Breakfast in a pub - the cynically rechristened William Wilberforce - in a pretty deserted Hull city centre to start the day before a frustrating self-check out experience down at Asda (a never-ending stream of error messages on the touch screen) and laughing at youngest son attempting to carry a hefty sack full of cat litter and then, after he negotiated an exchange for the goods in my hand, laughing at him attempting to carry a large bag of compost. Bless. Then football (Spurs v Chelsea) and rugby league. At last, Hull FC registered a win. The season has started.
Here's a photo I took this morning of another Hull public house which I have subsequently put through the amazing Photoshop sketchmaking machine:
It's The Kingston, in the market place. Although I've not been in the place for years it's permanently lodged in my mind. As a young daft chap working for a building contractor one of the first jobs I ended up on was here and involved clambering on to the roof, carrying slates and sand and cement for a brickie who traversed roofs as if he were a monkey. It might only be three stories high but my legs and mind quickly told me that they didn't like being up there and wanted no part of that industry. The building trade had other plans - it took me 11 years to escape.
Listening: Kaiser Chiefs - Yours Truly, Angry Mob
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