Hiding places

I feel a bit weird having the most recent post here still being me ranting on endlessly about depression, so let’s move it down a bit and replace it with a photo I took at Westonbirt a few weeks ago.

It makes me think of hiding places, the little pockets inside of us where we store the bubbles of memory and emotion that really matter. Sometimes they’re good things and sometimes they’re not, but they all go somewhere.

Can you ever really find a new hiding place when an old one gets found? I’m not so sure. But sometimes just hiding things isn’t enough. Sometimes you just want it to fuck off.

This makes no sense to anyone but me.

New Yawk.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed (lol jk, you couldn’t escape it) that Abbi and I went to New York recently. It was pretty fucking fab. Here are some photos of it.

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Home.

This is the village I call home. It’s awfully pretty and quaint and all of those good, English things. At the top of that hill is a post office, and at the bottom of the hill is a bakery. It’s that kind of village.

Predictably, there are eight pubs.