Bids for the old cinema site, for so long up for sale, are now in. If a new development goes ahead this time, the pigeons will miss it. And so, because it still provides an endless series of photographic subjects, will I.
As I come out of the convenience store in Grosvenor Road, I nearly bump into a young man, who is coming in. "Sorry, mate," he says. I find myself enjoying this form of address more and more. Although it wasn't always so, it now seems to be classless. It is inevitably friendly. If you're a mate, you are on the same wave length, up against the same problem, share common enemies. No question about it. I find myself using it sometimes, though it doesn't often come naturally to one of my generation, and managerial background; and I don't always feel qualified as a mate, potential or otherwise. But still, cheers, mate! Cheers!
Something is making the leaves of the horse chestnut trees go brown at the edges. It is some sort of bug or virus and has, I suspect, been the cause of a number of such trees being cut down in The Grove. Today I look into the branches of one in someone's garden. Its leaves are sadly disfigured, but the conkers, fat and green, because of the depleted leaves, are more than usually visible among the branches at this time of year, They seem to be a bit distorted though, not quite spherical. They are, I think to myself, like prickly, green eggs.
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