Friday Photo #38

Whenever discussing my longstanding unease with air travel, I inevitably reach for the same (absolutely true) anecdote, one that I shared on these very pages several years ago (here). After a 13 year break from flying, I had no idea how I'd feel about the whole darned business in the cold light of 2023. The answer is....well, it was alright really. The rigmarole surrounding the actual flying bit has changed a tad over the course of time, but when I actually got up there I felt reasonably calm and collected, even taking a moment on the way out to snatch a photo of my view along the wing of the good ship Lady Stardust, 6½ miles above the Atlantic.

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Here's a tune from the mighty Keith Hudson, who died of lung cancer in 1984 at the tragically young age of 38. Had he lived, he would've turned 77 a couple of weeks ago.

Keith Hudson - Virgin Rock

Bloody Eye

Today we took ourselves off to Southwold for a refreshing blast of sea air, a chippy lunch and a pint of Adnams, beer of the Gods. As I wandered back from the bar after ordering the aforementioned feast, I had the sudden sensation of having been poked in the eye, even though I hadn't - a very odd feeling. When I reached our table Mrs S's expression spoke volumes. A vessel must have popped and the white of my right eye was already becoming blood red and fairly unpleasant to look at.

There is little better, after such a fine lunch, than an invigorating walk along an out-of-season beach, when the wind is howling and the waves are crashing into shore a few feet away. Bracing is the word and it really does remind you that you're alive, even if you are wearing sunglasses to hide an unsightly, bloody eye.