It's the fourth Sunday and so the church bells rang behind the cottage.
The christians head toward the church in force all of them thinking of their fellow man and one in particular making sure that for the time of the service that my girlfriend doesn't have access to her precious land rover.
Fucking christians! (small c on purpose)
I wouldn't mind but there is no god and no judgement after death so this idiot won't die and go to heaven and find that someone has parked in front of the pearly gates.
You have no idea how hard it is right now. I believe that revenge needs to be taken in life because it's all we have. So here I am resisting the temptation not to park my car right beside this car and leave a note asking them to get in through the boot.
I bet if they had cars when the bible was written 2000 years ago by those hairy men in tents that this would have been a stoning issue, however looking at my girlfriends face right now, I'm not actually sure that it won't be!!!!
:-)
There is a very large antique shop on Market Street in Hexham,
it's the kind of antique shop that is 50% junk, 40% scrap, 8% collectables and a couple of real antiques in the window.
The shop itself is three buildings knocked into one, it is old, damp, mouldy, made primarily by a guy called Jack and possibly with said Jack using some of the very broken tools that are now 'antiques'.
But if you forget the worn carpet, the black fungus the smell of damp and old rusty metal it is absolutely one of the best shops to poke around in when you are in Hexham.
We found the antique shop late in the day. We had already worked our way through the new age hippie shops and bought a singing bowl, examined the art in the art shops to compare prices on their work and home grown stuff. We had been to the posh wine shop and tried a few tasters and eaten home made turkish delight. So it was nice to end such a warm day in a musty smelly place.
As you work your way up the levels of the shop it seems to get a little more oppressive, spooky would be a better word if you are into that sort of thing. Eventually at the very top you come across the only locked door in the building, it feels cold to the touch like there is something bad on the other side when in truth it probably just opens into a room where the roof has fallen in, a room now too dangerous to house any more of the vacuous amounts of crap that we have already worked our way past.
You have to turn around working your way back past the stuffed foxes and badgers, trying not to catch clothes on the pale blue 1960's whicker furniture with a price tag of many £'s and the whole place seems to be full of things that catch your eye and then end up as disappointing.
It was in this oppression that I found this guy, in that environment he seemed to be frightening and dour and very angry at everyone that walked passed him.
It was a very old photograph, certainly one of the very early ones that capture just enough detail to see who it is.
I couldn't help but take his picture then forgot about him, but as I emptied my phone of its contents a few weeks later I remembered and looked again.
Once out of the damp, smelly place he didn't seem so bad anymore, so I looked at him and tried to place what he was at the time the picture was taken.
It's old, early photography so he is a man that is sitting having one of these new photographic portraits. You no longer need to hire a painter and sit in the same pose for three weeks, all done in 30 seconds.
In those times good dentistry was rare so everyone was told not to smile, smiling on pictures came after dentistry, and for any lasting picture you must wear your Sunday best. So there he is, dressed, bathed, shaved having his picture taken.
The more I look at the picture the less I see of dour and the more I see of someone having a good time. If you look at it for a while it's like he is holding his mouth in place trying not to smile, his eyes (or one of them) has darted elsewhere in that 30 seconds of the sitting still so he is looking at someone to his left behind the camera. I get the feeling that he is enjoying this new technology and having a nice day out, like the one that I had that day with my girlfriend.
I'm looking at it again, I swear his mouth is moving, trying to curl up into a bad toothed smile!
We have midges, nasty small flying things that hang around, bite and are attracted to CO2 when you breath out.
This means that the only way to keep the little buggers away is to either stop breathing completely or to utterly smother yourself in Avons very finest old lady juice from a squirty plastic bottle and going by the name of skin so soft. Which is the only thing known to man that does the job.
Midges hate it, they can't land on it without being stuck and die and they can't fly through the smell of it because it is so thick.
It's a strange thing to be standing in a pub full of very strong farm workers in scruffy jeans, dirty haired, rough hands from hard labour and listening to testosterone fueled conversations about football and beer and every one of the rough gravelly low voices smelling like someones grandmother.
I keep looking around to see if someone is going to pull out a screw on felt hat as they prepare to leave, perhaps fasten it in place with a couple of hat pins. Or maybe the juice will start to affect the brain and one of them will go to the bar and ask for a cup of tea and a fruit scone please.
The smell doesn't fit what my eyes are seeing, my nose is telling me I'm in an old peoples home or on a bus trip to Brighton but my eyes and ears are saying I'm in the George and Dragon.
There is a smell around the village and I'm sorry Nirvana but it doesn't smell like teen spirit.
