Note to self: I must remember to wipe the tiny window on my phone camera before taking an impromptu snap such as the one above, near my workshop yesterday.
The last time I took pictures of a Christmas tree with a greasy lense was on Christmas day, and the effect was most fortuitous - all the little lights sprang star-like radials in the photo, looking like the one that the Three Kings followed all the way to the manger, but in this one - taken in raw daylight - it just produces blurred, out-of-focus patches which makes you think you need glasses.
Question to self: How can anyone be so mindlessly stupid as to cut up their enormous, natural Christmas tree, then dispose of it in the countryside whilst still leaving it in the plastic bin-liners that they used to transport it there with? If I saw someone chucking bits of natural greenery into the natural greenery to rot down with the rest of it, then I would be mildly irritated, but not so furious as when they wrap it up in non bio-degradable plastic so that it constitutes ordinary, ugly rubbish which has to be dealt with by someone else. I mean - for Christ's sake - there are special collections for Christmas trees around here, if you cannot be bothered to take it for recycling, or do not have a natural fire to burn it on as small logs. I can just about tolerate extremely stupid people (so long as they do not approach me in the pub) but I cannot stand extremely stupid people who are also extremely anti-social.
I allowed myself the luxury of staying in bed until mid-day today (I am still ill, but refuse to bore you with the details) and when I rise after sessions like this, I like nothing better than to peruse those free magazines which do not unduly stretch one's intellectual capacity when 'read' 'first thing' in the 'morning'.
So I made some coffee, then picked up the latest 'The Bath Magazine' which flopped onto our Welcome Mat yesterday afternoon. Almost the first thing I saw was this:
...and I almost choked on my coffee before donning a pair of spectacles to read that a certain musical event was about to hit the town, and the lady contributor just happened to be scratching her neck with both hands when the photo was taken. I'd book her. This is another example of how a greasy lense can work wonders with your subject matter, if you haven't already got poor eyesight from the activity that your mother warned you about.
Having focussed my eyes, I thought I might as well actually read more of the text, and - bugger me - there was the Green-Eyed Girl being praised by a local celebrity who was being interviewed by the glossy rag for some reason or other. She even spelt her name right. Fame at last.
I know at least three of the regular contributors to this mag, and one of them is a specialist on local pubs. I even met him in a pub. Actually, I have met him in more than one pub. Actually, I have lost count of the different pubs that I have met him in.
He and his partner have even written historical accounts of the pubs in Bath, most have which have disappeared in the 300 or so years since they first began serving. The loss of pubs slowed down somewhat between the wars (but has now speeded up again), but when I first came to the city, it was rumoured that you could drink in a different pub in the Bath area, every night of the week, 52 weeks in the year. For those of you whose maths is as bad as mine, let me tell you that amounted to at least 365 pubs in the Bath area.
A pub crawl in those days was a bit like painting the Forth Bridge.