July 2017

Strangstry Woods Jul 17

Jul Sun Din Yorshire

Jul17 Yorkshire Pud

First off: I have two ‘working’ blogs on wordpress; this, personal, one and a show one here:

Glyn Watkins’ showpage

Lately almost I have posted has been on the showpage, I have been doing a lot of work for the Little Pie and Priestley Festival in Bradford, in September. So much work that it actually turned into a festival before I called it one; but I have been either too busy, and then too lazy, to announce it on here.

Another thing stopping me posting is I realised I have been posting pictures with massive resolutions on here. That means wordpress is a store, but it has eaten up 90% of my ‘free’ space. It is not a simple issue to shrink pictures on an iphone if I am not mailing them. So I am not posting ‘live’, and being lazy that means I don’t post half the pictures I would.

I did a fair shift at Cormwell Bottom Nature Centre on Thursday, then drank 4 of Brighouse’s Market Tavern’s weakest beer (3.8%), which is becoming the way I prefer to spend time in pubs.

I have been getting on top of clearing and stuff. Not that my house is clean or anything, but I can actually see all of the carpet tiles downstairs I should, and can walk everywhere I want to without subconsciously stepping over all the trip hazards.

Today I cooked two good dinners; did sorting; read some of J.B.Priestley’s joyous Let The People Sing; started drinking and am spending the first Saturday night in a very long time not only listening to music, but listening to cassettes!

I have spent over a year not listening to any radio, and hardly listening to music. Tonight seemed a night for music.

I started by picking without looking (something you can do when you have a cupboard full of nowt but cassettes).

Howling Wolf to start. Liked first few, but I’ll not listen to a half an album until the next time he is one of 600 picked at random.

Gladys `Knight and the Pips. My gosh! And the tape is one without her big hits, but Daddy could swear! is a favourite I had forgotten.

I have discovered that I have grown up enough to realise that The Smiths are a miserable set of twats.

I have, on the other hand, rediscovered, and refallen in love with Nanci Grittith. I cannot find her Little Love Affairs cassette, on of my favourite ever albums, but I have found enough Nanci Griffith to last an hour or so, and make me cry more.

I am also drinking my own himalayan balm wine, which is a remarkably fine balances of tastes and forces.




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