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Hi all !!
It's my sister and me !!! I hope you like it!
I take this opportunity to announce that I am the new manager of the shop who created this wonderful pose!!
Story : "Je serai toujours là pour te soutenir ma soeur. Même dans nos conneries, nous sommes l'un et l'autre présent pour en ajouter ahaha !! Je t'adore♥"
Thanks for watching and your support !! ♡
The music : 🎵.
You can zoom for more details...
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@ Pose : ".collection Agathe et Victor" at La Plume Mainstore.
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FOR SALE
This is a picture licensed by ADOBE STOCK & FOTOLIA
===> MANAGERS for FOTOLIA
Alessandro Giorgi Art Photography complete COLLECTION FOR SALE on ===> ADOBE STOCK
Alessandro Giorgi Art Photography complete COLLECTION FOR SALE on ===> FOTOLIA by Adobe Stock
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Thinking of my sweet gray asymmetrical boy's traits and fitting those to a probable and fitting day job....I know he would shine as a production manager...he likes his people to be in their places at expected times doing their routines. If not, there is the 'scowl' and verbiage and perfected body language. JAX keeps us in line! Happy Caturday to everyone.
"Museums are managers of consciousness. They give us an interpretation of history, of how to view the world and locate ourselves in it."
"Los museos son gerentes del conocimiento. Estos nos dan una interpretación de la historia, de como ver al mundo y ubicarnos en él."
-Hans Haacke
66769 League Managers Association / Paul Taylor Our Inspiration and three RHTT sets pass Stubton (north of Grantham), working 6N80 09.14 York Thrall Europa - Whitemoor Yard LDC. [Pole, 5/6 sections (~6.8m)]
As well as having two names, the loco carries a special black livery for the charity Prostate Cancer UK, supported by GBRf during its 2021 charity tour. The loco had been named earlier that year after one of the GBRf charity railtour team, who had been diagnosed with the condition.
Visit Brian Carter's Non-Transport Pics to see my photos of landscapes, buildings, bridges, sunsets, rainbows and more.
A poor quality photograph, but the only one I have since my hard disk fried. This is the wonderful Bryndyfi mine, another one of those white elephants which promised much and delivered... nothing. There's a range of buildings, a crusher house, a couple of buddle pits and a lovely tramway, plus this managers house.
My blog article is here treasuremaps.weebly.com/tracks/category/bryndyfi
This was meant to be a famous football manager but I couldn't achieve the likeness, so he is a generic manager.
Sorry ... :)
Today I started my new job as office manager in our accounts department and I wanted to impress my boss and my team of account handlers. I decided on putting on this tight black skirt with a nicely designed top to look both smart and professional, I may have gone slightly over the top with the heels but it felt right to put them on to.
In 1981, Microsoft began developing the rudiments of what would later become Windows. Originally called Interface Manager, it would add a graphical overlay to MS-DOS, allowing visual program control using a mouse (instead of typing keyboard commands). It would also allow multitasking by showing different applications within boxes placed in different areas of the screen simultaneously---a concept pioneered at Xerox PARC with its Alto and Star computers and later refined at Apple.
If Bill Gates had his way, Windows OS would have been called 'Interface Manager'. Gates had planned to release it under the same name. However, 'Windows' name prevailed because it best describes the boxes or computing 'windows' that were fundamental to the new operating system.
(Are you sure life isn't just a huge virtual reality simulation? - - - "just take the red pill").
He was a bad man. Thomas Jones. Manager of the slate quarry. 1824.
But he was popular with most of the workers. Although not all of them. For he had a reputation with the women. Their girlfriends and their wives. But he was a man of importance and in his own time also earned a place in history. For he was the man who standardised and catalogued the size and specification of slates for marketing and supply purposes worldwide.
His house at the Plas near Dorothea Quarry in the Nantlle valley sat in an idyllic deciduous woodland that sprang up amongst the slate heaps. A narrow road, hemmed in by tall stone walls, led through sunny glades to it from the tramway. With his standing he dictated that the dirty slate workers were forbidden from walking that way but their tidier womenfolk were allowed to take afternoon strolls past the house.
Starved of sunshine through long cold, wet and grey winters Thomas Jones took to setting up office outside in the summertime when it was warm and dry. A plain wooden table and office chair was placed in the small yard in front of the house upon which he could deal with his papers. He had a naturally charming manner about him and there was nothing more that he liked than to be distracted from his work whenever he noticed a pretty woman walk by. He would easily engage in small talk with them. It took his mind off the thousands of rectangles of grey slate he saw every day.
Business was good too. The industrial revolution was causing a house and factory building explosion across the world. Demand increased exponentially year upon year as Welsh slate was recognised as the best. But each market had different requirements in slate proportions. Some standards were required to ensure uniformity of product and he struggled for a way to label them.
He was musing over methods to grade the slate, outside one afternoon, when a particularly attractive young lady walked by, turning her face to give a rather brazen smile as she went. He stood up from his chair and tipped his hat as he greeted her with, "Afternoon, Ma'am". Apparently it was all the signal she needed and she pushed open the gate to join him at the front of the house. Clearly a go-getter she knew how to seduce him with some coy looks and some practiced postures that showed off her curves provocatively. The talk soon turned sassy, their eyes alive with enthusiasm for each other and it wasn't long before he suggested it would be more relaxing to go inside to chat. Inevitably it could only lead to one thing.
It was the next day that he was checking the quality of a large slate. He checked the dimensions with a wooden folding ruler. Twenty four by fourteen inches it measured, precisely. It had been finely split and edged he noted as he held it vertically, face to him between his palms. And he thought,....distracted for a moment, last time his palms were that far apart they were holding the young lady's bare waist close to him the afternoon before. And he smiled to himself at the thought, remembering he had whispered "Princess" to her in her ear as they indulged in some foreplay.
And that was it...! He grinned at the thought! He would name the different sizes of slates after women. The 24 by 14 incher would be a Princess. He was sure the idea would be a winner with the men in the quarry.
It was only two days later that he bedded another woman. Slightly larger, older and better educated. It led him to name the 26 by 16 inch slate an Empress. And the die was set. Through the summer he took his chances liberally. There was a truly shapely, fine young lady, glorious ginger hair. He reckoned he should call the 24 by 12 inch slate after her: the Duchess. She was class! One Sunday he was introduced to a visiting foreign lady he nicknamed the Marchioness after an entertaining session upstairs. She was diminutive and he gave her name to the 18 by 9 inch slate.
Soon he was getting so cocky no woman was safe, married or single, and he would seduce his victims with an easy charm. There was the Viscountess, significantly older than him, but with eye-widening experience and technique that made him put the title to the 18 by 9 inch tile. And there were the two sisters he spent the night with after the village carnival. They became the Broad Countess and the Small Countess 20 by 12 and 20 by 10 inches respectively. It was they who were the first to throw their underwear up into the branches of the tree outside the front of his house.
But Thomas Jones, Tom as he became known, was headed for trouble. Word eventually seeped out beyond the boundaries of the quarry. The gossip spread. He became despised by some of the men. Not least General Hugh Warburton of Penrhyn who stole the slate naming idea as his own. And especially when the worker's women started to stray towards his house to offer themselves as easy victims. But whilst he romped he treated some with disdain to the degree that his catalogue of slates inspired by them included the Wide Lady, the Broad Lady, the Wide Header, the Small Header, the Small Lady, etc, etc. They just became a commodity to him.
And one day he disappeared completely.
I became interested in slate and its industry many years ago, as I have mentioned elsewhere here, but it was seeing this house for the first time, that prompted me to dig into its history. And once I turned up this story I had to go back for a closer look. It really is a special place, derelict and overgrown, magical and mysterious, hidden in a tangle of ivy in a dark, silent corner of the quarry. Approaching it, it feels creepy and I was tempted to look over my shoulder a few times. On one occasion my eyes caught a glimpse of colour on the fallen tree at the front, a remnant of fabric snagged on a broken branch. Intrigued I reached for it and pulled it down, my fingers rubbing some of the leafy greenness to expose even more red satiny fabric. Underwear, I wondered? I put the piece in my pocket and crossed to the ornate porch and doorway. looking in I could see the floor was littered with rusty brown leaves from the previous autumn, but otherwise it was empty. Nothing to see. and so I went round to the left of the house into the small dark area at its side, and untidy part with creeping ivy and brambles, a carpet of bright moss on the floor. Again there was little to see apart from a small stack of cut slates stood on edge against the far wall. They were so neatly stood it made me notice how precisely cut they were to...perfectly rectangular, but all slightly different proportions. I picked the first up to examine how perfectly thin and flat it was, holding it up to the weak light, marvelling at the workmanship, turning it this way and that to admire it more closely.
And then I noticed it was engraved. Clearly cut in in Ecuyer dax font was the word "Empress". I couldn't believe it! Hurriedly I reached down for the next slate in the stack and turned it over when I saw there was no name on the front. "Duchess!". The next, "Small Countess". I dropped to my knees and urgent flipped slate after slate. Princess, Marchioness, Wide Lady, Broad Lady, Wide Header, Narrow Lady...…..Duchess, Viscountess…and so on. I counted nineteen slates so far. That's the whole list! His original samples all preserved.
But one slate remained propped up against the wall. A good sized one, perhaps 22 x 10 inches. I reached to pick it up, baffled. There should only be nineteen different names and sizes. Curious, I turned it over to see if the twentieth was engraved too.
It was. The "Unforgiving Mistress"
Well, this threw me. What? Why? Or did the answer lie in Tom Jones' own chequered history? What had he got up to? And why had he suddenly disappeared.? The thought unsettled me in that creepy place and I decided to get up from where I knelt. As I put out a leg to lever myself up, I leant to the left. As I did so the heel of my boot scuffed the moss aside where it lay on a slab of slate below. Another push with my boot and a whole roll of moss just peeled away revealing even more of the dark grey slab underneath. I got up and stood looking down. It made me uneasy. Something was lurking down there. And I thought I knew what it was. Had he perhaps crossed the unforgiving mistress? And she had put him in his grave?
What I was to discover next would rock the Nantlle Valley. Part Two, soon.
“So, where are you going for vacation?” Joyce was preparing for a week off from work as a nurse case manager at Duke University Hospital and a lot of folks were curious as to where we were going. “Death Valley”, she said. She was left with wide-eyed stares… “Say what?” “Come again?” “You’re going where?” I need to explain something here for my friends outside the U.S. as well as some here in the states. In August of 2017, our vacation was to a much different destination. Early on the morning of Joyce’s birthday, we were standing in a long queue to U.K. Customs after a flight over to Heathrow Airport in London. Finally, reaching the attention of a U.K. Customs agent, he asked for the reason for our visit. I usually let Joyce answer these things for us. Here’s what I remember her answer was: “Blah, blah, blah… vacation.” I perked up immediately with the realization that we were no longer standing on American soil, “No, no, no, Joyce! We’re not on vacation. We’re on holiday!” The agent cracked a big grin, stamped our passports, and sent us on our way.
Apparently, some folks can’t seem to wrap their minds around the aspect of a “holiday” and “death” in the same sentence. Too bad! We live in subtropical North Carolina. Death Valley is nearly 2,500 miles away across the country, but for as different as it is from here in Durham, it may as well be another planet… although a wondrously beautiful planet.
As I’ve explained in previous images, I’ve been going through some older images and wondering why I never posted them. This is from that vacation of March of 2015, the aptly named Artist’s Palette in Death Valley. I went back and forth along the road to this point looking for good light on this face of the Black Mountains there. I remember on this day hoping for enough clouds in the sky beyond the mountains to light up at sunset. After looking at this image, I realize that light from the “Golden Hour” is exactly as it should be to highlight this extraordinary scene in Death Valley.
Death Valley is known for many things, not least of which is being arid and blisteringly hot in the summer. Just a short way down the road from this spot is also the lowest point of elevation in North America at -282 feet (-86 meters) below sea level. For as arid as it is, it is also a geological treasure trove because of eons of erosion, moisture, and volcanic activity. The Artist’s Palette Formation provides evidence for one of the Death Valley area's most violently explosive volcanic periods. The Miocene-aged (the Miocene Epoch occurred between 23.03 to 5.3 million years ago… on a Thursday) formation is made up of cemented gravel, playa deposits, and volcanic debris, perhaps 5,000 feet (1,500 m) thick. Chemical weathering and hydrothermal alteration cause the oxidation and other chemical reactions that produce the variety of colors displayed here along Artist's Drive and nearby exposures of the Furnace Creek Formation.
During the day here, the colors are quite muted. The golden light of sunset draws them out through contrast, however… it pays to know your subject. The reds, pinks, and yellows of Artist’s Palette were created by the oxidation of iron, the greens came from the decomposition of tuff-derived mica, the purples stem from the oxidation of manganese, and turquoise from copper ore and salts... it truly seems a rainbow palette of hues. Contrary to its name, there is much alive throughout Death Valley, yet the barren aspect here truly emphasizes how incredible nature can be, even in lifelessness. By the way, another photographer is standing on one of the lower slopes... I left him in there for a sense of scale. Can you find him? Other images from Death Valley are jumping out at me... stay tuned!
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