home
archives
photoblog
writings
about
gay pages
links
contact
notify list
 
barbellion

Recent photos

Support

If you'd like to support this website this is where you can do it.

notices

All material on this website is Copyright © 1995-2006 John Bailey;
 

 
This work is licenced under a Creative Commons Licence.

Sunday March 12, 2006

When it's cold like this

I really must get back into the habit of taking my camera with me when I go out, even on trivial errands.

Today I missed the opportunity to record a really rather peculiar sight in the Spilsby market square carpark where I saw a Chevrolet SUV-style van, very nicely done up as a small camper, left-hand drive, and complete with Texas number plate.

How on earth did it get there, I wonder? Most likely it was flown over for personal use by someone in the US military, though it may have come across in the hold of a freighter by someone engaged on a Grand Tour. How do the economics work out? And, who? What kind of person would be so attached to such a vehicle as to schlepp it half-way round the planet?

I stood by my car for a little while after I'd run my errands, hoping the owners would turn up so's I could engage them in conversation and satisfy at least part of my curiosity. Sadly, the cold, biting wind got the better of me before that happened and I hopped back into the warmth of the little silver Ford and drove off, mildly puzzled.

"I saw something really odd in the carpark," I remarked when I got home. I'd been murgling the thing around in my head all the way, you see.

"You always see something odd when you go out. What was it this time?"

I explained.

"The only thing peculiar about that is how on earth do they afford to run a gas guzzler on British petrol prices."

"Perhaps they're oil millionaires."

"You're speculating. You're always speculating on such things."

"It's what I do."

"Tell me about it. What did you get for lunch?"

And it is what I do. Speculate, I mean. Show me something a little out of the ordinary and I'll make up a story about it and, if I've nothing better to do, go on to embroider and build on the story for days and days until something else comes along to spark my imagination.

I ought to write these things down. But, like my poor neglected camera, my pen tends to stay home in my drawer these days.

Mind you, when it's cold like this, I'd really rather like to stay home in the drawer myself.