Every year I photograph single leaves like this several times because they are to my mind so photogenic. At first I would say to myself : "The same photograph: shame on you. It's as bad as repeating the same story to the same people." But then I say: "It's a different leaf (though probably not a different variety of leaf), a different day, a different year". Perhaps I should accumulate photographs of single leaves photographed in different years and print them in a long beautiful line.
A woman comes into Hall's bookshop and says to the young man in charge: "I don't know if you would be interested. I have some books I want to sell. A complete set of the Waverly Novels. " "Are they in leather?" asks the young man.
"I can't remember. They're hardback I think".
"We've just put a complete, leather bound set up there," the young man says, pointing to the shelf.
"Oh there not nearly as nice as that."
"Well you can bring them in, and if the owner doesn't want them, they can always go to the charity shop a few doors down".
Poor old Walter Scott. Who reads him now? It always surprises me to learn how much admired he was by Nineteenth century French novelists, Balzac and Dumas in particular, both of whom are still widely read.
Outside the kitchen shop in the Pantiles, two spaniels, one on a red lead, the other on a blue lead, are tethered to a lamp post, linked by the leads, which have been tied together. To keep them occupied they have been given a bone each at which they gnaw in a desultory fashion. The would rather their owner returned. The bones are recognisable as the "postman's ankles" regularly displayed at the butchers in Chapel Place.