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What Were They Thinking?
There are people out here, and I happily count myself among their number, who collect. And there are people out there, and I unhappily count myself among their number, who are fastidious about what they collect, and wish that their collection could be perfect in every way. And then there are those who produce what is collected.
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The Worst Is Over.
A full day has passed, the change from one year to another has moved into the background, and we are left with the reality of everyday life, littered with the remains of fireworks and the occasional drinking spree along the edges of cold streets. Transport returns to normal
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Waking To Destruction.
It is not as bad as I had expected. Ten years ago, walking out of my house in another, smaller, city on New Year's Day, I would be confronted by the debris of celebration littering the road, the pavement, the front of my house. There would be the remains of fireworks shot into the air, or exploded at ground level; empty drinks bottles and cans (prior to them being refundable); paper and other debris connected to the fireworks, such as the packaging.
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All The Comforts Of Home.
I'm not too sure when I first began to understand, or experience, the concept of a Home. I have moved from one house, one city, one country to another all of my life, rarely spending more than a few years in one place. The only exception was my last residence, a large house I bought about nineteen years ago in a small city. Looking back, though, from the comfort of my new apartment, it never really felt like home.
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Reports Of My Death….
I am told, by sources which consider themselves to be reliable, based upon their own opinions, that the personal weblog is dead. It has gone the same way as personal journals, letter writing, reading of physical books and many other things once considered modern, pseudo-intellectual pursuits, now consigned to the era of dinosaurs.
