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Like everyone else on Flickr, Joni was issued a Flickr Report Card in mid-December with a statistical analysis of her activities on Flickr for the year 2025. Like kids with a bad report card which they don't want their parents to see, Joni has seemingly destroyed hers. She deleted it! . . ."By accident, Mom! I'm not lying! Maybe the dog ate it!" . . . Well, Joni doesn't have a dog, but she's not lying. She really did delete it, but it really was an accident. . . . Honestly!
Here's what happened . . . Joni downloaded the report card onto her computer and added it to her queued up photos for posting on her photostream, awaiting only a narrative by Joni of her own statistical analysis of the report card, relative to last year's report card, which by the way can be accessed at the bottom of this same first page, which in itself offers a telling clue about Joni's Flickr activity for 2025. Bogged down by Christmas shopping, wrapping, and decorating, as well as shingling a doll house roof, Joni was delayed in preparing the narrative for her Flickr Report Card and as Christmas arrived, Joni deleted the Report Card from her Flickr queue for what she intended to be a temporary period to make room for three Christmas-themed photos. However, when Joni tried to add it back to her photostream's queue, she couldn't find it among the more than 5000 photos stored on her ancient computer. A subsequent and far more intensive search failed to recover the Report Card. It's gone forever!!
Fortunately, all is not lost and there is accountability. In preparation for her statistical analysis, Joni had jotted down the numbers not only from the 2025 Report Card, but the 2024 Report Card as well, so that Joni would have the relevant numbers at her fingertips to facilitate her own comparisons and statistical analysis. So while the Report Card for 2025 is gone, the numbers and information have survived. Joni didn't plan it that way, but that's the way it turned out!
Now, for Joni's analysis of her own Flickr activity in 2025, it begins with this photo, which was entitled as "JONI AND THOSE ROAMING EYES", and was posted onto Flickr on January 19, 2025. The selfie photo depicts Joni scanning a casino room for high rollers and potential admirers while sitting at a slot machine. It was also accompanied by a lengthy narrative, as Joni is want to do. The photo was well received by the Flickr community at that time, and was ultimately identified by Flickr as Joni's Most Viewed Photo of 2025 with a surprising 21,932 views at the time, hence being posted again here as the header for her analysis of the missing Report Card.
The photo, however, merits some additional commentary. Joni certainly likes the photo, and it did generate a substantial number of Comments and Faves, more so than most of Joni's photos do. It certainly benefitted from being posted so early in the year, giving it a head start on some of Joni's other photos, that Joni feels may have been even better. Basically, Joni must confess to some skepticism about those 21,932 views. As much as Joni wants to believe that it is an accurate number, she is haunted by the knowledge that Flickr relies upon algorithms that are alleged to be faulty and unreliable, and prone to manipulation and exaggeration. This may be one of those photos. Joni says this because it generated more than twice the number of views than the next most viewed photo of hers from last year, and almost double the number of views that her Most Viewed Photo from 2024 generated! . . . .One cannot help but suspect that "something is rotten in Denmark." I hope this doesn't burst anyone else's bubbles, if they crave numbers as a measure of their own attractiveness and popularity, but actually it should. . . .Of course, in the words of that famous NFL football coach, "You are what your numbers say you are!". Thanks, Coach! . . . .So Joni will not be seeking a recount!
Now before Joni starts to crunch her numbers, she wishes to acknowledge that statistically speaking, 2025 was on the surface a very disappointing year. How disappointing, you ask?? . . . Consider the evidence:
Joni's photos generated only 379,565 Views among the Flickr community in 2025, after generating 453,459 Views in 2024 for a decrease of 73, 894 Views, or a decrease of 16.3% in Viewership!!!
Even more alarming was the drop in the number of Joni's photos that were Faved by others on Flickr. Joni's photos generated 962 Favorites across the Flickr Universe in 2025 as compared to 1,361 Faved photos in 2024. The 399 less Faved photos represented a seemingly catastrophic drop of 29.3%!!!
Similarly, there was a significant drop off in the number of Comments that Joni's photos received, although not as severe as the decline in Views and Faves. Joni's photos received only 897 Comments in 2025 compared to 979 Comments in 2024, a drop of 82 Comments. The loss in Commentary represented a decline of only 8.4%
Undaunted by all the negative numbers, Joni sloughed them off, denying that she was the victim of an anti-Joni conspiracy. Rather, Joni pointed out that the apparent drop in her popularity could be explained by the drop in the number of photos she posted in 2025. Joni posted only 78 new photos is 2025, compared to 143 new photos posted in 2024. The 65 fewer photos represented a whopping decrease of 45.5%!!! All off which, Joni says, goes a long way toward explaining all of the negative numbers.
When asked to explain why she had posted so many fewer photos in 2025, Joni responded in this way: First and foremost, Joni does not subscribe to, nor pays for a Flickr Porno Account, meaning that she is limited to posting a maximum of 1,000 photos; a limitation that she has bumped up against a couple of times in recent years, necessitating purges. As such, she is always cognizant of the fact that adding new photos leads to deleting old photos. It's a vicious cycle! . . . Secondly, Joni didn't attend the Keystone Conference in 2025 over her concerns about security. Keystone offers many opportunities for photo ops with old friends and new friends, many of whom are on Flickr. Some girls are known to take hundreds of photos during that Conference; so much so, that they have enough photos to post for the rest of the year without ever going out again! It's true! Indeed, Joni would admit that she didn't get out as often as she would have liked for a
variety of reasons in 2025; another contributing factor to the decline.
Finally, however, Joni would cite a more overriding reason for the decline in the number of her photos being posted. She has come to the realization that she spends too much time on Flickr in general, and at times feels addicted, as her wife claims. She made a New Year's Resolution in 2025 to spend less time on Flickr last year, and is making the same Resolution this year. The numbers from last year are a mixed bag on this point. Joni actually made 1,525 Comments on the Photos of others, which seems like a lot, considering that she only received 897 Comments, which is a clear imbalance, but Joni is not necessarily transactional when it comes to Commenting. The good news is that it represents 153 fewer Comments than she made in 2024 or a decrease of 9.1%. That progress however, is somewhat offset by the 169 photos she Faved in 2025, an increase of 24 more Faved Photos than the 145 she Faved in 2024, or an increase of 16.6%. Joni indicates that the increase can largely be explained by her infatuation with one particular gorgeous woman she met on Flickr over the past year. (Yes, J.P., I'm talking about you!!!) Overall, Joni's effort to wean herself away from Flickr wasn't good enough and she hopes to do better in 2026. . . . Then there is the whole issue involving the use of A.I. by so many women on Flickr. Joni, like so many other women on Fllckr does not use it, and doesn't like it. However with the use of A.I. seemingly on the rise among women on Flickr to enhance, if not distort, their photos, it may be easier to disengage from Flickr than Joni thinks is possible.
Finally, Flickr reported that the person Joni interacted with the most on Flickr in 2025 was also the same person who interacted with Joni the most in 2025. If one believes that Joni has become more opinionated and surly over the past year, it may be the influence of Ms. Surly herself - Pamela Lennon!! Pamela has become one of Joni's best friends on Flickr. Pamela is, of course, well known on Flickr for her sense of fashion and commands a much larger audience than Joni. Indeed, it may even border on a cult, but beyond the numbers, they are kindred spirits!
Some City churches seem to be open, if not all the time, then frequently. But others rarely seem to open their doors to visitors. Then there are those who seemingly don't want anyone to see inside their wonderful buildings. Which is more than a shame, really. These houses of God should be for everyone, not just the custodians.
Saying that, I must take another opportunity to thank The Friends of the City churches, and the time given by their volunteers who give up their time to ensure that these are open at least one day a week.
So, in the past two years, I think I have visited all of the churches that they are keyholders for, and so without this fine organisation, I would not have seen inside many of them.
St Benet's is open between 11:00 and 15:00 on Thursdays, and despite wondering whether it would be open as advertised, the greeters assured me it is open each and every Thursday.
St Benet's is unique in that I think I am right in saying that it is the only City Wren church that survived the Blitz undamaged. In which case, Wren would reconise this church, over all others he helped rebuild after the great fire in 1666.
It is now situated tucked in the corner of an off ramp of Queen Victoria Street, and the pedestrian has to walk through an unwelcoming subway to get to the door, which on this occasion was open.
I was greeted warmly, and given a tour of the history of the church, plus tips on visiting other churches. A wonderful visit and a fine church.
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The Church of St Benet Paul's Wharf is a Welsh Anglican church in the City of London. Since 1556, it has also been the official church of the College of Arms in which many officers of arms have been buried. In 1666 it was destroyed in the Great Fire of London, after which it was rebuilt and merged with nearby St Peter's. The current church was designed by Sir Christopher Wren.[1] It is one of only four churches in the City of London to escape damage during World War II.
St. Benet's traces its history back to the year 1111, when a church was built on the site and dedicated to St Benedict. Over time the name was abbreviated to St. Benet. To the west of the site was the watergate of Baynard's Castle, which is referenced in the biographies of Queen Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey. Both the church and the castle were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. It was rebuilt by the architect Christopher Wren, and reopened in 1683.
St Benet Paul's Wharf, London, taken from the top of nearby St Paul's Cathedral. Visible behind the church is the City of London School.
On 2 March 1706, Henrietta Hobart married Charles Howard, 9th Earl of Suffolk, a captain in the 6th (Inniskilling) Dragoons there. (Henrietta Howard subsequently became mistress to the future King George II.)[2]
The church was narrowly saved from destruction in the late 19th century, when its parish was merged with that of St Nicholas Cole Abbey. After an energetic campaign by its supporters, it was preserved and reconsecrated in 1879 as the London Church of the Church in Wales.[3] It is now the City's Welsh church, with services conducted in Welsh.[4]
In 2008 the church was closed for a few months due to a "dwindling congregation"[5] but reopened in time for the carol service in December that year. Welsh services are held weekly on Sundays at 11 a.m and 3.30 p.m and the church can be toured on Thursdays between 11 a.m and 3 p.m.
The church is of dark red brick, with alternate courses of Portland stone at the corners. The tower is situated to the north-west of the nave and is capped by a small lead dome, lantern and simple short spire.
The interior is almost a square. Unusually for a Wren church, the ceiling is flat rather than domed or curved. The north gallery was formerly used by the Doctors' Commons, and is now used by the College of Arms. Most of the original 17th century furnishings are still intact, including the magnificent altar table, reredos and pulpit, designed by Grinling Gibbons. The lectern and baptismal font are also original.[7]
The galleries are supported by Corinthian columns. There is a memorial to Inigo Jones, who was buried in the previous church, and a medallion bust of Sir Robert Wyseman, a benefactor of St Benet's who died in 1684.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Benet%27s,_Paul%27s_Wharf
A church has been on this site since 1111. Destroyed in the Great Fire, the present church was built by Wren and Hooke (possibly owing more to the latter) between 1677 and 1683. It was one of only four Wren churches to escape damage in the Second Word War but was vandalised in 1971: repaired and reopened in 1973. It has a long-standing connection with the College of Arms across the road. Also since 1879 the church has accommodated the Welsh Episcopalian congregation in London. It is therefore sometimes known as “the Welsh church”, though that is a misnomer. Paul’s Wharf was the wharf on the Thames from which stone and other building materials were conveyed for the Wren reconstruction of St Paul’s cathedral.
www.london-city-churches.org.uk/Churches/StBenetPaulsWhar...
There has been a church on this site, dedicated to St Benet (or Benedict), since the Twelfth Century.
Shakespeare refers to it in Twelfth Night: Feste, the Clown asking Duke Orsino to add a third to the two coins he is offering reminds him: “...the bells of St Bennet, sir, may put you in mind -– one, two, three.”
In the Sixteenth Century, because the watergate of Baynard’s Castle was close by, both Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey may have received the last rites at St Benet on their way to execution at the Tower. The River Thames was, of course, an important thoroughfare at the time and the unlucky women could have completed their journey by boat.
St Benet is the only unaltered Wren church in the City. All but four were damaged in the Second World War and the other three either suffered the effects of an IRA bomb or have been restored.
The royal connection continued with Charles II having a special door at the side of the building and a private room from which he could take part in services. The Stuart arms can be seen above the west door marking the vantage point from which the king observed proceedings below.
Until 1867 St Benet was the parish church of Doctors Commons, a legal institution which, among its other activities, could provide facilities for hasty marriages. There is a record, for instance, of some 1300 weddings taking place in one year alone in the Eighteenth Century.
In 1747, Henry Fielding, the author of Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews and Shamela, married his second wife here.
In 1879 Queen Victoria removes St Benet from the list of churches to be demolished and grants the use of the church to the Welsh Anglicans for services.
The Officers of the College of Arms still have their own seats in St Benet’s and their personal banners hang from the gallery together with that of the Duke of Norfolk. At least 25 Officers are buried here.
In the 1870s the church was regarded as redundant and scheduled for demolition. Eminent Welsh Anglicans petitioned Queen Victoria to be allowed to use the building for services in Welsh. In 1879, Her Majesty granted the right to hold Welsh services here in perpetuity and this has continued ever since, with a service each Sunday morning.
In 1954, in the reorganisation of the City churches and parishes, St Benet became one of the City Guild churches as well as the Metropolitan Welsh Church.
The eminent composer Meirion Williams was the church organist in the 1960s and 1970s. As well as a Mass, Missa Cambrensis, he wrote a number of other works, including songs which are particular favourites of contemporary Welsh opera singers.
In 1971 a fire started by a vagrant damaged the north side of the church. During the repair work, necessitated mainly by smoke and heat damage, the Nineteenth Century organ was moved and rebuilt in its present (and original) position in the west gallery. When the church was reopened in May 1973, the congregation received a message from the Prince of Wales and trumpeters from the Royal Welsh Regiment blew a fanfare in celebration.
Today, the growing congregation at St Benet's remains committed to making known the good news of Jesus afresh to the current generation of the Welsh in London.
Seemingly totally at odds with the surrounding domestic housing, this property in Clive Street stands out for its unusual design. The lay out may denote some specific past use, the gable being most noteworthy in this respect.
Tunstall was one of the later towns to be developed in the Potteries and much of the housing was laid out to a structured plan with many of its terraced properties of generous size. This area on the outskirts of town was constructed in the mid nineteenth century.
Turn of a Friendly Card
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Based on a true adventures of a rogue active in the waning years of the 1930’s as discovered in the criminal archives of Chatwick University.
Act 1
I begin my tale in the present…
That afternoon a soiree was given as part of the purchase price of the tickets for the annual Autumn Charity Ball to be presented later that evening at the manor’s great house. Since I was alone, I just went mainly for the free food and to rub my elbows with the wealthy guests who would be in happy attendance there, and at the Ball. I was alone, but certainly not bored. There was a game I enjoyed playing to pass the time at these affairs that entailed scoping out by their dress and day jewels worn, those ladies whom would be most likely to be wearing the better costumes and sparklers that evening. It often proved to be a most beneficial insight into the actions and mannerisms of the very rich. I walked amongst the cheerful guests, eying one here ( a lady in satin and pearls) and another there( a high spirited girl with a diamond pin at the throat of her frilly silken blouse). It was as I was passing the latter that the friend she had been talking too (dressed like a vamp), bumped up against me. I caught her, steadying her as they both giggled. I didn’t mind, for the lassie’s too tight satin sheath tea dress had been an enticement to hold, and the gold bracelet that had been dangling from her gloved wrist had been a pleasure to observe. I kissed her gloved hand, rings glittering, as I apologized gallantly for my clumsiness. Her eyes were bright, almost as bright as the twin necklaces of gold that hung swaying down pleasantly from between her ample bosom. I left them, moving on to greener pastures, and it was very green, all of it….
It was then that I detected another pretty lassie. It was her long fiery red hair with falling wispy curls that first captured my attention. She was wearing a fetchingly smart white chiffon party dress that commanded me to acquire a closer examination. She appeared to be a blithe spirit, seemingly content with just being by herself and roaming about with casual elegance, the extensive grounds of the manor proper. I began to discreetly follow her at a distance. Although she did not wear any jewelry, her manner and the eloquent way she moved is what attracted me the most. It would be very interesting to seek her out later that evening and she what she would have chosen to decorate herself with. I followed her as she sojourned into the depths of a traditional English garden with a maze of lushly green trimmed 8 foot high hedges
As I strolled through the hedgerows in her wake I allowed my mind to wander its own course. Suddenly I straightened up, my reverie broken by an epiphany of sorts. I allowed myself to grin and the lady whose enchantment I was swollen up in, at that moment turned, and seeing my beaming smile assumed it was for her and gave me a rather cute nod of her head. I answered in same, as I headed en route to a nearby stone garden bench to allow my thoughts to think through themselves.
But before I go on, allow me the pleasure to sojourn and reminisce about an incident that occurred several years prior:
*******************
I was still working unaided in those days, travelling on to a new next quest that would take me just outside of Surrey.
I had just purchased my train ticket and had seen my luggage safe on board when I decided to rest in the lounge, it being some 45 minutes before allowed to enter personally aboard. Being so early the lounge was almost deserted, only one other occupant. I assumed she was waiting for someone on an incoming train due to the fact she carried no luggage. She was obviously well off, well dressed in satins and lace, and her jewels shone magnificently in the dim lights. Especially one of her rings, noticeably lying loosely around a finger, it sparkled with an expensive brilliance. I had seen one like it in a tiffanies store, worth almost 250 pounds. But she did not appreciate the show her jewelry was putting on under the lounge lights, for she was fast asleep.
I circled around her, aiming for a seat next to her, eyeing her and her possessions carefully. I noticed her purse had fallen off her lap and lay on the floor. An idea popped into my head, and I picked the purse up, and looked around carefully, before placing my plan into action. But I was thwarted as an older, matronly lady was spotted heading our way. I slipped the purse into my jacket and moved off before I was noticed. Of course she came in and took the empty seat across form the sleeping princess, and soon busied herself with knitting. As the older lady had sat down, not quietly, the wealthy lady stirred waking up at the noise. I went into a corner and sat, waiting. The two ladies soon fell into conversation; the minute’s ticked by excruciatingly slow. Soon I noticed we even had more company.
He was a lad of only fourteen, but with a devilish look about him that marked him a kindred spirit to meself, and his quick eyes were darting about taking it all in as he stood outside the paned glass window.
It was as the first announcement of boarding the train that I saw a chance for opportunity to strike.
The older lady folded up her knitting and clinching her bag, bid adieu to her new friend,( befuddled a little by the old ladies constant stream of gossip), and headed to the train. I was twenty steps ahead of her and was standing behind the youth as she left the lounge. I tapped him on the shoulder; he looked around at me suspiciously, and then caught sight of the shilling I was holding in front of his nose. I quickly whispered a few words into his ear on how he could earn it, and his grin spread as he bought into my story. I still held onto the shilling as he darted around and inside the lounge. I watched as he ran up behind the lady, circling her, then running in front of her he tripped over her leg, as she helped him up, her hand with the ring reaching down, he turned and spat onto the wrist and sleeve of that hand, than standing he ran away. Running alongside me, I handed him the shilling in passing as he ran off, disappearing in to the street.
I went inside and approached the astonished lady, as she was looking for her purse to get a handkerchief, confused as to its absence, while she held up her soiled hand( ring glittering furiously) in utter disbelief. I approached, catching her attention by the soothing words I uttered to her. I took her hand, unbelieving with her at just had happened, and I as I apologized for the youth of today I produced my own silk handkerchief and starting with her silky sleeve, began to wipe it off, continuing my tirade of displeasure and contempt at what had just occurred to the dear lady as I did so. As I finishing wiping her down, ending with her warm slender fingers, I kissed them, just as the last boarding announcement came over (perfect timing!) I let her go, explaining that I must catch my train. I turned and without looking back made the train just as it was letting off steam before chugging off.
I gained my private carriage just as the train began to lurch away. It wasn’t until after the train began its journey that I casually removed my silk handkerchief from my pocket and unwrapped it carefully, admiring up close the shimmering, valuable tiffany ring that was lying inside. I pocketed it, and then remembered the purse. I took it out and examined its contents: coin and notes equaling a handsome amount, a gold (gilded) case, embroidered lacy handkerchief, small silver flask of perfume, and ( of all things)a large shimmering prism , like one that would have dangled from a fancy crystal chandelier. A prism?, I questioned with interest as I examined it. It was pretty thing, about the circumference of a cricket ball, but shaped like a pendulum, it shimmered and glittered like the most precious of jewels. Why she had it in her purse? I couldn’t guess, and I saw no value in it, so I pocketed it and allowed it to leave my mind.
As I settled into my seat I began to think of the lad I had just met, I had been right on the money as far as his eagerness for mischief. Actually he reminded me of myself at that age, and I wondered if that lad with the shifty eyes would also turn out to follow the same course I had explored.
Which Begs the question, what had I turned out to become. And since I’m still reminiscing
I’ll give little background material about me, hopefully I don’t come across as being too conceited about my self-taught skills..
I had never been one to take the hard road, and even at a young age I was always looking for angles, or short cuts to make some money.
Once, while watching for some time a street magician and his acts. I observed a pick pocket working the crowd. He approached a pair of well-dressed ladies in shiny clothes, and standing behind them bided his time and then lifted a small pouch from one velvet purse, and a fat wallet from a silken one, then he moved on. Now both ladies were wearing shiny bracelets, one with jewels. I thought that he could have realized a greater profit if he had nicked one or both of the bracelets first, than try for the contents of their purses. The bracelets’ alone would have realized a far greater profit than what he lifted from their purses. It further occurred to me that by mimicking some of the sleight of hand tricks and misdirection that the magician was using on his audience, it could be accomplished. A hand placed on the right shoulder and as the lady turned right, whisk off the bracelet from her left wrist, and excuse oneself, that sort of thing.
So, I practiced (on my sisters, who proved to be willing accomplices to “my game”) and learned to pick their purses and pockets. I than moved onto their jewelry, starting by lifting bracelets and slipping away rings, before advancing to the brooches, necklaces and earrings they were wearing. After I was satisfied at my skill level, I went out and worked the streets. Sometimes using my one sister who was also hooked on what I was doing as a willing partner.
But I found myself still not being satisfied, in the back of my mind I thought there had to be a more lucrative way to turn a profit.
I’d found my answer when an attractive lady in a rustling satin gown zeroed in on me while I was “visiting” a ballroom. She was jeweled like a princess right up to the diamond band she wore holding up her piles of soft locks like a glimmering crown. The more she drank, the closer she got and I decided that her necklace would definitely help pay my expenses more than the contents of her purse (although I had already lifted the fat wallet from her small purse), and I did have very expensive tastes to pay for. So I took her onto the dance floor.
I was amazed at how easily I had been able to open the necklace’s clasp , slipping it over her satiny shoulder, lifting it off and placing it safely in my pocket with almost no effort. Then she decided to be playful once the song ended and brushed up against me. She felt the necklace in my pocket and before I could act she had her hand in and pulled it out.
The silly naive twit thought I was teasing her and told me that for my penance I had to go up to her suite in order to put it back on for her. I kept up the charade as best as I could.
And that’s where we ended up. A little bit of light fondling began as I placed the necklace back around her throat. I began to tease her, plied her with more and more alcohol as I tried to keep my distance, and virginity. Finally she passed out in a drunken stupor, but not before I had learned where she hid her valuables by suggesting she should lock her jewels up for the night..
With her safely unconscious, I began to strip her clean off all her jewels, reclaiming the necklace first. Then I visited all her jewelry casket and began looting it. I even took her small rhinestone clutch with the diamond clasp; of course I already had liberated its small wallet.
When I’d left her lying happily asleep in bed, still in her satin gown( the only item left to her that shined), I knew I had found a much more profitable line of “work”
So I began making circuits around to the haunts of the very rich, I still kept may hand in pickpocketing, so to speak, but centered only on those “pockets” containing mainly jewelry. I also began to carefully explore new ways of acquiring jewels” in masse”, so to speak.
Soon I had accumulated many tricks and tools, having them at my disposal to put into action once required, and for the remaining years up till the present had managed to live quite comfortably off of the ill-gotten gains using them allowed me to acquire.
Which brings me back to the train ride, my prism, and the rest of my background story before I retun to the present tale. Please be patient.
*****
So, anyway, I reached Surry without any further incident and disembarking, made my way out to the large country house where I would be staying to take a short rest, vacation if you will. But, pardon the play on words, for there is never any rest for the wicked, is there?
I had become acquainted with a servant of the old mansion ( almost a small castle, really) , that was about a mile off. I managed to learn a great deal, and soon found myself, on the pretense of visiting her, exploring the grounds. There was to be a grand ball taking place a couple of weekends away , and the maid had filled my ears with the riches that would be displayed by the multitude of regal ladies making an appearance. I began to think about trying to make a little bit of profit from my vacation. I am not sure how the idea developed, but the prism that I still had in my possession, came up centrally into my plans.
Late on the evening of the regal affair, I snuck over, covered head to toe in black, with my small satchel off tools by my side. I set up a candle behind an old stone ivy covered wall in a far corner of the rather large and intricate English garden that surrounded the inner circle around the mansion. I than strung the jewel-like prism in front of it. Standing behind the wall, I would strike the prism with a long stick I was holding whenever I observed sparkles emanating from silkily gowned ladies walking in the distance, solitary or in pairs. The prism would flash fire, sort of like a showy lure being used when fishing in a crooked trout stream. Only I was fishing for far sweeter game than trout. My objective was to trick certain types of jeweled ladies (scatterbrains some may call them) by luring them down onto the path beyond the wall, using their natural curiosity to my advantage.
I had at least two strikes rise up to my lure in the second hour.
On was a pretty lady in flowing green satin number, decorated with plenty of emeralds, which, hidden in the shadows, I observed were probably paste. I let her wonder about; as she looked and played with the shiny toy, remaining hidden until she grew bored and wandered off.
The second was a slender maiden wearing a long sleek black gown with long ivory silk gloves. I had never before seen a lady so decked out in jewels, literally head to toe. With the exception of the rhinestones adorning her heels, the rest of the lot was real, so valuably real that I could feel my mouth salivating at the thoughts of acquiring her riches. Now in Edwardian times only older, married ladies would be allowed the privilege of wearing a diamond Tiara. But in these modern times, it had become culturally acceptable for any well-to do lady, single or otherwise, to wear one out in society. Even so, they were still rarely worn, and seldom seen outside the safety of large gatherings. But there it was, a small, delicately slender piece of intricate art that glistened from the top of her head like some elegant beacon. That piece alone was probably worth more than I had made all the last four months combined!
I began to skirt around in the shadows, placing myself in position to cut off her retreat. Her diamonds blazed as she approached, eyeing the swinging prism with total concentration. Which was unfortunate, because as I was about to leave the shadows, she walked into the thorns of a rose bush, screeching out, and attracting the notice of a pair of gentlemen who had just crossed the path quite a ways off, called out when they heard the commotion. She started to become chatty with them, obviously coming on to her rescuers, my prism all but forgotten. Than before I knew it, in a swishing of her long gown, she was gone, “swimming” off before I was able to set me ”hook”.
Which I was able to do on the third strike, almost an hour later, just as I was beginning to ponder wither I should call it off and head back home..
They were a pair of young damsels in their young twenties. They may have been sisters, or cousins at the least. I still remember how my heart leapt into my throat as they observed my colourful prism and turned down the old flagstone path. I had not seen anyone out and about for some time, so I knew they would be no would be rescuers around to come to their aid
And, best of all, they were both dressed for the kill!
One, the blonde, was clad in a black velvet number that one could cannily describe as quite form fitting. As were the small ropes of pearls that hung from all points of interest, pretty with a matching pricelessness.
But her cousin, as I will refer to her, out shone black velvet quite literally.
This one, a stunning raven haired beauty, wore a long streaming gown of liquid ivory satin. A diamond brooch sparkled as it held up a fold of the gown to her waist. The fold allowed her to show a rather daring amount of a slender bare calf. The brooch was not paste, but a real jewel that had been added for the nights festivities ( To be successful, one learns to read these signs accurately) Her ears and neckline were home to a matching set of pure white diamonds. A wide diamond bracelet graced a bare right wrist ,so she must be left handed I instinctively thought, an observation that would have aided me if I were planning on having a go for slipping the bracelet from her wrist, but tonight I was planning a much more daring attempt to empty the entire jewel casket, so to speak.
They went to the prism, playing with it a bit, I had begun to circle around, when I noticed black velvet pointing out with multiple ringed fingers, to something further down the path past the wall.
With a clicking of heels I let the pair pass, they apparently wanted to see what was on the other side of the wall. I followed; it was not hard, because the necklace the raven haired one wore, diamonds fully encircling her throat, rippled and sparkled from their perch, caught in the full harvest moon’s cast, giving me more than enough light to shadow them quietly .
After a while they caught on that something/someone was following them, but as they turned they could see nothing. I was in black, and hooded, invisible to them in the shadows of the trees. They whispered amongst themselves, now worried, realizing that there were dangers lurking beyond the pale, in their case, the safety of the gardens , especially for ones decked out as they were. They then turned and headed right back from where they had come, right into my waiting arms.
It is interesting what good breeding does for young, poised ladies. For, as I stepped out of the shadows, a finger of my right hand to my lips, my Fairborn in my left hand, its black blade glinting wickedly in the moonlight , they did not scream out or shout for help. Instead the pair merely let out small gasps, and then they both, in a quite charming synchronized display of disbelief, place each one hand over their open mouths, and the other upon their perspective necklaces.
And as I flourished my wicked looking Fairbairn–Sykes blade in their direction, they unquestioningly reached around and undid those pretty necklaces, tremblingly handing them out to me, like actresses following a well-read script. I took the little pretties and after stuffing them into my satchel, held out again my free hand, my fingers beckoning. Not a word was spoken between us, as the frightened pair of young ladies began removing their shimmering jewels and added them in a neat little growing pile along my open palm. The raven haired girl even undid her brooch without me having to command her to do so. Once I had stashed it all away, I motioned for them to turn back around, than with a little helpful prodding on my part, they began moving forward back down the hill, away from the garden. The one in white hobbling a little now as she kept tripping over the hem of her dress, now no longer held up by the stolen brooch.
After we had traveled about 200 meters I had them stop, and take off their high heels. Then picking the pretty things up, I motioned them to turn back around and made them walk back the way we had come in their bare feet, watching the pair awkwardly hobble barefooted down the wooded path. They would be quite a while on their journey back, allowing me more than ample time to make me escape. I threw their shoes off to the side and went briskly the other way, reaching the place was staying at , gaining my room without notice. But not before I had hidden the jewels inside an old stump to retrieve them at a later date. I never really heard so much as a whisper of the incident, other than from the pretty lips of my friendly maiden. The wee hours of the morning before my early departure for the train station found me revisiting the stump and retrieving my satchel and its precious cargo. After hiding it all in a false bottom of my case I laid my head on the pillow and drifted off to sleep as I wondered what had happened to the little prism, marveling at how useful it had ended up proving to be.
So, how does this story (journey rather) relate to the one I had already started? Please read on, and enrich your curiosity… my dear readers.
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Act 2
So, with apologies for my lengthy elucidation, but I now return you back to the garden party I was now attending on that warm fall day. But, as you will see, my prism story needed to be told in order to add a bit of flavor to what was about to unfold.
As I sat on the garden bench I formulated my plans. I should be able to acquire the main piece tonight at the Ball, I would have time this afternoon to retrieve my ever handy satchel and its array of tools and have it hidden at the spot I had already selected. It was perfect, located at the end of the path I had found, or rather the charming lady in the smart chiffon dress had found for me. A gas lamp would provide adequate light for my “lure”, and it led to a back wood where I could lead any victims away and liberate them of their valuables before making my escape. I rose, just enough time to walk my escape route, before setting up and then be dressed for the evening’s festivities. I looked around, I was alone now, my lady in white had disappeared, following her own course, whatever it may have been.
The Autumn Ball that evening was in full swing by the time I arrived. Being a cool fall day, most of the women were wearing long gowns and dresses, and that, for whatever the reason, usually meant they were decked out with more layers of jewelry than say , if it had been the middle of summer. In order to put my plan in action I need and intrinsic piece of the trap, a prism. The one I had once had was long ago lost, a minor pawn in a game to take a pair of princesses.
I knew exactly the type of prism required for my plan, and so began mingling amongst the guests with that in mind.
I started out by walking through to the chamber like ballroom where a full orchestra was starting to play. The first person I saw from the garden party was the little tramp who had been wearing the too tight satin tea dress. That dress had been replaced with a long silky gown, her gold jewelry replaced with emeralds; including a thin bracelet that had taken the place of the gold one that she had so obligingly dangled in my larcenous path. I decided to avoid her In principle, and in doing so spied someone quite interesting.
That someone was a pretty lady in a long velvet gown standing off to one side, idly watching the many dancers out on the floor. The dancing couples were forming an imagery of a rainbow coloured sea of slinky swirling gowns and with erupting fireworks of sparkling jewels, ignited by pair of immensely large chandeliers that hung over the dance floor, setting them off. I made my way, skirting the dance floor to reach her, my eyes on her jewels, which were making pretty fireworks of their own. I happened to walk up just as a waiter with a tray of drinks was passing by. Plucking off a drink I offered it to the lady with one hand, my other hand placed on her back as If to steady myself. She laughed prettily, and taking the drink I met her eyes, as she was focused on reaching and holding the glass in her slippery gloved hand, mine was on the ruby and diamond necklace. My hand behind her had flicked open the simple hook and eye clasp of the antique piece and was in the process of lifting it up and whisking it away from her throat. As I said a few words to her, I pocketed it, while also taking in the rest of her lovely figure and its shiny decorations, before biding adieu. She smiled, her pale bare neckline now quite glaringly extinguished of its fire.
It was about an hour later, after spotting, but unable to make inroads with several likely candidates, that I finally struck gold (figuratively). It came in the form of a young couple arguing between themselves in a far corner of the chamber. She was lecturing a rather handsome man in a tux, her jeweled fingers flying in his face. If she hadn’t been moving about in such an animated fashion as she lectured, I may not have even noticed her. But as it happened I did, especially noticeable was the sanctimonious lady’s wide jeweled bracelet that was bursting out in a rainbow of colorful flickers as her hand was emphatically waving, as her long gown of silk swished around with every movement she made. Perfect. I watched for a bit, and sure enough they moved off, the man heading for the patio leading outside, the wealthy girl following him, still giving him lashes with her tongue. I moved and managed to have her bump into me simply by stepping on the hemline of her long gown. For a few seconds I was the one on the receiving end of her wrath, but I took it like a man, I could see in the eyes of her tongue lashed husband, that he was grateful for the respite. I was also grateful; grateful for the quite wide, very shimmering, bracelet that I had removed from her wrist and now was residing in my pocket.
I began to leave the patio, but was stopped by a matronly lady in ruffles, laces and pearls, her breath heavy with alcohol. She started to question me on what the couple had been on about. Then without waiting for an answer she launched herself into a tirade of her own, her gem encrusted, silken gloved fingers, waving in my face for emphasis. It was almost ten minutes before I was able to make my escape. Which I did, but not before slipping off one of the lecturing ladies vulgarly large cocktail rings.
I headed onto the patio; the time was getting ripe for my plan, which I was now ready to put into motion, now having acquired its most essential piece. I went to the end of the large patio, weaving in and out of the by now well liquored guests whom had assembled there. Across the way I saw a lady tripping over her own gown. By the time I reached her she had fallen down, giggling merrily. Two of us rushed to her aid, she was busy gushed her thanks to the rescuer she knew, while ignoring the one she didn’t! Which was unfortunate on her part, for by ignoring me, she also was ignorant of the fact that I was busy lifting the small stands of black pearls from her wrist. I left unnoticed, much like a shadow fading out of the light, or at least that’s how it seemed. Finally I reached the patios outer edge without further incident, or gain. I went on the grass and turned a corner with the intention of going, post haste around the house to reach the gardens by the long way, hoping not to be seen by anyone. But I no sooner turned the corner, when I realized that it was not to be the case.
It was my blithe spirit in white chiffon from the garden party, pardon me, soiree. She was unescorted, looking up at the moon above a stone turret with one lit window, so intently that my presence had not been noticed. I had been absolutely correct in my observation of her as far as what she would be wearing for the evening. For what she had lacked in ornaments at the soiree, she had more than made up for in the evening festivities. She was absolutely gorgeous, resplendent in as beautiful a silvery satin gown that I had ever witness. It was just pouring down, shimmering along her delightful figure. Her long blazing red hair was still curling down and free, but now a pair of long chandelier earrings cascading down from her earlobes, were peeking out every now and then as they swayed with her every movement. Her blazingly rippling necklace was all diamonds, dripping down the front of her tightly satin covered bosom, twinkling iridescently like an intensively glimmering waterfall. Her slender gloved wrists were home to a pair of dangling diamond bracelets that were almost outshone by her many glistening rings. All in all she was quite a lure all too herself
I came up to her, starling her from her reverie. Taking up her hand, I looked into her startled, suddenly blushing face. I complimented her on the fine gown she wore. She thanked me, and I could see I that she suddenly remembered she me as the chap who she thought smiled to her in the garden. She seemed to accept my compliment quite readily. I chanced it( although Lord knows I was short on time) and asked her to a dance. I did not think she would agree, so it was with a little bit of surprise, hoping she would politely decline and walk off, leaving me free to go about my business unobserved. But she accepted, and I will admit that my heart leapt as she agreed (although in the back of my mind I knew I should be off if my plan was to work). The music had stopped so we made small talk as we slowly walked back to the ballroom. Her name was Katrina. It seems she was waiting for someone, which suited my plans, but he was late and so she had time. Which may have sounded dismissive, but from the apologetic way she said it, it was anything but the sort.
The orchestra started to tune back up as we entered, and taking her offered hand up, was soon lost in the elegance of my appealing partner. It was a long dance, and a formal one, but I could tell she was subtly anxious to be off on her meeting, as I was to be off to my own adventure. But Katrina did not really allow it to show, which was very uncharacteristic of her someone with her obvious breeding. So I was ready when the by the end of the music she begged her condolences and took flight. I watched her as she fluidly moved away, her jewels sparkling, all of them. On her mission to meet Mr. X I thought, for whom I was already harboring a quite jealous dislike. I should be off I thought to meself.
But I stood, still as stone; totally mesmerized by the way Katrina’s swirling silvery satin gown was playing out along her petite, jewel sparkling figure. It wasn’t till the last of her gown swished around a corner out of sight that I moved, but not without having to shake my head to clear the thoughts of her out of it. Well old son, focus. For by now the guests were starting to wander a bit afield in the waning hours of the Autumn Ball, and my small window of opportunity was closing fast. If my little plan was going to have any chance of success it would have to be now.
I walked out and made my way to one of the outside exist of the garden wall. Reaching into my pocket as I did so, fingering the bracelet, now cold, that had belonged to the quarrelsome lady,and soon would be playing another role, far from one its former mistress would ever have dreamed off. I also felt my new acquisition, still warm from my dance partner’s body. I will admit that I had felt a twinge of regret for taking it from a lady I had found to be most charmingly captivating. But slipping off the diamonds up and away from her throat had been as temptingly easy as it had been automatic. I had advantageously made use of the sleekness of her scintillatingly silky gown, and with the distractions created by the movements of the dance, successfully managed to keep Katrina’s attention safely diverted from the reality of why my fingers were ever so gently, caressingly sliding along her slippery gowns neckline. The truth was I had originally placed my hand there because it had felt so right, and I was a little startled when my fingers had subconsciously started playing with her necklaces clasp. Before I knew it, they had flicked open the gemstone clasp of her obviously expensive diamond necklace, and had lifted up. As I watched out of the corner of my eye, almost like I was a spectator, as opposed to being the perpetrator, I saw the chain move up and over her shoulder; its diamonds sparkling with is as the necklace disappeared from view behind her back.
It was a favored technique that I had perfected to the point that by this stage of my career I nearly always acquired my objective. But, as odd as it sounds, I was not happy with myself on this occasion.
But I did not long dwell on my mixed feelings on taking the charming lass’s diamonds, for by now I had reached my place of ambush. It was in one of the farthest reaches of the garden, at a bend on the end of a long path that, with a gas lamp at its beginning just off the patio, would allow me to see from some distance off. Behind me was a break in the hedge wide enough for a person to walk through comfortably. It was here, off a tree limb, underneath a second ornate cast iron gas lamp, which was now lit, that I hung the shimmering bracelet that I had sought out and acquired for just that reason
I walked around and saw that it could be seen flickered off in the distance from the woods, Perfect! Earlier I had hidden my satchel with a hood and knife and bit of rope in the hollow of an old tree. I now retrieved them, and after getting ready, found my position and waited. At 10 minutes past the first hour of my wait, with nary a single glimpse of anyone, I started to fidget. My corner may be just a bit too desolated I was beginning to admit to myself. It seemed that most of the guests were staying by the patio. I was starting to think that I should pack it in, possibly rejoining the guests for one last parting( of someone from her Jewelry). I was just reaching down to pick up my satchel when I suddenly saw something flash under the gas lamp at the beginning of the path, and my senses immediately perked up. I watched as the wisps of rich shimmery satin moved closer, I stiffened, drooling with anticipation, the game was afoot.
I could see clearly the flickering jewels she wore, and by their blazing sparkles of rippling fire, I knew that my long vigil would not have been in vain. As the lady drew I recognized her gown of silvery satin! I knew who was making those tantalizing flashes of appealing treasures. Katrina!
I watched as she approached, in all her glittering elegance. My heart and conscious was in turmoil, but I knew I probably would not get a second chance. I could not let her get away unscathed. Beside, from the shock of being confronted with a masked scoundrel wielding a wicked blade, she would be in no shape to recognize her assailant. She stopped, apprehensively looking back towards the bright lights of the Manor, Then turning back I saw she had a self-satisfied smile creeping upon her face. She reached up, and undoing her hair, shook it down, curls of softness cascading down, hanging loosely down. It was as she performed this provocative act, that I saw her eyes open wide in curiosity; she had spied my pretty little “prism”. The charming fish was hooked.
I waited, watching her approaching ever closer to fate, and from my concealment, I basked in her glow. My heart beating fast, my adrenaline pumping, for the remaining jewels (I thought of her necklace in my custody) that she possessed I already had witnessed were quite valuable. She passed my hiding spot and went to the hanging, shimmering object. As she reached up, looking around, she failed to see me approaching in the shadows. I came up from behind, jabbing a finger in her back as I reached her, I gruffly in no uncertain terms, snarled for her to freeze and make no sound. She stiffened under my touch, but made no move or outcry. I went around; pointing my knife in her direction, looking into her sad doe wide eyes as she realized what was going to happen next. She was trembling; from fear I guessed, and knew I had her right where I wanted. As I made my demands upon her, gimme them jewels sister, she, not surprisingly, was very compliant in giving them up to me. She reached for her necklace last, and looked entirely shocked to find her throat bare, as she searched the neckline of her gown I saw her look into my hand, now dripping with her precious jewelry, almost as if to see if she had not already removed it. She looked apologetically into my eyes, startled; almost pleading that she didn’t know what had happened to it. I just played dump. She than spoke for the first time, sir, may I ask to keep my purse? Her words would have instantly melted even the coldest chunk of ice, I looked down at the little silvery clutch hanging from her arm on its rhinestone chain, I nodded, indicating that she could, and saw relief wash over her face. I told her she now needed to turn around and walk off into the woods ahead of me. She hesitated, and I told her no harm would befall her, I had no intentions along those lines.
About 5 meters in I stopped her, and had her remove her shoes, as she bent over to undo the high heels rhinestone clasps I watched her gown tightly outlining her figure. She tripped on the hem of her gown, and as she attempted to keep her balance, accidently let her purse slip off her shoulder. Without thinking I reached down to pick it up for her as she tried reached for it simultaneously
The small purse was far heavier than it should have been. Curious I opened it, finding that it contained a rather extensive array of mismatched jewelry, glittering in unbelievably expensive fire . I looked into Katrina’s horror struck eyes dumb founded, as she looked guiltily into mine. The gig was up. The jewels belonged to the lady of the manor, my muse in silver was a thief, a female version of me very self.
Aye, what’s this than luv? I questioned her as she looked into my eyes, hers large with a mixture of fright and disbelief. She melted before me, fainting, I caught her in my arms, and it was no ruse. I held her as she came to, holding her warm, silky figure lovingly to mine. I did not know what to think. Nor could I ever explain what possessed me to do what I did next. As she came to, her eyes opened, and I removed my mask, looking back into them deeply.
Oh, she gasped, I’m glad it was you, startled that she had said the words out loud. She than started to coyly blushes, quite demurely. Something sparked in me, and unless she was an incredibly good actress, it did also for Katrina. Our eyes both looked into the others, melting away in the lust of the moment. We embraced, deeply, and I held her squirming warm slick figure tight in my enveloping arms. I looked over her shoulder, eyeing the glistening bracelet hanging from its branch. To catch a thief, the thought suddenly opened in my mind, what a great title for a novel I thought to myself, as I buried my nose into Katrina’s luxuriously soft hair.
We talked for a bit, walking off into the woods, then she looked into my eyes again, a coy, look that melted me on the spot, and that was the end of it, we embraced again, and wholly gave ourselves to one another. What about your man I asked suddenly remembering, my man she questioned , than oh, you mean the Lord, I was waiting for him to come down from smoking in his tower study, that’s where the lady’s jewels are kept. She broke into an Irish brogue as she said the last bit, and that I guessed was her natural tongue. she laid a hand on the side of my face, thanks for being jealous though, me lad.
I should collect my lure I said, which made her smile; it was such an enticing smile at that. We started to head back and watched as it dangled in front of us flickering. With a far off look in her green eyes, Katrina spoke as if in deep though.
The daughter of the house, she has a bracelet on like the one you have dangling, a bracelet of diamonds that I had taken a fancy to, wishing it had been in the safe along with the rest of the ladies of manors jewelry. I knew who she was talking about. The one in green taffeta I asked? Aye lad, that’s the one. Actually her necklace would be just as easy, and worth more I said. Just then her bright green eyes gleamed, Give me about a half an hour, she told me, we will put your little lure to use again. She noticed my hesitation, don’t worry luv she said soothingly placing a gloved hand to my cheek, no longer was it sparkly with its stolen bracelet and rings. I’ll leave my purse with you, can’t very well be carrying it around now can I? I nodded my consent, my mind burning with the thoughts she had alluringly placed there.
She turned, and then hesitated; turning back she said I probably should not go back in naked luv. I smiled, reaching in I pulled out her necklace and placed it around her throat. With a little gasp she blurted, so it was you, I was wondering who and when it had happened. It’s not the first time I’ve had me jewels lifted, but it’s a bloody annoyance to have to let them get away with it, crawls under my skin to have pretend not to notice so that I don’t draw any attention to me self before making my move to steal the posh ones jewels.
But you, mister, I never felt as much as a prickling. I was ready to assume my pretties had been a victim of a broken clasp this time. I gave a little nod in acceptance. That wasn’t exactly a compliment lad, she said in what I hopped was a subtle jest. Just last summer some clumsy bugger slipped of me earrings, my favorite pearls, as we were danc… she stopped, seeing the guilt in my eyes. Men! As thieves you are all of the same skin she spat out angrily, or attempted to sound angry, for the look in her eyes to me she wasn’t. I best be off, before I change me mind about out little endeavor.
With that she swirled around on her heels, and started off, but not before turning and giving me an extremely coy look of interest. As she swirled back around I heard her say loud enough for my ears, I’ll learn me self to be a picker of pockets, see how males like to be taken advantage of in their vulnerabilities! She nodded to herself as she said it. Then suddenly she stopped, than twirled on her heels, her gown swirling enticingly along her figure. Looking me dead in the eye she said, “Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie” !
What does that mean? I questioned in a low voice, perplexed.
Maybe, Mon Cheri, someday I will tell you… And with that she turned on her heel, her gown once again swirling about, and went, determinedly, swishing her way back up the path. I just watched. I had never heard anyone speak French with an Irish Brogue and I had found it to be rather provocative!
I watched as she swished and swayed her way back through the hedge and regained the path leading back to the manor. Her plan was simple; she would lead the daughter of the house to my corner and as she had done, go out with her to look at the swinging charm. I would then make my appearance, rob both ladies of their finery, and telling the daughter to wait until I released her friend, walk off with Katrina as a hostage, and we would both take off and make good our escape. A simple plan, so simple it should actually work.
So, there I was. Holding a purse with a small fortune in jewels, my pocket full of more jewels worth an additional pretty farthing, and her charms were wearing off by her leaving. And my thieving nature coming back, reawakened from the spell they had been under!
The devil of my conscious crept out on my shoulder, the angel markedly absent from the other.
Look mate, she may not be all she seems, and possibly has some other game in mind. Maybe she does have a male confidante helping her out… and was actually on her way to fetch him. He said in my inner ear. And, after all, you took her diamonds twice, didn’t ye now? Do you really think shell forgive you of that me lad?
And there is no honor amongst thieves, as the saying goes, he added as a closing argument...
I rolled it over in my mind…I could leave, absconding with it all, book a cruise to the states or down under where there lay untried fertile grounds to ply my trade. Not to mention working over my fellow passengers aboard the cruise ship while they attended the fancy affairs that were always going on, or so the brochures always seemed to show……
Then In the distance I caught a wisp of Katrina’s long silvery gown. She was coming, and not only with the daughter of the manor, but also with a spare. For I could see a purple coloured gown swishing alongside with the prey in rustling green taffeta.. I watched as all three ladies, resplendent with the rippling fiery gems they all possessed, came up the path, gowns sweeping out , shimmery from the now misty distance.
The thought of making my escape with all the loot continued to haunt me, there was still time now to take off without notice, or I could rob all three, and leave with purple silk as my hostage, Katrina would not be able to say anything on chance of giving up her part of the game, or I could just be a good lad and sty with the script that Katrina had written. Take a chance, roll the dice and believe that she was all she had me believing she could ever be.
As they came closer I knew my time was running out. The thoughts of just looking out for myself kept coming up playing the devil with my conscience as the precious seconds ticked away…
No honor amongst thieves…
What will it be, old boy I challenged myself,
What will you have it be?........
To see what his decision ultimately was, and the eventual path it led to, see the album question answered)
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Life is not about waiting out the storm, but about learning to dance in the rain.
Vie ne est pas d'attendre que la tempête , mais d'apprendre à danser sous la pluie .
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Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives
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A seemingly plain cube comes to life on the inside with each surface displaying an incredible garden of organic branching forms. This sculpture explores the concept of Laplacian growth and was created using a numerical model of 3D isotropic dendritic solidification. Laplacian growth is a structure which expands at a rate proportional to the gradient of a laplacian field. It can be seen in a myriad of systems, including crystal growth, dielectric breakdown, corals, Hele-Shaw cells, and random matrix theory.
Process
Form grown in software written by the Nervous System in Processing that simulates dendritic solidification. 3D-Printed via Selective Laser Sintering in nylon.
Seemingly abandoned in Lawrence, this bus is testimony to the over-confidence with which some people approach the arduous task of converting a vehicle into a house-bus. Many half-completed conversions are left in a deteriorating state of "Oh, I give up!"
The job is not for the faint-hearted or those on a shoestring budget!
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This particular Hino bus (first registered in 1977, IY3732) was originally owned by New Zealand Railways Road Services.
The first Hino vehicles purchased by NZR Road Services were 30 Emslie-bodied Hino BT51 coaches. These were followed by the Hino BG100, the first non-Bedford vehicle purchased by NZ Railways in large numbers since it standardised on Bedfords in the 1950s. 103 were purchased with a mix of NZMB and Emslie body work.
Emslie Consolidated was a South Dunedin bus builder, eventually taken over by New Zealand Motor Bodies (NZMB). Bodywork for many NZR Road Services' Bedford and Hino coaches were made by Emslie, as well as three different models of Dunedin City Transport buses.
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On the side of this bus can still be seen the word "coachlines": given that a previous owner post-NZR was Kinloch Strathmore Ltd of Christchurch, it's possible the signage may have read "Strathmore Coachlines" (which used to operate a Christchurch-Rangiora run).
This seemingly simple photo has a lot to talk about. To start, even though I framed Elsa on the edge of the frame I pointed the camera in such a way that she is pointing and looking into the camera. I was also fortunate to have the moon in frame a lot on this night which is always a fun element to include. Next up we must discuss those blue lights Disney uses everywhere yet again. In this scene they are bathed all over Anna, Elsa, all the plants beneath them and into the building and plans in the background. It’s all just so boring, lazy and overkill for the lighting.
Once again, I’ve colored corrected the scene. After an initial draft I decided to bring back the blue lighting at a lesser strength on Elsa as at least this makes sense. Finally, and unfortunately, there was a light just out of my frame in the upper right-hand corner that was causing some flaring across the scene. This is honestly an easy thing to deal with when shooting, as you can simply using your hand to block the light source and eliminate the flare. I thought I had done this but apparently, I did not do a very good job as when I got home, I realized that all 3 of my attempts to block the flare had failed. To be fair it’s very hard to see on the exposure before you start boosting the shadows but It’s still one of those things that is going to irritate me every time I look at this photo but I figured it’s a good teaching opportunity. So remember, you can use your hand to block flares and then just use an extra shot to mask the hand out eliminating the flare… but you to actually have your hand in the right spot to block the light source… lol. 😐 Ultimately, I did clean it up and reduce it significantly using frequency separation which is a really neat way to separate texture from color and work on them independently.
The seemingly massive island in the background is Besboro Island covered with what I think is called a lenticular cloud. It makes the island look much larger. Unalakleet is a busy fishing port in the summer, and the racks in the foreground are used to dry nets and fish.
Another of my (seemingly endless series of) shots from the wonderful Kataklo (an athletic dance theatre group from Italy) show from the 2006 Edinburgh Fringe.
I was extremely fortunate to be invited to photograph this show by Angella Kwon, the show's producer...and the timing was also perfect. I had only owned my Canon EOS-5D for around three months when this was taken, and many of the shots would not have been possible without this superb camera.
These skiers were one of the surreal highlights of a spactacular show.
Some of my Kataklo pics feature on the new CD (called 'Hold in the Sun') by Crooked Mouth which is my friend Ken Campbell's group. You can also hear some samples of their music at the Crooked Mouth myspace website. 10% of the cover price of each CD goes to support the work of Sight Savers International. The CD has just been reviewed by Classic Rock magazine and you can read it here: Let There Be (Prog) Rock!.
In addition, some of my photos from this show are now being used on the official Kataklo website.
Climbing the seemingly never-ending stairs of Fleshmarket Close I happened to glance upward and notice a ghost sign (one of many in Edinburgh) on the gable of one of the tenements advertising a former eatery/bar - now The Halfway House. Usually concentrating on the steps, I had never noticed this before.
Despite the seemingly endless stacks of books, the vendors know exactly where a copy of Stephen Covey's The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People is placed if you're looking for one.
Chowrasta Market, George Town, Penang.
PS: Believe it or not, I actually did capture a pile with the exact same book on top of it in another picture!
Leica M6 Millenium | Summicron 35mm f2 v4 | Kodak TMax 400
The seemingly mundane gesture of opening the tap to satisfy basic needs, such as drinking and hygiene, is almost never simple in Ethiopia's more remote and drought-affected areas.
© European Union/ECHO/Anouk Delafortrie
This was meant to take on the world this was, but sadly it didn’t get very far! The Rover 800 had so many possibilities, so many variants could have been derived from it, but unfortunately the management was once again very quick to nip this beautiful car in the bud, and the Rover 800 would join that long line of ‘what-could-have-been’ motors that seem to pave British motoring history.
The origin of the Rover 800 goes back to the late 1970’s, when nationalised British car manufacturer and all around general failure British Leyland was absolutely desperate to fix its seemingly endless list of problems. The company had now garnered a reputation for creating some of the worst, most outdated cars of all time, the likes of the Morris Marina, the Austin Allegro and the Triumph TR7 being derided in both critical and customer reviews. A mixture of strike action by uncontrollable Trade Unions led by the infamous Red Robbo had meant that cars were only put together for a few hours per day on a three day week. As such, reliability was atrocious on a biblical scale, be it mechanical, cosmetic or electrical.
As such, in 1979, British Leyland began talks with Japanese car manufacturer Honda to try and help improve the reliability of their machines. The pioneer of this brave new deal was the Triumph Acclaim of 1980, BL’s first reliable car and not a bad little runabout. Basically a rebadged Honda Ballade, the Acclaim wasn’t meant to set the world ablaze, but it certainly helped get the company back onto people’s driveways, selling reasonably well thanks to its reliable mechanics (even if rust was something of an issue). As such, BL decided that from now on it would give its fleet a complete overhaul, basing their new models on Japanese equivalents. From 1984, the Rover 200 arrived on the scene, again, a rebadged Honda Ballade, while the Maestro and the Montego ranges also took on several tips from their Japanese counterparts, though they were primarily based on British underpinnings.
The Rover 800 however spawned quite early on, in 1981 to be exact. Following the catastrophic failure of the Rover SD1 in the American market, which only sold 774 cars before Rover removed itself from the USA altogether, the company was desperate to get another foothold across the pond. As such, the new project, dubbed project XX, would be the icing on the cake in terms of British Leyland’s fleet overhaul, a smooth and sophisticated executive saloon to conquer the world. However, plans were pushed back after the launch of the Montego and the Maestro, and thus project XX wouldn’t see the light of day again until about 1984.
Still in production and suffering from being long-in-the-tooth, the Rover SD1 was now coming up on 10 years old, and though a sublime car in terms of style and performance, it was now struggling in sales. Rover really needed to replace this golden oldie, and thus project XX was back on. In the usual fashion, Honda was consulted, and it was decided that the car would be based on that company’s own executive saloon, the Honda Legend. Jointly developed at Rover’s Cowley plant and Honda’s Tochigi development centre, both cars shared the same core structure and floorplan, but they each had their own unique exterior bodywork and interior. Under the agreement, Honda would supply the V6 petrol engine, both automatic and manual transmissions and the chassis design, whilst BL would provide the 4-cylinder petrol engine and much of the electrical systems. The agreement also included that UK-market Honda Legends would be built at the Cowley Plant, and the presence of the Legend in the UK would be smaller than that of the Rover 800, with profits from the 800 shared between the two companies.
Launched on July 10th, 1986, the Rover 800 was welcomed with warm reviews regarding its style, its performance and its reliability. Though driving performance was pretty much the same as the Honda Legend, what put the Rover above its Japanese counterpart was its sheer internal elegance and beauty, combined with a differing external design that borrowed cues from the outgoing SD1. The 800 also provided the company with some much-needed optimism, especially following the gradual breakup of British Leyland by the Thatcher Government between 1980 and 1986.
Following her election in 1979, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher took a no nonsense attitude to the striking unions, and the best form of defence was attack. To shave millions from the deficit, she reduced government spending on nationalised companies such as British Airways, British Coal Board, British Steel and British Leyland by selling them to private ownership. For British Leyland, the slow breakup of the company started with the sale of Leyland Trucks and Buses to DAF of Holland and Volvo, respectively. 1984 saw Jaguar made independent and later bought by Ford, but when rumours circulated that the remains of British Leyland would be sold to foreign ownership, share prices crashed, and the company was privatised and put into the hands of British Aerospace on the strict understanding that the company could not be sold again for four years. With this move, British Leyland was renamed Rover Group, the Austin badge being dropped, and the only remaining brands left being the eponymous Rover and sporty MG.
In the light of this tumultuous period, many of Rover and MG’s projects had to be scrapped in light of turbulent share prices and income, these projects including the Austin AR16 family car range (based largely off the Rover 800) and the MG EX-E supercar. The Rover 800 however was the first model to be released by the company following privatisation, and doing well initially in terms of sales, hopes were high that the Rover 800 would herald the end of the company’s troubled spell under British Leyland. The Rover 800 was planned to spearhead multiple Rover ventures, including a return to the US-market in the form of the Sterling, and a coupe concept to beat the world, the sublime Rover CCV.
However, British Leyland may have been gone, but their management and its incompetence remained. Rather than taking the formation of Rover Group as a golden opportunity to clean up the company’s act, to the management it was business as usual, and the Rover 800 began to suffer as a consequence. A lack of proper quality control and a cost-cutting attitude meant that despite all the Japanese reliability that had been layered on these machines in the design stage, the cars were still highly unreliable when they left the factory.
Perhaps the biggest sentiment to the 800’s failure was the Sterling in America. The Sterling had been named as such due to Rover’s reputation being tarnished by the failure of the unreliable SD1. Initial sales were very promising with the Sterling, a simple design with oodles of luxury that was price competitive with family sedan’s such as the Ford LTD and the Chevy Caprice. However, once the problems with reliability and quality began to rear their heads, sales plummeted and the Sterling very quickly fell short of its sales quota, only selling 14,000 of the forecast 30,000 cars per annum. Sales dropped year by year until eventually the Sterling brand was axed in 1991.
With the death of the Sterling came the death of the CCV, a luxury motor that had already won over investors in both Europe and the USA. The fantastic design that had wooed the American market and was ready to go on sale across the States was axed unceremoniously in 1987, and with it any attempt to try and capture the American market ever again.
In 1991, Rover Group, seeing their sales were still tumbling, and with unreliable callbacks to British Leyland like the Maestro and Montego still on sale, the company decided to have yet another shakeup to try and refresh its image. The project, dubbed R17, went back to the company’s roots of grand old England, and the Rover 800 was the first to feel its touch. The R17 facelift saw the 800’s angular lines smoothed with revised light-clusters, a low-smooth body, and the addition of a grille, attempting to harp back to the likes of the luxurious Rover P5 of the 1960’s. Engines were also updated, with the previous M16 Honda engine being replaced by a crisp 2.0L T16, which gave the car some good performance. The car was also made available in a set of additional ranges, including a coupe and the sport Vitesse, complete with a higher performance engine.
Early reviews of the R17 800 were favourable, many critics lauding its design changes and luxurious interior, especially given its price competitiveness against comparable machines such as the Vauxhall Omega and the Ford Mondeo. Even Jeremy Clarkson, a man who fervently hated Rover and everything it stood for, couldn’t help but give it a good review on Top Gear. However, motoring critics were quick to point out the fact that by this time Honda was really starting to sell heavily in the UK and Europe, and people now asked themselves why they’d want to buy the Rover 800, a near carbon-copy of the Honda Legend, for twice the price but equal performance. Wood and leather furnishings are very nice, but not all motorists are interested in that, some are just interested in a reliable and practical machine to run around in.
As such, the Rover 800’s sales domestically were very good, it becoming the best-selling car in the UK for 1992, but in Europe not so much. Though Rover 800’s did make it across the Channel, the BMW 5-Series and other contemporary European models had the market sown up clean, and the Rover 800 never truly made an impact internationally. On average, the car sold well in the early 1990’s, but as time went on the car’s place in the market fell to just over 10,000 per year by 1995. Rover needed another shake-up, and the Rover 75 did just that.
In 1994, Rover Group was sold to BMW, and their brave new star to get the company back in the good books of the motoring public was the Rover 75, an executive saloon to beat the world. With this new face in the company’s showrooms, the Rover 800 and its 10 year old design was put out to grass following its launch in 1998. Selling only around 6,500 cars in its final full year of production, the Rover 800 finished sales in 1999 and disappeared, the last relic of the British Leyland/Honda tie up from the 1980’s.
Today the Rover 800 finds itself under a mixed reception. While some argue that it was the last true Rover before the BMW buyout, others will fervently deride it as a Honda with a Rover badge, a humiliation of a Rover, and truly the point where the company lost its identity. I personally believe it to be a magnificent car, a car with purpose, a car with promise, but none of those promises fulfilled. It could have truly been the face of a new Rover in the late 1980’s, and could have returned the company to the front line of the motoring world, at least in Britain. But sadly, management incompetence won again for the British motor industry, and the Rover 800 ended its days a lukewarm reminder that we really didn’t know a good thing until it was gone.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Bagnalls Coaches of Swadlincote have started undertaking Rail Replacement work for CrossCountry. Amongst their coaches are at least 3 former First Group Volvo B7TLs - this is former Bristol 32021. Seen here at Coleshill Parkway arriving for standby duties.
A seemingly brand-new Alfa Romeo parked in a cobbled yard, possibly the parking lot of an inn or hotel. Note the two-tone paintwork on the magnificent Italian saloon, registered with Belgian licence plates. I discovered this wonderful vintage photograph at Jaffa flea market.
Country of origin: Belgium
Seemingly the booked traction for the Westbury-Bescot tripper, 59003 is seen approaching Ryecroft Junction with 0M50 0713 Westbury Down T.C. to Bescot Up Engineers Sdgs
This was meant to take on the world this was, but sadly it didn’t get very far! The Rover 800 had so many possibilities, so many variants could have been derived from it, but unfortunately the management was once again very quick to nip this beautiful car in the bud, and the Rover 800 would join that long line of ‘what-could-have-been’ motors that seem to pave British motoring history.
The origin of the Rover 800 goes back to the late 1970’s, when nationalised British car manufacturer and all around general failure British Leyland was absolutely desperate to fix its seemingly endless list of problems. The company had now garnered a reputation for creating some of the worst, most outdated cars of all time, the likes of the Morris Marina, the Austin Allegro and the Triumph TR7 being derided in both critical and customer reviews. A mixture of strike action by uncontrollable Trade Unions led by the infamous Red Robbo had meant that cars were only put together for a few hours per day on a three day week. As such, reliability was atrocious on a biblical scale, be it mechanical, cosmetic or electrical.
As such, in 1979, British Leyland began talks with Japanese car manufacturer Honda to try and help improve the reliability of their machines. The pioneer of this brave new deal was the Triumph Acclaim of 1980, BL’s first reliable car and not a bad little runabout. Basically a rebadged Honda Ballade, the Acclaim wasn’t meant to set the world ablaze, but it certainly helped get the company back onto people’s driveways, selling reasonably well thanks to its reliable mechanics (even if rust was something of an issue). As such, BL decided that from now on it would give its fleet a complete overhaul, basing their new models on Japanese equivalents. From 1984, the Rover 200 arrived on the scene, again, a rebadged Honda Ballade, while the Maestro and the Montego ranges also took on several tips from their Japanese counterparts, though they were primarily based on British underpinnings.
The Rover 800 however spawned quite early on, in 1981 to be exact. Following the catastrophic failure of the Rover SD1 in the American market, which only sold 774 cars before Rover removed itself from the USA altogether, the company was desperate to get another foothold across the pond. As such, the new project, dubbed project XX, would be the icing on the cake in terms of British Leyland’s fleet overhaul, a smooth and sophisticated executive saloon to conquer the world. However, plans were pushed back after the launch of the Montego and the Maestro, and thus project XX wouldn’t see the light of day again until about 1984.
Still in production and suffering from being long-in-the-tooth, the Rover SD1 was now coming up on 10 years old, and though a sublime car in terms of style and performance, it was now struggling in sales. Rover really needed to replace this golden oldie, and thus project XX was back on. In the usual fashion, Honda was consulted, and it was decided that the car would be based on that company’s own executive saloon, the Honda Legend. Jointly developed at Rover’s Cowley plant and Honda’s Tochigi development centre, both cars shared the same core structure and floorplan, but they each had their own unique exterior bodywork and interior. Under the agreement, Honda would supply the V6 petrol engine, both automatic and manual transmissions and the chassis design, whilst BL would provide the 4-cylinder petrol engine and much of the electrical systems. The agreement also included that UK-market Honda Legends would be built at the Cowley Plant, and the presence of the Legend in the UK would be smaller than that of the Rover 800, with profits from the 800 shared between the two companies.
Launched on July 10th, 1986, the Rover 800 was welcomed with warm reviews regarding its style, its performance and its reliability. Though driving performance was pretty much the same as the Honda Legend, what put the Rover above its Japanese counterpart was its sheer internal elegance and beauty, combined with a differing external design that borrowed cues from the outgoing SD1. The 800 also provided the company with some much-needed optimism, especially following the gradual breakup of British Leyland by the Thatcher Government between 1980 and 1986.
Following her election in 1979, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher took a no nonsense attitude to the striking unions, and the best form of defence was attack. To shave millions from the deficit, she reduced government spending on nationalised companies such as British Airways, British Coal Board, British Steel and British Leyland by selling them to private ownership. For British Leyland, the slow breakup of the company started with the sale of Leyland Trucks and Buses to DAF of Holland and Volvo, respectively. 1984 saw Jaguar made independent and later bought by Ford, but when rumours circulated that the remains of British Leyland would be sold to foreign ownership, share prices crashed, and the company was privatised and put into the hands of British Aerospace on the strict understanding that the company could not be sold again for four years. With this move, British Leyland was renamed Rover Group, the Austin badge being dropped, and the only remaining brands left being the eponymous Rover and sporty MG.
In the light of this tumultuous period, many of Rover and MG’s projects had to be scrapped in light of turbulent share prices and income, these projects including the Austin AR16 family car range (based largely off the Rover 800) and the MG EX-E supercar. The Rover 800 however was the first model to be released by the company following privatisation, and doing well initially in terms of sales, hopes were high that the Rover 800 would herald the end of the company’s troubled spell under British Leyland. The Rover 800 was planned to spearhead multiple Rover ventures, including a return to the US-market in the form of the Sterling, and a coupe concept to beat the world, the sublime Rover CCV.
However, British Leyland may have been gone, but their management and its incompetence remained. Rather than taking the formation of Rover Group as a golden opportunity to clean up the company’s act, to the management it was business as usual, and the Rover 800 began to suffer as a consequence. A lack of proper quality control and a cost-cutting attitude meant that despite all the Japanese reliability that had been layered on these machines in the design stage, the cars were still highly unreliable when they left the factory.
Perhaps the biggest sentiment to the 800’s failure was the Sterling in America. The Sterling had been named as such due to Rover’s reputation being tarnished by the failure of the unreliable SD1. Initial sales were very promising with the Sterling, a simple design with oodles of luxury that was price competitive with family sedan’s such as the Ford LTD and the Chevy Caprice. However, once the problems with reliability and quality began to rear their heads, sales plummeted and the Sterling very quickly fell short of its sales quota, only selling 14,000 of the forecast 30,000 cars per annum. Sales dropped year by year until eventually the Sterling brand was axed in 1991.
With the death of the Sterling came the death of the CCV, a luxury motor that had already won over investors in both Europe and the USA. The fantastic design that had wooed the American market and was ready to go on sale across the States was axed unceremoniously in 1987, and with it any attempt to try and capture the American market ever again.
In 1991, Rover Group, seeing their sales were still tumbling, and with unreliable callbacks to British Leyland like the Maestro and Montego still on sale, the company decided to have yet another shakeup to try and refresh its image. The project, dubbed R17, went back to the company’s roots of grand old England, and the Rover 800 was the first to feel its touch. The R17 facelift saw the 800’s angular lines smoothed with revised light-clusters, a low-smooth body, and the addition of a grille, attempting to harp back to the likes of the luxurious Rover P5 of the 1960’s. Engines were also updated, with the previous M16 Honda engine being replaced by a crisp 2.0L T16, which gave the car some good performance. The car was also made available in a set of additional ranges, including a coupe and the sport Vitesse, complete with a higher performance engine.
Early reviews of the R17 800 were favourable, many critics lauding its design changes and luxurious interior, especially given its price competitiveness against comparable machines such as the Vauxhall Omega and the Ford Mondeo. Even Jeremy Clarkson, a man who fervently hated Rover and everything it stood for, couldn’t help but give it a good review on Top Gear. However, motoring critics were quick to point out the fact that by this time Honda was really starting to sell heavily in the UK and Europe, and people now asked themselves why they’d want to buy the Rover 800, a near carbon-copy of the Honda Legend, for twice the price but equal performance. Wood and leather furnishings are very nice, but not all motorists are interested in that, some are just interested in a reliable and practical machine to run around in.
As such, the Rover 800’s sales domestically were very good, it becoming the best-selling car in the UK for 1992, but in Europe not so much. Though Rover 800’s did make it across the Channel, the BMW 5-Series and other contemporary European models had the market sown up clean, and the Rover 800 never truly made an impact internationally. On average, the car sold well in the early 1990’s, but as time went on the car’s place in the market fell to just over 10,000 per year by 1995. Rover needed another shake-up, and the Rover 75 did just that.
In 1994, Rover Group was sold to BMW, and their brave new star to get the company back in the good books of the motoring public was the Rover 75, an executive saloon to beat the world. With this new face in the company’s showrooms, the Rover 800 and its 10 year old design was put out to grass following its launch in 1998. Selling only around 6,500 cars in its final full year of production, the Rover 800 finished sales in 1999 and disappeared, the last relic of the British Leyland/Honda tie up from the 1980’s.
Today the Rover 800 finds itself under a mixed reception. While some argue that it was the last true Rover before the BMW buyout, others will fervently deride it as a Honda with a Rover badge, a humiliation of a Rover, and truly the point where the company lost its identity. I personally believe it to be a magnificent car, a car with purpose, a car with promise, but none of those promises fulfilled. It could have truly been the face of a new Rover in the late 1980’s, and could have returned the company to the front line of the motoring world, at least in Britain. But sadly, management incompetence won again for the British motor industry, and the Rover 800 ended its days a lukewarm reminder that we really didn’t know a good thing until it was gone.
Always the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas, even if I am not there, it is where I will always wish to be.
Like everything else in life, memory is not perfect. It is not even neat and orderly. It is messy like life itself. Over time, the things that we once did in everyday life diminish to specks and events of varying importance. But those elements can fade to become impossible to prioritize, even in retrospect. Seemingly significant meetings are sometimes reduced in our memories to chance encounters only to become barely noticed details. Some less meaningful events can emerge as clearly influential moments. Time will enhance some memories and dull the focus on others.
My memory of my father’s father serves up an ideal that continues to be difficult to live up to. He was an example to aspire to be like. I always have that in mind. Always. What better legacy could a man leave on this earth?
Riding with my grandfather in his car on a Sunday afternoon in 1960, I remembered that my grandmother said he had once declined the offer of a live chicken for his services. He accepted some eggs instead. She said my grandfather “cut many heads for free” when people were down on their luck. He would trade a haircut and a shave for some bacon or some fresh eggs or butter, some shelled pecans or even for just a promise. Her reveal of his generosity involved admiration but with a dash of frustration on top. I think Grandma liked to eat and worried more than Grandpa about how they would keep doing so. Of course, I just thought it would have been great to have a live chicken around the house. I was a city kid.
The upholstery of a car made in the 1950s had an odor like old, hot, dry foam rubber and a dirty shirt. Maybe it was the heat of Texas summers that brought out such a smell. There was no air conditioning. Everybody looked for shade and a cool drink or they went for a drive to enjoy air that was in motion. The only way to enjoy air in motion during a Texas summer is to put it in motion once the sun is going down. Texas summer air is heavy, moist and as still as a corpse.
My grandfather drove out to a farmhouse where a man was sick and unable to come to him. Not only did he wear his Sunday suit with a white shirt and tie, he always wore a hat. His hats were lightweight and stylish looking. Clearly, he was unaware of hats being in or out of style. He just liked his hats. The inside of his hats always smelled like the flower flavored hair tonic he splashed on me after cutting my hair. I liked Rosewater the best. It smelled like roses and cotton candy which, to this day, I consider an unbeatable combo in the smell department. He always waited until after Sunday “dinner” to visit his shut-ins. In places other than Texas, it is my experience that Sunday “dinner” is usually referred to as “lunch”, although it might be considered by some to be a late lunch.
More times than could be counted, my grandfather would give a shave and a haircut to a man who was dying in his own bed in the farmhouse of a cotton farm. This was almost always a man that Grandpa had known for many years. Grandpa said that a shave would especially make a man feel clean and normal for a minute, even in the face of the worst sickness. I have not forgotten. I will not forget.
Our arrival was always uncomfortable to me even if I had been there before. But it never seemed so for him and never for the family at the farmhouse. Peoples’ comfort with my grandfather was always evident. He was an easy man to be around. There were almost always young kids in dirty clothes, holding broken toys. Farm dogs and other farm animals almost always came to greet us…except the cows. Cows were always busy chewing. Some cows would look up, but always continued chewing. This is where I formed the unshakable opinion that cows are stupid.
Talk was always of the weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. None of this was remotely interesting to a kid like me. All I wanted to do was go outside to play baseball and escape the stale smell of sick.
Before going outside to play with kids or animals, I would always watch my grandfather’s preparation for the shave. Even when his preparations became familiar to me, it was a show worth watching. It included easy conversation and easier smiles. My grandfather did not even come close to noticing such trivial things as odors. It is now clear to me that this was simply lack of acknowledgement by him. My grandfather usually opened the window in the bedroom, whether it was the freezing cold of winter or the stifling heat of a Texas summer Sunday. It always surprised me when he would do this. It seemed bold to open someone’s window in their own house. The sick man never appeared to be surprised when my grandfather opened the window. I am now certain that the sick man was busy thinking about important things and opening a window was not an important thing.
From a huge, very experienced leather bag, Grandpa pulled out both manual and electric clippers, scissors, towels, a shaving kit with cup and brush, a straight razor and a long, wide leather strap. There seemed to be other things he took out and never used. Taking things out of that worn leather bag was an essential part of the show. The oxygen mask and tubing to the huge tanks were temporary inconveniences. My grandfather moved masks, tubes or any other medical equipment with confidence, as if he was also a doctor and it was clear that it was best to set these things aside for a few minutes. And so it was.
Left over in my memory is a pungent, cloudy, stinging smell of tobacco…both stale smoke and the smell of moist chewing tobacco in a spittoon in the corner. As awful as the smell of stale smoke can be, the sight and smell of a spit-stained copper spittoon was worse than the sick smell of any dying man’s farmhouse bedroom.
A few times the sick man for that Sunday afternoon was barely awake and appeared unaware of what was happening. After one such shave and when we were back in his car, I asked my grandfather if he had ever shaved a dead man. Whether they ask or not, these are always the questions that occur to a young boy. In the manner that defines my memory of my grandfather, he thought for a minute until I finally looked away from him. There was no surprise on his face as he considered his answer. Once he sensed me looking away, he said, “Many times.” When I looked immediately back at his face there was no more information or reaction available on that spectacular comment. When I asked, “What was that like?”, the only response was talk of weather, the crops, people at church and the price of everything imaginable. As wholly unsatisfying as it was at the time, I can now appreciate that my grandfather was a particularly thoughtful, kind and good man. Having now read extensively about his experiences in Europe during WWI, I am confident that my grandfather saw things and knew things that should not ever be told to any young boy. They never were.
The alternating slow and fast slap of the razor being honed on the long leather strap is an audio and visual memory that I consider to be wonderfully unique. Very few things smell as fresh and clean as shaving cream mixed by hand with a stiff horsehair brush. It smells like creamy, fresh soap, but man-soap. No flower perfume smells are involved. My grandfather was sure and unhesitant in his actions. He always appeared to me to be as comfortable as if he was in his barbershop. His clear intent and knowledge is a comforting memory. The shaving cream was whipped in a heavy, white glass cup with a stiff brush. It felt right for him to mix it himself rather than succumb to the convenience of an aerosol can of creamed soap. It was all part of the experience that he offered. All his movements felt so right and they still do.
The sick man’s wife usually brought in a teakettle full of boiling-hot water. She poured the steaming water over a fresh, white towel that Grandpa had brought from the leather bag. The sick man always smiled when Grandpa put that steamy towel over his face so only his nose and mouth showed. I was always the only one in the room to flinch at the sight and conjured feeling of such heat on my own face. Even the barely awake sick men smiled. The clear pleasure of such an act always struck me as odd, until I was grown.
I can now ponder the trust issues involved with allowing a man to scrape the skin of your face with an amazingly sharp razor. It was not a matter of submission for a sick man to allow my grandfather to do such a thing. There was trust. This truth is clear to me now and it was good.
About that time, my thoughts usually returned to me being the one playing baseball with friends as the sunlight comes and goes through the puffy white clouds of a late spring afternoon in Texas. Hair was trimmed and oiled. The comb and rosewater tonic finished the job.. The temperature, smell and feeling of the room were changed. Things were a little bit better for a while. The dark cloud that had been covering hope was blown away for a few moments. My grandfather did some important things in his life.
I never saw any money, eggs, bacon, live chickens or anything else change hands in these times. But I always saw smiles and handshakes exchanged. It always smelled wonderful, like a barbershop when we left…like my grandfather’s barbershop.
Dunnottar Castle (Scottish Gaelic: Dùn Fhoithear, "fort on the shelving slope") is a ruined medieval fortress located upon a rocky headland on the northeastern coast of Scotland, about 3 kilometres (1.9 mi) south of Stonehaven. The surviving buildings are largely of the 15th and 16th centuries, but the site is believed to have been fortified in the Early Middle Ages. Dunnottar has played a prominent role in the history of Scotland through to the 18th-century Jacobite risings because of its strategic location and defensive strength. Dunnottar is best known as the place where the Honours of Scotland, the Scottish crown jewels, were hidden from Oliver Cromwell's invading army in the 17th century. The property of the Keiths from the 14th century, and the seat of the Earl Marischal, Dunnottar declined after the last Earl forfeited his titles by taking part in the Jacobite rebellion of 1715. The castle was restored in the 20th century and is now open to the public.
The ruins of the castle are spread over 1.4 hectares (3.5 acres), surrounded by steep cliffs that drop to the North Sea, 50 metres (160 ft) below. A narrow strip of land joins the headland to the mainland, along which a steep path leads up to the gatehouse. The various buildings within the castle include the 14th-century tower house as well as the 16th-century palace. Dunnottar Castle is a scheduled monument, and twelve structures on the site were listed buildings.
A roadside stop along the Sterling Hwy heading to Homer AK. Here I visualized the setting with the grassy field in the foreground and mountain view behind it. The clouds seemingly allowed for a quick peak of each peak as they mingled amongst them.
Seemingly Jet throughout Streetview here but I suspect it was Harvest branded for some time in between two Jet eras. Partly because it's an Ascona site and several others have gone through this branding pattern, and also there's an image of it as Harvest on Google. Shame no-one caught that era on here.
www.google.co.uk/maps/@51.7444574,-0.7344414,3a,75y,64.94...
A seemingly out of place cantilever signal bridge complete with inoperative signals, guards the former Pere Marquette carferry apron in Port Huron, MI. Nearby are the former Pere Marquette depot and P-M RR bridge over the Black River. In looking at the area, it was evident that the P-M/C&O Port Huron yard was once located here. Need Mr. Peabody's way-back machine you know.
A seemingly endless number of grapevine rows basking in the warm California sun are identified by red plastic tags in the Artesa Winery in the Napa Valley outside the town of Napa. Owned by the Raventos family of Spain, the vineyard is called the Jewel of Carneros.
The renowned Napa Valley of California is really very beautiful with its grapevine covered slopes. While there were many vineyards in the area, we punched the location of one into our GPS and drove to the entranceway to the Aresa Vineyard and Winery on our way back from Napa. In the far distance, sounds of people having fun drifted to us from the far hill where the winery was located. While I took many shots of carefully laid out trellises covering the hills, I was able to actually walk amongst the grape vines to take some of these close-up shots… and learned that the post at the head of each row has a tag to identify it. These grapes were not yet ripe and I understand that they will be harvested between September and November.
(IMG_5145)
© Stephen L. Frazier - All material in my photo stream may NOT be reproduced, copied, edited, published, transmitted or uploaded in any way without my permission. My photos are Copyrighted "Stephen L. Frazier" and All Rights Reserved.
There is something strangely compelling about the paradox. That weird combination of aspects that clearly don't belong together but yet are held so in some ongoing, seemingly unresolved tension. One of the best examples of this was surely penned by Charles Dickens, who opened his novel with these most famous of words:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.
Such paradoxes can exist naturally too, of course, and last weekend I was privileged to be able to spend an hour and a half in the wee small hours of the night basking in one such display: the clouds that shine at night. Hanging over West Bay at Portush was the most glorious display of noctilucent clouds that I have ever seen, all on show in the most splendid of locations with the bay in the foreground, the lights of the sleeping town in the middle, and the still glowing embers of those most tenacious of June sunsets still tracing the line of the horizon hours after the sun had finally set. But it was the night-glowing clouds themselves that stole the show, their enigmatic glow drawing me in, capturing me in their compelling spell.
But how to explain this strange paradox? How is it that noctilucent clouds can glow bright all throughout the night?
These clouds are the highest that can form in our atmosphere, suspending some 50 miles high, in the the last few miles of what can properly be called our atmosphere and before space proper begins. At such elevations, the sun that has set below our horizon still shines obliquely up over the horizon, lighting these whispy tendrils from below.
The mystery still remains, however. For the conditions for the formation of these clouds are still not known for certain. Where does the water vapour come from? The mesosphere is exceedingly dry, a hundred million times drier than the Saraha desert. Theories suggest sources such as water vapour escaping up through gaps in the tropopause, before being wafted aloft by atmospheric gravity waves. The ice crystals from which they are formed are a tiny 1/10,000mm in diameter; but at the extremely low pressures of the mesosphere, ice will only form when temperatures are below -123°C. Paradoxically, the temperatures here are only this low during the summer months. Ice will also only form if it has nuclei around which to crystalise. In the lower atmosphere, this are often particles of dust from below. But this high, in the mesosphere, where does the dust come from? Some suggest that the dust may be the last remains of thousands of tiny meteroids, space rocks that burnt up quickly as they entered our upper atmosphere, scattering their last dusty residue across the skies of the mesosphere.
But we just don't know for certain. And that seems entirely appropriate, in a sense. Although the scientist in me wants to discover the explanations, the artist in me is actually quite happy that these enigmatic clouds that glow in the dark retain something of their air of mystery. After all, I like a good paradox as much as the next man.
This is a 3 shot vertical stitched pano shot with my trusty 50mm prime. Feel free to view large to enjoy the detail just waiting to be explored.
Seemingly detached from its body, the head and neck of this partially submerged Double-crested Cormorant has a snake-like profile. The ripples of the water and the reflection of the clouds, aquatic plants, and cormorant each contribute to this image’s interesting texture.
Location: Green Cay Nature Center and Wetlands, Florida, United States of America
Seemingly as a photographer, I come across many strangers with cameras; I think that it's an unspoken language that we are sometimes interested in the pictures another is taking. With that being said, while I was out shooting pictures on a chilly February eve I came across this old man standing in the middle of the 100 Block on State Street. I walked up cautiously, as it was late I didn't want to startle him: As I admired his wide angle lens on the camera, I caught a glimpse as he pulled his eye from the viewfinder and his LCD was exposed. Catching the low-light street, with the capitol and light trails included; it was a great opportunity to be had. Lucky for the both of us traffic was at a minimum so we began to chat, and I learned my strangers name was Gerald.
Gerald had gotten out of the Overture Center not long ago, there was a speaker who just happened to be a photojournalist for National Geographic. I was disappointed only for a moment, but was happy to find that Gerald too was an accomplished photographer. Having his works published in the likes of National Geographic and Audubon among the better known works. While it was chilly and I didn't want to keep him from capturing pictures, I explained the (608)strangers project. Easily agreeing, we needed only four photographs to get the exposure right. We moved out of the way of a passing bus and exchanged business cards, he continued forth with his night; but I was far too cold to continue.
A successful encounter for the 100 strangers group, which it seems I have been quiet from for a while. Lacking an inspiration to write up my encounters, I hope that posting this photo will get me back on the right path.
169/100
Seemingly having benefitted from a recent repaint, this GE makes for a fine roster shot. The same could not be said however for the trailing unit!
Seemingly rising up through the trees is the steeple for the Westminster UPC in Upper St. Clair PA. Looks can be deceiving. It appears this church sits in a rural setting, but actually this is a relatively populated suburban area. Taken from the Gilfillan farm trail.
Seemingly quite a rare bird around here. It's only the 2nd one I've ever seen, and the only one I've gotten a pic of. It was rather dark out when I took this. Here's a great pic of one by Tony!
Seemingly abandoned storefront in Peoria, Illinois. The sign says "Photos, by appt. only" but it also says "Clothes" and "Books".
Now seemingly in the minority compared to new liveries, the sole old liveried 10 plate Spare was seen helping out on Yellows, since they need a good number of spares daily following repaints of a few of the 61 plates which previously graced the route...
989 approaches Victoria Centre with a 68 from Snape Wood, Bulwell and Basford.
At the Louvre, seemingly underground in a Pharaoh's tomb. January 2015.
The sphinx is a fabulous creature with the body of a lion and the head of a king. This one was successively inscribed with the names of the pharaohs Ammenemes II (12th Dynasty, 1929-1895 BC), Merneptah (19th Dynasty, 1212-02 BC) and Shoshenq I (22nd Dynasty, 945-24 BC). According to archaeologists, certain details suggest that this sphinx dates to an earlier period - the Old Kingdom (c. 2600 BC).
This is one of the largest sphinxes outside of Egypt. It was found in 1825 among the ruins of the Temple of Amun at Tanis (the capital of Egypt during the 21st and 22nd dynasties). This impressive stone sculpture with its precise details and polished surfaces is a work of admirable craftsmanship. The recumbent lion, with tense body and outstretched claws, gives the impression of being ready to leap. The shen hieroglyph sculpted on the plinth under each paw evokes a cartouche, confirming the royal nature of the monument.
Some City churches seem to be open, if not all the time, then frequently. But others rarely seem to open their doors to visitors. Then there are those who seemingly don't want anyone to see inside their wonderful buildings. Which is more than a shame, really. These houses of God should be for everyone, not just the custodians.
Saying that, I must take another opportunity to thank The Friends of the City churches, and the time given by their volunteers who give up their time to ensure that these are open at least one day a week.
So, in the past two years, I think I have visited all of the churches that they are keyholders for, and so without this fine organisation, I would not have seen inside many of them.
St Benet's is open between 11:00 and 15:00 on Thursdays, and despite wondering whether it would be open as advertised, the greeters assured me it is open each and every Thursday.
St Benet's is unique in that I think I am right in saying that it is the only City Wren church that survived the Blitz undamaged. In which case, Wren would reconise this church, over all others he helped rebuild after the great fire in 1666.
It is now situated tucked in the corner of an off ramp of Queen Victoria Street, and the pedestrian has to walk through an unwelcoming subway to get to the door, which on this occasion was open.
I was greeted warmly, and given a tour of the history of the church, plus tips on visiting other churches. A wonderful visit and a fine church.
----------------------------------------------------
The Church of St Benet Paul's Wharf is a Welsh Anglican church in the City of London. Since 1556, it has also been the official church of the College of Arms in which many officers of arms have been buried. In 1666 it was destroyed in the Great Fire of London, after which it was rebuilt and merged with nearby St Peter's. The current church was designed by Sir Christopher Wren.[1] It is one of only four churches in the City of London to escape damage during World War II.
St. Benet's traces its history back to the year 1111, when a church was built on the site and dedicated to St Benedict. Over time the name was abbreviated to St. Benet. To the west of the site was the watergate of Baynard's Castle, which is referenced in the biographies of Queen Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey. Both the church and the castle were destroyed in the Great Fire of 1666. It was rebuilt by the architect Christopher Wren, and reopened in 1683.
St Benet Paul's Wharf, London, taken from the top of nearby St Paul's Cathedral. Visible behind the church is the City of London School.
On 2 March 1706, Henrietta Hobart married Charles Howard, 9th Earl of Suffolk, a captain in the 6th (Inniskilling) Dragoons there. (Henrietta Howard subsequently became mistress to the future King George II.)[2]
The church was narrowly saved from destruction in the late 19th century, when its parish was merged with that of St Nicholas Cole Abbey. After an energetic campaign by its supporters, it was preserved and reconsecrated in 1879 as the London Church of the Church in Wales.[3] It is now the City's Welsh church, with services conducted in Welsh.[4]
In 2008 the church was closed for a few months due to a "dwindling congregation"[5] but reopened in time for the carol service in December that year. Welsh services are held weekly on Sundays at 11 a.m and 3.30 p.m and the church can be toured on Thursdays between 11 a.m and 3 p.m.
The church is of dark red brick, with alternate courses of Portland stone at the corners. The tower is situated to the north-west of the nave and is capped by a small lead dome, lantern and simple short spire.
The interior is almost a square. Unusually for a Wren church, the ceiling is flat rather than domed or curved. The north gallery was formerly used by the Doctors' Commons, and is now used by the College of Arms. Most of the original 17th century furnishings are still intact, including the magnificent altar table, reredos and pulpit, designed by Grinling Gibbons. The lectern and baptismal font are also original.[7]
The galleries are supported by Corinthian columns. There is a memorial to Inigo Jones, who was buried in the previous church, and a medallion bust of Sir Robert Wyseman, a benefactor of St Benet's who died in 1684.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Benet%27s,_Paul%27s_Wharf
A church has been on this site since 1111. Destroyed in the Great Fire, the present church was built by Wren and Hooke (possibly owing more to the latter) between 1677 and 1683. It was one of only four Wren churches to escape damage in the Second Word War but was vandalised in 1971: repaired and reopened in 1973. It has a long-standing connection with the College of Arms across the road. Also since 1879 the church has accommodated the Welsh Episcopalian congregation in London. It is therefore sometimes known as “the Welsh church”, though that is a misnomer. Paul’s Wharf was the wharf on the Thames from which stone and other building materials were conveyed for the Wren reconstruction of St Paul’s cathedral.
www.london-city-churches.org.uk/Churches/StBenetPaulsWhar...
There has been a church on this site, dedicated to St Benet (or Benedict), since the Twelfth Century.
Shakespeare refers to it in Twelfth Night: Feste, the Clown asking Duke Orsino to add a third to the two coins he is offering reminds him: “...the bells of St Bennet, sir, may put you in mind -– one, two, three.”
In the Sixteenth Century, because the watergate of Baynard’s Castle was close by, both Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey may have received the last rites at St Benet on their way to execution at the Tower. The River Thames was, of course, an important thoroughfare at the time and the unlucky women could have completed their journey by boat.
St Benet is the only unaltered Wren church in the City. All but four were damaged in the Second World War and the other three either suffered the effects of an IRA bomb or have been restored.
The royal connection continued with Charles II having a special door at the side of the building and a private room from which he could take part in services. The Stuart arms can be seen above the west door marking the vantage point from which the king observed proceedings below.
Until 1867 St Benet was the parish church of Doctors Commons, a legal institution which, among its other activities, could provide facilities for hasty marriages. There is a record, for instance, of some 1300 weddings taking place in one year alone in the Eighteenth Century.
In 1747, Henry Fielding, the author of Tom Jones, Joseph Andrews and Shamela, married his second wife here.
In 1879 Queen Victoria removes St Benet from the list of churches to be demolished and grants the use of the church to the Welsh Anglicans for services.
The Officers of the College of Arms still have their own seats in St Benet’s and their personal banners hang from the gallery together with that of the Duke of Norfolk. At least 25 Officers are buried here.
In the 1870s the church was regarded as redundant and scheduled for demolition. Eminent Welsh Anglicans petitioned Queen Victoria to be allowed to use the building for services in Welsh. In 1879, Her Majesty granted the right to hold Welsh services here in perpetuity and this has continued ever since, with a service each Sunday morning.
In 1954, in the reorganisation of the City churches and parishes, St Benet became one of the City Guild churches as well as the Metropolitan Welsh Church.
The eminent composer Meirion Williams was the church organist in the 1960s and 1970s. As well as a Mass, Missa Cambrensis, he wrote a number of other works, including songs which are particular favourites of contemporary Welsh opera singers.
In 1971 a fire started by a vagrant damaged the north side of the church. During the repair work, necessitated mainly by smoke and heat damage, the Nineteenth Century organ was moved and rebuilt in its present (and original) position in the west gallery. When the church was reopened in May 1973, the congregation received a message from the Prince of Wales and trumpeters from the Royal Welsh Regiment blew a fanfare in celebration.
Today, the growing congregation at St Benet's remains committed to making known the good news of Jesus afresh to the current generation of the Welsh in London.
Seemingly on hire to Colas and shortly after working 6Z37 from Derby R.T.C to Toton North Yard, Ex DRS now Rail Operations Group 37407 "Blackpool Tower" is pictured approaching Rectory Junction with 0Z37 from Toton.
After writing this I was told that along with 37425, 407 is Confirmed to be on hire to Colas, covering for the Loco's that are on RHTT's at the minute.
Week in the Life Digi kit from Ali Edwards
Today my seemingly harmless cold turned into a bad respiratory infection.
I could have decided to let it all go, but this year I decided to just go with it and do my best to tell the story even though I wasn't well.
I dragged myself out to my 19 week ultrasound, as there was no way to re-book in the ultrasound this week. All 5 (well 6) of us headed out in the windy weather to see out new baby 'Forbes'.
Phill decided to stay home for the rest of the day since I was so sick.
I spent the rest of the day in bed while Phill did lunch (pies), took Emily to dance and did dinner (roast chicken)..
By the time we got the weekly online shopping delivery from Coles, I was feeling a little better. So I helped clean up the kitchen and games room.
I watched a few barbershop videos (got sucked in searching for a good rendition of “I woke up this morning feelin' fine” barbershop style). Phill wasn't so impressed.
We watched an episode of Arrow and then I was in bed by 8:30pm
A seemingly-nonchalant driver brings the stock to form an Epsom Downs train back into Clapham Junction, having reversed beyond the station during engineering works between here and Victoria. One couldn't be too casual with the SUBs, as their Westinghouse brakes could not simply be released and re-applied easily to adjust for stopping in the right place and required to be got right first time! This characteristic disappeared with the EPBs and their electro-pneumatic system. 1980.