It's Frothy, Man

Well, since I have the technology, I have decided to take advantage of it. Having said that, the results are probably not worth the effort, but having the capability, it rather behooves me to try it at least once. Since I have yet to invest in a digital camera - although I am beginning to itch with the need for another unnecessary purchase - I only have the tiny camera in my mobile to do things with.

Below are the photos I took of the foamy sea last week. They're not particularly impressive, but all that white on the beach is froth, a salty, sea-whipped cappuccino of gunk that piled up and blew for a fair old distance inland. At one point it looked very Christmassy indeed.



Anyway, that's that. If nothing else, it suggests that I need a digital camera.

The trip back from Shropshire today was, as usual, an adventure in monotony. The local dodger from Shrewsbury to Wolverhampton was gratifyingly late and overcrowded. The benign train operator decided that on one of the busiest weekends in the year (half term, see), two carriages would do. I was unusually lucky and got a seat, but I have rarely travelled in a train so crowded outside of a London rush hour. There were a lot of pissed off people at Telford when we went through - there was no room whatsoever for them.

Decamping at Wolverhampton, I discover that a) the long disused Springfield Brewery is being demolished, (so my vague hope that one day Springfield Ale would once again see the light of day is now dashed.), and b) the long awaited new platform is now open, though the waiting area is not, so that was splendidly crowded too. And the London train was late as well, so all is well. The 10 minutes delay at Wolverhampton became 40 minutes by the time we hit London Euston. It seems the controllers saw fit to slot an Inter City in behind a local dodger between Tring and Watford Junction despite there being a choice of 4 southbound tracks at any point. This meant a stately trip at an average speed of 25-30 mph for a prolonged period. Words fail to express my pleasure. Thankfully I had the foresight to ensure my jukebox was fully charged, so I had some music to listen to.

On a lighter note, I see that the fashion pixies are having their fun again.

On the Tube down to Stockwell from Euston, I saw a young woman of anywhere between 16 and 30 years old wearing the latest, I assume, in fashion for the bright young things.

The Gene Vincent drainpipe jeans were OK, even if they stopped about 4" above the ankle. No, it was the shoes that caught my attention: Not large and brutish like those of the 80s and 90s, but rather petite. Sadly, however, they were built up and filled in under the arches. That I could have coped with, but the fact that the sole went all the way up the back à la kiddies romper boots. Still, with all this binge drinking we read so much about, who am I to say they won't be useful.

Bloody silly, but useful.

Oh well. Time to do something else. Iron a shirt, I guess. Work tomorrow.

Chiz.

It's Frothy, Man

Well, since I have the technology, I have decided to take advantage of it. Having said that, the results are probably not worth the effort, but having the capability, it rather behooves me to try it at least once. Since I have yet to invest in a digital camera - although I am beginning to itch with the need for another unnecessary purchase - I only have the tiny camera in my mobile to do things with.

Below are the photos I took of the foamy sea last week. They're not particularly impressive, but all that white on the beach is froth, a salty, sea-whipped cappuccino of gunk that piled up and blew for a fair old distance inland. At one point it looked very Christmassy indeed.



Anyway, that's that. If nothing else, it suggests that I need a digital camera.

The trip back from Shropshire today was, as usual, an adventure in monotony. The local dodger from Shrewsbury to Wolverhampton was gratifyingly late and overcrowded. The benign train operator decided that on one of the busiest weekends in the year (half term, see), two carriages would do. I was unusually lucky and got a seat, but I have rarely travelled in a train so crowded outside of a London rush hour. There were a lot of pissed off people at Telford when we went through - there was no room whatsoever for them.

Decamping at Wolverhampton, I discover that a) the long disused Springfield Brewery is being demolished, (so my vague hope that one day Springfield Ale would once again see the light of day is now dashed.), and b) the long awaited new platform is now open, though the waiting area is not, so that was splendidly crowded too. And the London train was late as well, so all is well. The 10 minutes delay at Wolverhampton became 40 minutes by the time we hit London Euston. It seems the controllers saw fit to slot an Inter City in behind a local dodger between Tring and Watford Junction despite there being a choice of 4 southbound tracks at any point. This meant a stately trip at an average speed of 25-30 mph for a prolonged period. Words fail to express my pleasure. Thankfully I had the foresight to ensure my jukebox was fully charged, so I had some music to listen to.

On a lighter note, I see that the fashion pixies are having their fun again.

On the Tube down to Stockwell from Euston, I saw a young woman of anywhere between 16 and 30 years old wearing the latest, I assume, in fashion for the bright young things.

The Gene Vincent drainpipe jeans were OK, even if they stopped about 4" above the ankle. No, it was the shoes that caught my attention: Not large and brutish like those of the 80s and 90s, but rather petite. Sadly, however, they were built up and filled in under the arches. That I could have coped with, but the fact that the sole went all the way up the back à la kiddies romper boots. Still, with all this binge drinking we read so much about, who am I to say they won't be useful.

Bloody silly, but useful.

Oh well. Time to do something else. Iron a shirt, I guess. Work tomorrow.

Chiz.