A homage to loading screens.
Or, conversations The Mother has had
It’s been quiet on the blog for the past month, what with one reason and another. Work has taken priority; other writing projects have taken priority; and more than anything, I didn’t realise just how long videoing my crafting exploits, recording a narration and editing the footage into something at least semi-watchable would take. I will put a link to the YouTube channel over on the sidebar at some point.
Or, daily life in Bristol
Overheard on Stapleton Road, around lunchtime: a fragment of a conversation as I passed:
In which things aren't as nice as elsewhere
The rest of the country has snow, apparently, and we have drizzle. I consoled myself by thinking that, by 10am, everything elsewhere was slushy and grey.
In which we are nosy
Overheard: a youngish woman walking down Bedminster Parade, phone in hand:
In which our ears are flapping
Chap walking down Stokes Croft, chatting away on the phone:
In which I wish I generally didn’t overhear quite so much
Overheard in a group of smokers outside a pub, as we entered it:
In which I wonder about someone's luggage
Overheard on Baldwin St. Two men, one pulling a suitcase behind him, walking behind me. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, until one said:
In which we overhear surprise
Walking down Clare Street yesterday. Behind me was a couple, late-twentysomething at a rough guess, the woman carrying a big, quite expensive clothes-store carrier bag.
In which eyebrows are raised
Overheard in the street this afternoon: a woman’s voice.
In which we wonder about medicine
Overheard in the street:* a parent (or guardian) and child:
In which we see something uncomfortable
People kept coming in and alerting the staff, taking one aside for a quiet talk. Not quiet enough not to be overheard, though. “Can’t you call the police or something? Can’t you call 999? She’s obviously disturbed.”
In which we see someone get lost and disappear
As we got back home at half-three in the morning, I noticed a man sitting on the other side of the street, sitting on a front-yard wall. I’m always wary of people loitering in the small hours. We got out of the car, and I could hear him mumbling, his hand to his head. I assume he was talking on the phone. I couldn’t make much of it out.
In which we’re listening, and wish we weren’t
Overheard in a quiet corner of a pub recently: one side of a phone conversation.
Newer posts »
Home