Steaming Through Metroland

The Locos

Why have one when you can have two?

Back near the beginnings of London’s underground transport system (which is mainly overground) the Metropolitan Line came into existence. Part its success was the genius idea to buy up the land around London through which the line was about to be extended and build houses on it, selling these to what would become the commuter classes (with the promise of green open spaces which were quickly built on to provide more housing to sell…). Thus grew London, and with it, serving and driving it in a positive feedback cycle, the Metropolitan line running through what became known as Metroland, suburbia writ large.

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Midsummer’s Night Far From Pants

Having, for once, not see Shakespeare in Chester we weren’t about to miss out on open air Bard. Luckily Hall Place was coming to our rescue, allowing Heather, Gemma and I to go and see A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The play was being put on by The Pantaloons Theatre Group, who I’d vaguely heard of before but never seen. They turned out to be a treat, with a totally non-serious approach to Shakespeare and plenty of (not overbearing) audience participation. We laughed quite hard, and are already looking forward to what they might bring next year.

Vampires Make Us Sick!

Over The Bridge

Along the river, over the bridge, to the boats

I’m really catching up with things here but back at the end of Heather and I went for a little trip up and across the country. Things didn’t exactly go to plan, but we did visit Chester, see Whitby and end up in Newcastle

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The Measurement Of Time

How should I measure time? In the days since we met? Since a kiss? In the days, the years (—years; how can it be years?) since you left? There is a date in my diary. It says Anniversary. I’m not sure either of us ever held it to be true but it has to sit somewhere. There is another mark, a simple dot. A date which needs no name, for the silent terrors are always without name, in the night.

A mark and a mark and a count to them, between them. Inviting comparison. Somewhere one count ticks over the other, if we can believe one mark; if we can bare to look on the other.

I can but count how long since I stopped loving you—zero days; no hours. I hope somewhere you can see the Moon that is tonight hides from me, leaving me lonely for you (I remember another night’s Moon, a few days from now & years ago, the first light holding me once you were gone).

I miss you Pixie. I love you Jan.