidnapped summer and held us in a damp embrace since April. The gardens of England are lush with flowers and abundantly green. I say England, as my friend on Skye called me in the week and said rather huffily that when the weather forecasters tell us nightly of yet more rain they are ignoring the Inner Hebrides where they have been enjoying fabulous weather for three months. Honestly, she’s not even Scottish, but she has adopted that damn-Sassenach tone that condemns everyone south of the border and blames them for all events in history when the Scots were bashed up by the English. Since James VI of Scotland became James I of England in 1605, you’d think there would be a bit more recognition that the Scots have had more than a slight hand in their own history. I’m thinking Culloden here obviously, not William Wallace. And William Wallace was not Mel Gibson in an earlier reincarnation.
My own family having not reached these shores until sometime after 1685, I refuse to take any personal responsibility for Edward I’s actions. I know I’m digressing, but I do find this historical antagonism bizarre. How often have you heard someone in England saying they don’t like the French because Napoleon caused the Peninsular Wars? Weird. I could say I hated the French because my ancestors had to flee after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. But I don’t, because I don’t. Actually my friend on Skye is French, and she is my friend. It’s complicated. A woman in Glasgow once told me she hated the English, but she liked me. She put it down to my mother being Northern Irish. I didn’t feel I’d been paid a compliment. Continue reading