#water overflow Brighton

[lifeofkaze]

Molly

A/N: This story was written for the March prompt of the @hp-12monthsofmagic challenge.

It had been a long, hard day at the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic. Arthur Weasley had been busy with bewitched cutlery attacking Muggles at a furniture shop in Brighton from very early in the morning, followed by falsely distributed magical magazines telling the customers of a London bookshop their opinion about their hairstyles, and had finally finished his day with a short encore of the slime squirting postboxes he’d had to deal with in Manchester the previous week.

So, when he Apparated into the front yard of his family home near the village of Otter St. Catchpole, Arthur was exhausted, tired, and still covered in the odd spot of goo. Wiping some of the reeking fluid off his robes, he approached the lit windows of the Burrow, stopping briefly to breathe in the scent of wildflowers and honeysuckle and listen to the sound of spring awakening around the orchard and the rolling hills beyond. 

“Fred and George Weasley, get off the cabinet and release the cat this instant!”

Arthur flinched at the sharp sound of his wife cutting through the nightly peace. There was a dangerous edge to her voice, which most likely meant that it wasn’t the first time she had said those words. Judging by the laughter reaching his ear, it probably wouldn’t be the last time either. 

Bracing himself, Arthur took a deep breath, and pushed open the kitchen door. 

“Hello, everyone! I’m -”

The rest of his words got stuck in his throat. The kitchen before him - or what had been the kitchen when he had left for work this morning - had turned into a battlefield. There were plates, bowls, and glasses everywhere - some of them used, some of them in various stages of being magically cleaned. The sink was about to overflow with dishwater foam, while the brush and rag were performing what looked to be a passionate tango above it, splashing soapy water onto the floor, the counter, and the nearby walls.

This wasn’t even all that unfortunate. Due to some mishap Arthur wasn’t too keen on learning the details of, parts of the walls were covered in what seemed to be splotches of green sauce, already partly dried and giving off a distinctive minty scent. Ron, his youngest son, stood in front of it, casually dipping his tiny finger into a bowl with chopped and mashed up beetroot and adding his own colourful contribution to the mural. 

Careful not to step on the wooden figurines, books, balls and other toys strewn across the slippery kitchen floor, Arthur made his way into the living room, where he found his wife and the rest of his children, who weren’t currently at school. Molly Weasley stood with his back to him, angrily gesturing at two identical-looking boys perching on the top of the cabinet. They were sniggering among themselves, too busy stuffing the family’s cat into one of their sister’s dresses to mind the increasingly shrill tone of their mother. 

Ginny herself - wearing a suspiciously small amount of clothes - sat on the rug by the fireplace, gnawing on something that looked to be her mother’s wand. With a few quick steps, Arthur was by her side, winding the wand from the heavily protesting toddler. There, at least, was the explanation for the dancing houseware in the kitchen. 

Once the twins on top of the cabinet became aware of their father’s presence, they instantly let go of the cat, shouting his name at the top of their lungs. Ron and Ginny joined the fray, and for a horribly long second, the entire ground floor of the Burrow was filled with the sound of screeching children vying for their father’s attention. Then, they all rushed forward and flung their little arms around his waist as high as they could reach. 

Hugging them back, Arthur caught the gaze of his wife, who looked flustered and a little out of breath as she asked him how his day had been. Before he got to reply, however, she had already begun apologising for the state the house was in, and how she didn’t have the time to clean, and how he please shouldn’t look at the kitchen too closely, and that she really should get started on sorting everything before dinner, shouldn’t she?

And with that, Molly was gone, leaving behind her children and confusedly staring husband. Arthur slowly followed her into the kitchen, where she was furiously cutting onions, sniffing and wiping at her eyes all the while. With a wave of her wand, which now bore the marks of Ginny’s teeth, she made the brush and rag stop dancing and clean up the spots on the wall instead while the plates and cutlery began sorting themselves into neat stacks.

Once the Weasley children had gone to bed, Molly only talked briefly to Arthur, immediately swishing past him again to take care of everything she hadn’t managed to do yet and that made their family life run… well, as smoothly as life in the Burrow could possibly run. Arthur watched her work in thoughtful silence. He would have liked to help but was sure Molly wouldn’t let him. She never did, really. Somehow, she alone was able to see order in the chaos; Arthur knew this family wouldn’t last a day without her.

The thought wouldn’t leave him for the rest of the evening. Presently, when they had settled in their armchairs next to the fireplace, he spoke up.

“Molly, dearest, have I ever told you -” 

He tailed off as he raised his eyes to his wife. Molly had sunk deeper into her armchair, the needles with Ginny’s half-finished new jumper resting in her lap. Her head lay fallen to the side, and her chest rose and fell in a gentle, regular pattern. She had fallen asleep.

Arthur watched her thoughtfully, studying her features that had become more familiar to him than his own. New lines had appeared on Molly’s forehead and around her mouth, and there were fine crinkles around her eyes that never used to be there, but she still looked so much like on the day they had first met at Hogwarts so many years ago. 

He remembered it well, how he and Molly and so many others had stumbled into the Great Hall for the very first time, at the end of which, on a simple four-legged stool, an old, battered-looking hat had been sat.

Molly - still named Prewett, then - had been called to sit beneath the Sorting Hat first, and it had taken it quite a bit to announce a roaring ‘Gryffindor’ to the assembled school. Later, Molly had told him that the Hat had considered putting her into Hufflepuff, as well, and Arthur had never been gladder that the Hat had ultimately decided against it. 

It didn’t take long for Arthur and Molly to become fast friends and only a little longer for Arthur to see even more in the loveable, caring and slightly hot-headed young witch. It took him several years to pluck up the courage to ask Molly out, but when he finally and she said yes, he was almost too surprised to speak.

They snuck out of the Gryffindor common room after curfew together, dodging the wary eyes of the prefects, portraits, and Peeves the poltergeist on their way outside, where they spent a lovely evening wandering about the lakeshore in the moonlight. It was such a lovely evening, in fact, that it was well into the small hours when they made their way back to the castle. They were just about to ascend the steps leading to their common room when a light appeared at the top of it, shining on the grim face of Apollyon Pringle, the Hogwarts caretaker. 

Arthur didn’t think twice on what to do. Taking Molly by the shoulders, he pushed her behind a suit of armour, signalling for her to be silent. It had been just in time as well; no sooner had he turned away that the caretaker was upon him, gripping Arthur around the arm and dragging him away with a foreboding smile on his weathered face. 

Arthur was dealt the punishment of his lifetime, but even though he was sure he would feel the effects of it for weeks to come (which he did), he didn’t mention Molly with a single word, and once he had received a clandestine kiss from her behind the very suit of armour she had hidden behind, he decided that the bruises had been more than worth it. 

The relationship blossoming from that day held throughout their time at Hogwarts and beyond, and it didn’t take Arthur much consideration (but a lot of courage) to ask Molly for her hand soon after they had graduated. Their ceremony was small and with only a couple of people attending, but everyone who mattered had been present. Arthur had borrowed his dressrobes from one of his brothers, while Molly had taken it upon herself to sew her dress from the one her mother had worn on her wedding day. It wasn’t the elegant, stark-white dress with crystals and lace Arthur knew she had been dreaming about, but to him, it had been the most perfect dress he’d ever seen.

They moved into the Burrow soon after, back then only a small hut with one storey and two rooms, but it was theirs, and it was home. Then their son Bill arrived, and then Charlie and the rest of them, and with each of their children being added to the family, Arthur didn’t think his heart could hold any more love without having to burst eventually. 

All the while, Molly had been there to be the rock for all of them, regardless of how many curveballs life had thrown at them. She was always there, steady and unwavering, and Arthur cherished her more for it with every passing day. 

Dwelling on the thought, Arthur quietly got up from his armchair and stepped closer to his sleeping wife. She was moving her lips ever so slightly, as if, even asleep, she was trying to remind herself of everything she still had to take care of. A strand of her hair had fallen from where she had pinned it back, and Arthur noticed a few streaks of silver shimmering among the red - the very first of them he’d ever seen on Molly.

Knowing how they would upset her, Arthur raised his wand to vanish them but then thought better of it. Let Molly have her greys, he decided. They were a testimony of their time together, and if anything, they made him love her even more. 

Quietly laughing to himself, he ran his hand over his own thinning hair before tucking the silvery strand behind Molly’s ear. As he did so, Molly stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, and as her gaze focused on Arthur, she sat bold upright. 

“I fell asleep!” she cried out, giving Arthur a scolding look. “You should’ve woken me. There’s so much work to do.”

“Which is why I let you sleep,” Arthur replied calmly. “I figured you needed it.” 

Molly sighed, a fleeting look of frustration crossing her face. “Well, you shouldn’t have. Now I won’t get everything done before tomorrow.” 

“Yes, you will,” said Arthur, bending down to kiss her, “because you will go to bed and leave the rest to me.”

“You’ve been working all day, I really should -”

“So have you, my dear. I’m not yet tired, anyway. See, there’s this fascinating Muggle contraption I brought home from work today, which -” 

At that, Molly rose to her feet and hastily bade him goodnight. Arthur smiled to himself as he watched her go; that trick worked every time. 

***

The next day, when the sun had just about risen, Arthur silently got up and woke his children. Once he had gathered them in the kitchen and explained what he had in mind, they set to work, as quickly and quietly as possible. 

It took them longer than he had expected - and they probably made a lot more noise, too - but by the time their surprise was done and floating on a tray up the stairs behind them, Molly was still fast asleep. When Arthur gently touched her shoulder, her eyes flew open, and she sat up with a gasp.

 “Merlin’s beard, I overslept!” 

She was on the verge of swinging her legs out of bed when she noticed that her husband and children had gathered all around her. 

“Why are you all here? What happened?” A look of alarm formed on her face. “Is anybody hurt? Has there been another fire?”

“Nothing’s burnt, Mum. Relax,” said Fred, dramatically rolling his eyes. “Aside from those, of course,” he added, pointing his thumb at the floating tray carrying a stack of pancakes, a cup of tea, and a vase with the flowers Ginny and Ron had collected from the garden. He nodded his head at his twin brother. “George burned them.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, it was you!”

“No, you!”

“No, you!”

Arthur placed a hand on each of the twins’ heads, gently but firmly pushing them apart. “Neither of you burned the pancakes.”

They looked at each other for a moment before unanimously saying, “Right, it was Dad.” 

Suppressing a sigh, Arthur levitated the tray toward the bed, where Molly looked between her breakfast, her children and her husband in bewilderment. Then - much to Arthur’s horror - she burst into tears.

“What’s wrong, Mum?” Ron asked in a small voice, already climbing into bed to snuggle up against his mother.

“Isn’t that obvious, Ronny?” George said. “You made her cry because you’re so ugly.”

Fred nodded. “It’s true.”

Ron looked between his brothers with wide eyes as a pillow flew across his head and hit both twins in the face simultaneously. They gaped when they realised it was their mother who had thrown it, now both laughing and crying at the same time. Setting aside her breakfast, she opened her arms up wide.

“Now one’s ugly here,” she half-sobbed. “You’re all my perfect little children. And now come here!”

Arthur leaned against the doorframe, watching as the kids jumped into their mother’s arms so forcefully that they knocked her back into the pillows, all of them laughing as they did so. His lips curved into a smile. 

Maybe theirs wasn’t the picture-perfect storybook life, but that’s just what it was - theirs. 

And he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

[titanplumbingau]

Heroes of Homes: Why Your Local Plumber Deserves a Medal

When the faucet starts dripping incessantly, the shower turns into a trickle, or the toilet decides to overflow at the most inconvenient time, who do you call? Not the Ghostbusters, but your trusty local plumber.

This unsung Best Plumber Brighton swoops in to save the day, yet their work often goes unnoticed and underappreciated. Let’s dive into the world of plumbing and explore why your local plumber truly deserves a medal.

The Lifesavers in Overalls

Plumbers are the backbone of our modern conveniences. Without them, we would be transported back to an era where water was fetched from wells, and indoor plumbing was a distant dream. They ensure that our homes and workplaces have a steady supply of clean water and efficient waste disposal systems. But their job is much more than just fixing leaks and unclogging drains.

The Art and Science of Plumbing

Plumbing is both an art and a science. It requires a deep understanding of hydraulics, fluid mechanics, and thermodynamics. A skilled plumber can diagnose issues with pinpoint accuracy, whether it's a hidden leak behind the walls or a complex issue with the water heater. They use advanced tools and technology to ensure that everything runs smoothly.

Emergency Rescuers

Imagine waking up in the middle of the night to find your basement flooded. Panic sets in as you realise the extent of the damage. This is when your local plumber becomes your knight in shining armour. Available 24/7, they rush to your aid, minimising the damage and preventing further disaster. Their quick response and expertise can save you thousands of dollars in repairs.

The Green Warriors

In today’s environmentally conscious world, plumbers play a crucial role in promoting sustainability. They install and maintain energy-efficient systems, such as low-flow toilets, tankless water heaters, and water-saving fixtures. By doing so, they help reduce water consumption and lower utility bills. They also educate homeowners on the importance of water conservation and provide solutions for a more eco-friendly lifestyle.

Guardians of Health

A well-maintained plumbing system is essential for good health. Contaminated water can lead to severe health issues, including gastrointestinal diseases and infections. Plumbers ensure that our water supply is clean and safe by installing and maintaining filtration systems, backflow preventers, and other essential components. They also deal with sewage and wastewater, preventing harmful pathogens from entering our living spaces.

Behind the Scenes: A Day in the Life of a Plumber

A plumber’s day is never the same. They might start with a simple faucet repair and end up dealing with a major sewer line issue. They climb into attics, crawl under houses, and navigate through tight spaces to get the job done. Their work is physically demanding and requires a high level of precision and attention to detail.

The Unsung Innovators

Plumbers are not just fixers; they are also innovators. They stay updated with the latest advancements in plumbing technology and practices. Smart home systems, touchless faucets, and leak-detection devices are just a few examples of how modern plumbing is evolving. Plumbers bring these innovations to our homes, making our lives more convenient and efficient.

Why You Should Appreciate Your Plumber

The next time you call a plumber Brighton, take a moment to appreciate the expertise and dedication they bring to the job. They keep our homes functional, safe, and comfortable. Their work often goes unnoticed, but their impact is felt every day. Here are a few reasons why you should appreciate your local plumber:

Reliability: Plumbers are always there when you need them the most, often working in difficult conditions to restore your home’s functionality.

Expertise: Their extensive knowledge and experience enable them to tackle a wide range of issues efficiently.

Prevention: Regular maintenance by a plumber can prevent major disasters and costly repairs in the future.

Health and Safety: Plumbers ensure that our water is clean and our waste is properly managed, safeguarding our health.

Sustainability: By promoting water conservation and energy efficiency, plumbers help us reduce our environmental footprint.

Final Words

In conclusion, plumbers are the unsung heroes who deserve our respect and gratitude. They ensure that our daily lives run smoothly, often going above and beyond to fix problems that most of us wouldn’t know where to begin with.

So, the next time you see a plumber Brighton-wide, give them a nod of appreciation. They truly deserve it. Whether it’s a minor leak or a major emergency, remember that your local plumber is just a call away, ready to save the day.

Source - https://bestplumbercaulfield.blogspot.com/2024/08/heroes-of-homes-why-your-local-plumber.html

[urbanvacsblog]

10 SURPRISING FACTS ABOUT ROOF GUTTER CLEANING YOU DIDN’T KNOW OF

Have you ever stopped to consider the importance of roof gutter cleaning? It may seem like a mundane chore, but it actually plays a crucial role in maintaining the structural integrity of your home. Here, with help from the experts for gutter cleaning in Brighton we’ll be sharing  a few surprising facts about roof gutter cleaning that will make you appreciate this task even more.

THE FACTS ABOUT ROOF GUTTER CLEANING

Here are some surprising facts that may help you better understand the importance of this vital task:

GUTTERS SHOULD BE CLEANED AT LEAST TWICE A YEAR

Although gutters are designed to withstand the elements, they can become clogged with leaves, twigs, and other debris. This can cause water to back up and overflow, leading to serious damage. For this reason, it’s important to clean your gutters at least twice a year – once in the spring and again in the fall.

DIY ROOF GUTTER CLEANING IS NOT ALWAYS SAFE

Climbing up on a ladder to clean your gutters may seem like a simple task, but it can be very dangerous. If you’re not comfortable with heights, or if you don’t have the proper safety equipment, it’s best to leave this job to the professionals.

GUTTER GUARDS CAN HELP REDUCE THE NEED FOR CLEANING

If you find yourself cleaning your gutters more often than you’d like, consider investing in gutter guards. These  mesh panels built to fit over your gutters help keep out debris and reduce the need for cleaning.

CLOGGED GUTTERS CAN LEAD TO ROOF DAMAGE

When gutters become clogged, water can back up and seep beneath the shingles of your roof. This can lead to ice dams in cold climates, or rotting wood and leaking roofs in warmer areas. Cleaning your gutters on a regular basis can help prevent this from happening.

CLEAN GUTTERS CAN PREVENT BASEMENT FLOODING

If water has nowhere to go but into your home, you could end up dealing with a flooded basement or crawl space. Clogged gutters will cause water to overflow, leading to serious damage and costly repairs down the road. Make sure you keep them clean all year long!

GUTTER CLEANING IS A MESSY JOB!

Gutter cleaning is not for the faint of heart – it’s not only dangerous if done incorrectly, but it can also be very messy! Be prepared for leaves, twigs, bird droppings, mud, and anything else that may have found its way into your gutters over time. It’s best to wear old clothes and  gloves, and keep a hose handy to wash away any debris.

PROFESSIONAL GUTTER CLEANING IS WORTH THE COST

Hiring a professional gutter cleaning service can be pricey, but sometimes it’s worth it. Not only is it safer and more efficient than doing it yourself, but they also have the right tools for the job. Many companies will even provide additional services such as roof inspections and minor repairs at no extra charge.

IMPROPERLY INSTALLED GUTTERS CAN CAUSE PROBLEMS

Gutters that are installed incorrectly can cause water to back up and overflow onto your home or landscaping. Make sure you hire a reputable company with experience in installing gutters correctly!

CLOGS AREN’T ALWAYS VISIBLE FROM THE GROUND

Even if it looks like your gutters are clean from the ground, there could still be clogs lurking inside them! If you’re unsure of what to look for or how deep the clog is, it’s best to call in professionals who know exactly what to do.

REGULAR CLEANING CAN EXTEND YOUR GUTTER’S LIFESPAN

Nobody wants to have to install new gutters every  few years. But when debris gets trapped in the gutters, it can cause corrosion and lead to cracks and leaks. Cleaning your gutters on a regular basis can help extend their lifespan and keep them working effectively for years to come.

Roof gutter cleaning is a crucial part of maintaining your home. It’s easy to forget that it needs to be done, but the benefits are so worth it. As you’ve learned from these surprising facts about roof gutter cleaning in Brighton, it can save you thousands of dollars in repair costs and prevent flooding and damage to your building’s foundation. Make sure to keep up with regular roof gutter cleanings for all the outstanding reasons we have gone over!

[nlkplumbingcaroline]

What Are The Most Common Causes Of Blocked Household Drains?

If you have a blocked drain, it can be an expensive and time consuming problem. Drains are designed to handle many different types of waste products, but if your home is prone to blockages, it's best to find out why this is happening and try to prevent it from reoccurring. 

While some problems may just create small inconveniences and annoyances, others may result in significant harm and cost. Many people are looking for ways to avoid all kinds of clogged plumbing situations or seeking fixes for any kind of current issue. The best protection against accidents is more knowledge about the causes of blocked drains Brighton, which is also a fantastic preventative measure to take. The information you have can then be used to both identify and prevent issues.

The most common blockages in your kitchen

Kitchen blockages are caused by food particles and grease buildup. This is usually due to improper disposal of oils and fats, which then sit at the bottom of your drain. You can avoid this problem by using a strainer when you’re washing dishes or pouring food into the sink. Another common cause of blocked drains Brighton is corrosion because rust is much less dense than cast iron.

The most common blockages in your bathroom

Hair. We all know hair is a pain to clean out of the shower drain, but did you know that it can also cause a blockage in your sink? Hair is one of the most common reasons your drains become clogged, so be sure to keep an eye out for it.

Toothpaste. Do you use toothpaste that contains baking soda or other abrasive ingredients? If so, these can create a buildup in your drains and cause them to get clogged. (More on how to prevent this below.)

Shaving cream/soap residue. Shaving cream residue left over after shaving can build up over time and ultimately lead to a clog in your drain—or worse yet, an overflow! To avoid this problem entirely: keep razors clean by washing with soap and water before each use; rinse thoroughly after each shave so no lingering residue remains; replace disposable razors after 4-5 uses; use disposable razors only when absolutely necessary (if they're not used often enough they tend not to work as well anyway).

The most common blockages in your toilet

The most common blockages in your toilet are hair, wet wipes, tampons and baby wipes. If you have a large family or live with a lot of people then it’s likely that some of these items will be flushed down the toilet at some point. 

It is also possible to have hot water repairs Brighton take place at the same time as you have your toilet blocked. In some cases, this can be a little more expensive because of the extra labour involved but it’s always worth getting a quote for both jobs before making a decision.

If you do not regularly remove all these objects from your toilet bowl then they can easily build up and become stuck together by other materials such as toilet roll and plastic bags which could become very difficult to remove without professional help.

The most common blockage in your sewer mains

Tree roots are the most common cause of blocked drains brighton, as they can grow through the smallest cracks, and they're made up of a tough fibrous material that's very difficult to remove. If you have tree roots growing in your sewer mains, it's important to have them removed as soon as possible because they can cause serious damage if they begin to break through into your pipes and buildups inside your home.

The best way to prevent tree root blockages is regular inspection by a professional plumber who will identify any problems early on so that they can be dealt with quickly before any major damage occurs.

Conclusion

In conclusion, we can see that there are many different causes of blocked drains. The most common cause is human waste, but other things like toilet paper or food can also cause your drain to become blocked. The best way to prevent this from happening again is by using a plunger on the drain or hiring a professional plumber who can unblock your pipes quickly and efficiently.

[emergencyservices60]

We operate round the clock, and of course, collaborate with a vast number of local plumbers that are also available 24h. Time is essential when dealing with overflows in Brighton, so do not hesitate to call us.

[justkeeptrekkin]

Brief Omens

An ineffable wives drabble- Brief Encounters inspired- that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing artist @selene-yoshi-chan ​, her pictures posted here with her agreement! This was fun to write, and I can’t believe how beautiful the illustrations are- thank you friend.

You can read it on AO3 here, or read under the cut! MORE ILLUSTRATIONS BELOW!

***

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing. 

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same was as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived. 

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous. 

“Morning, angel.”

She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls. 

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”

“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips. 

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting. 

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense. 

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”

“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says. 

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic. 

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”

“Yes.”

“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots. 

“Crowley.”

“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement. 

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”

Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge. 

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly. 

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did- 

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses. 

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won’t just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence. 

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment. 

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be. 

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse. 

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I’ve only been as far as Hastings.”

Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”

“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”

There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”

Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile. 

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days. 

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”

Constantly, Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore. 

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this. 

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”

Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s. 

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes. 

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans. 

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again. 

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley. 

***

The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her. 

The wind tries to push her back down the hill. 

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it. 

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait for. 

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s her that she’s abandoning, not Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station. 

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist. 

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley’s eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train. 

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away. 

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform. 

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe. 

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on. 

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift. 

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it. 

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily. 

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes. 

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears. 

“I made the right decision,” she whispers. 

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been. 

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?

Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip. 

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat. 

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain. 

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass. 

The train begins to pull away from the platform. 

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform. 

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet. 

“Aziraphale!”

That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam. 

“Crowley?”

And then again- desperation, relief- “Aziraphale.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted. 

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.

“You got off the train,” Crowley says. 

“You came back,” Aziraphale says. 

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise. 

Next time we kiss, Aziraphale thinks, I won’t be so afraid. 

[tiggymalvern]

Ponderings on Social Isolation

The hiking and mountain biking trails that meander for many miles through the woods around here were marked as closed four weeks ago, and the parking spaces for three or four cars at each trailhead were all roped off. Meanwhile, the tiny Juanita Beach Park down on the lakefront remains open as usual, with its parking spaces for a hundred cars all filled and spreading into the overflow car park, and crowds of people are getting in their daily exercise in the sun every time I drive past. I think the closures might have occurred in the wrong places? Meanwhile, in the UK, a Brighton man was castigated by police for taking a form of exercise not countenanced by the coronavirus regulations. His particular sin was that he'd decided to go scuba diving. At 10pm, when the beach was empty. That might be a case of enforcing the letter of the law over the intention. I can't imagine an activity LESS likely to spread coronavirus than immersing yourself in water and breathing from a tank...

[quarterfromcanon]

You and Me, Always Between the Lines

Heather & Valencia - Femslash February - Day 18 - Right and Wrong [1,828 words]

Valencia opened a new message but hesitated over the keyboard. She chewed on her lower lip while she began to type.

Hey, girlfriend.

Highlight text. Delete.

Hey, girl.

Nine backspaces.

Hola, chica.

Valencia sighed and closed her eyes. She exited the app and returned to the home screen only to reopen messages immediately.

So, today’s the day. I’ve decided. I’m going Facebook official. 

Her thumb tapped send. She gripped the case with white knuckles. Within a minute, a reply appeared.

Whoa. Big step. How’re you feeling?

Good but also freaked out. I’m overthinking.

Have you talked to Beth about it? Is she with you?

Not right now. Multiple meetings until like seven o’clock tonight. She’s been sending me supportive texts in between.

Maybe you could postpone until she gets back?

I thought about it, but the time of day is kind of important to me. It’s a whole thing to try to explain here. I don’t know. This is probably silly. I’m just not sure if I can wait that much longer by myself.

A pause.

Do you want company?

She gulped past the sudden lump in her throat and gave the honest answer.

Sort of. I don’t want to ask for too much, though. I feel guilty. You’ve had to help me so many times as it is.

Valencia wiped a fingertip across her cheekbones. She watched three dots fade in and out of existence.

You’re my best friend. Best friends are supposed to come through when you need them.

The breath she’d been holding left her in a rush. Fresh tears spilled down her face.

I’ve been trying with all I’ve got to keep it together, but I guess reality’s hitting me pretty hard right now. If you’re positive you don’t mind... I do need you.

What time?

12:30, if you can make it?

I’ll be there.

___

“The door’s open!” Valencia responded to the familiar knock.

Heather turned the handle and poked her head into view. “Hey.”

“Hi,” Valencia greeted in a tremulous exhale. Her entire body was tense. The rims of her eyes were a vivid pink from crying. She flipped the phone between both palms on autopilot, faster with each passing second.

Heather entered the apartment and crossed the room. She held Valencia’s hands in hers until her friend relaxed. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Since eight, if you don’t count the floor pacing and bathroom breaks, so... four-and-a-half hours?” 

Heather settled on the couch beside Valencia. She waited a moment to consider her advice before she voiced it aloud.

“V, listen, it’s like we toasted on your balcony that time, y’know? You make your own rules now. Whatever pressure you feel... This thing people have about online transparency...” Heather shook her head. She took a deep breath and met Valencia’s gaze. “It’s no one else’s call but yours.” 

Valencia nodded, although the worry did not fully leave her features. Heather searched for the right way to articulate what she wanted Valencia to understand.

“If this is part of what you need to feel comfortable in your skin, it’s cool. If you don’t want everyone on your friend list to know your business, that’s okay, too. You’ve already had so many super intimidating conversations. Your sisters, your dad, your mom -- oh my god, your mom -- like, that alone is such a huge deal. You got through all that in less than a year. You’re really brave.”

Valencia smiled feebly, but then sobs overtook her. Heather spotted a box of tissues. She got up to pull a few free and brought them back. 

“Thank you.” Valencia blotted her cheeks with the Kleenex. “I know I’m making myself sound like a damn liar, but I really do want to do this today.”

“I get it.” Heather shrugged. “People don’t make this easy. Even with ones who seem like they’ll be chill, you don’t actually know until you tell them. There’s always a moment of uncertainty. Also this many people at once? That’s a lot of variables.”

“Yeah.” Valencia pocketed the crumpled tissues.

“So what’s the ‘whole thing’ about the time?”

Valencia rested her chin on a throw pillow. “1 p.m. to 4 p.m. is the prime posting time for Facebook.” She grimaced and searched the reaction that flickered across Heather’s face. “It’s not to maximize likes or get more attention, I swear. It’s just that --”

“You’re doing the Band-Aid approach,” Heather realized. “Quick as possible, all at once. If you post during hours with less dashboard traffic, that means even more waiting for stragglers who might have something to say. You’ll keep checking for notifications over and over. Doing this now means dealing with most of it in one cluster.”

“Exactly.” Valencia noticed the clock at the corner of her open laptop. “Oh God. It’s five ’til one.”

She restored the minimized tab to confront the rectangular button on the page. 

“Already set up,” she said, more to herself than to Heather. “Just a command away.”

She hovered the mouse over it, slid the cursor aside, and returned to the spot -- back and forth ad nauseam while Heather waited patiently beside her. Valencia withdrew her fingers from the touchpad like it scalded her. She rubbed the knees of her leggings and shook her head. “I can’t do it. I can’t press it. Here, you click it.” 

She tried to push the laptop to Heather, but Heather slid it back to her.

“It’s gotta be you,” Heather insisted softly.

Valencia tapped once and then flopped sideways to hide behind Heather. “I did it,” she acknowledged in disbelief. “It’s out there for everyone.”

Valencia Perez is in a relationship with Elizabeth Brighton.

“Yep.” Heather twisted her arm to pat Valencia’s shoulder. “You stuck to your plan.”

Valencia clamped her eyelids shut. “Now comes the more difficult part: the wait for the first response.” She texted Beth with trembling fingers to tell her that the news was publicly shared. Then Valencia sat up, but she still couldn’t bring herself to peek at the top blue bar. “Is there a bubble with a number?” she asked while inspecting the ceiling. “Did someone say something?”

Heather looked up from her own cell phone. “Oh, hey, you’ve got one.”

Valencia verified the statement in a split-second. Her complexion went ashen. She touched the single digit with the cursor and gave the inbox a moment to load.

Heather Davis (1)

“You sent me a message?” 

Heather could see Valencia in her periphery, turned toward her. She continued to sift through sites without actually reading anything and did not raise her head. “Yeah.”

“What does it say?”

Heather couldn’t suppress a faint laugh. “If I tell it to you out loud, that kinda defeats the purpose.”

Valencia returned her focus to the laptop. Heather glanced at Valencia’s face but then flicked to the screen instead.

I usually save this for major breakthroughs because it already sounds mushy and fake, and I don’t want it to lose all meaning, but today’s a milestone for you so it totally counts. I’m really proud of you, Valencia. I know everything about coming out has been so fucking hard, but you kicked ass. Congratulations. Digital high five.

Valencia scrolled up once more so she could scan the entire thing again. Heather decided to examine the plants on the balcony, but then Valencia’s arms were around her. “I don’t deserve you.”

Heather returned the embrace with some reticence. “I’ve gotta agree to disagree on that one.”

Valencia laughed and tightened the hug. Heather’s arms shifted to fully enfold her. A new red update appeared. She relinquished the hold and gestured to the laptop. “The bell’s got a number now, too.”

Valencia picked up the computer. She set it on her lap, clicked the notification, and beamed.

“What is it?” Heather prompted.

“‘Elizabeth Brighton commented on your post,’” Valencia read. “She says, ‘I’m a lucky lady.’”

Heather mirrored Valencia’s pleased expression. It didn’t quite reach her eyes.

___

Later, when Heather was back in her car, a couple of text messages sprang to life on her phone.

ROOMIE

Valencia’s dating a woman? HER VERY FIRST WOMAN? Since when??? 

ROOMIE

I’ve never even met Beth. Have I met Beth? Have you?

Heather sighed and retreated behind her eyelids. She folded her arms against the steering wheel to lean on them. 

Incessant buzzing announced more messages.

ROOMIE

Do you think I was, like, her awakening?

ROOMIE

Holy crap. Who knew I had so much untapped bisexual influence? I PROMISE TO ONLY USE MY POWERS FOR GOOD. [wizard emoticon] [rainbow emoticon]

Heather peered at the ramblings without sitting upright. She bumped her forehead against her wrists in annoyance.

ROOMIE

Hey, where are you, by the way? If you’re already out and about, can you buy us some more eggs and coffee grounds? We’re running low. And by “low,” I mean I finished off both this morning. Don’t kill me! xoxo

Heather opened the conversation. She addressed only the most recent question.

I can get them on the way home. See you at the house.

She tossed her phone onto the passenger seat and left Valencia’s parking lot in the direction of the grocery store. While stuck at the first stoplight, Heather’s eyes began to bother her. A dull ache surrounded them. She blinked in an effort to calm it.

By the second intersection, her vision started to blur. “What the hell?” Heather rubbed furiously with the heels of her hands. “I’m trying to drive here.”

Her lungs burned as she rounded the bend.

“Can everything just chill? It’s kinda important for me to be in control of my faculties while I’m steering a three thousand pound vehicle.”

When the market was in sight, she heard an alert vibration.

“Rebecca Bunch, I swear...,” Heather mumbled. She parked and snatched up the cell. The contact name wasn’t ROOMIE this time.

V

Twelve comments, all positive. I can’t believe it. Thank you again for everything.

Heather’s eyesight swam until the letters were beyond recognition. She felt the warm moisture overflow and tumble down her cheek. A similar trail of water traced along her nose.

“Oh my god, stop.” Heather swiped upward with a curved finger and touched the irritated ducts. “What is going on right now? Get back in there.”

It was no use. The more she fought the urge, the more tears emerged to join the first two. Heather puffed out an exhale. She rolled her eyes skyward. “Okay. This is happening.”

She sat miserably still and permitted the unshakable emotion to rise. A faint whimper escaped the back of her throat, but she gulped it into silence. Minutes ticked by on her dashboard. “Ugh, get it together, dude.”

Heather dabbed the evidence away with her sleeves, picked up her phone, and texted back to Valencia.

See? The worst is over. I’m really happy for you.

She meant it.

Truly.

But it was some time before Heather regained her composure.

[sarahlangfordsphotography]

Context - Kayne

Context can be different in different ways for different types of way the images and context are shown within different types of media/photographs not in the media, these types of methods are;

Online Articles

Newspapers

Framed photographs

Online Articles

Online articles are found within social media such as twitter, Facebook, Snapchat and a lot of the time context within online articles are also found on google. While online articles are mainly on social media it means that people manage to get straight to the source that they are looking for however it can be a negative thing on Facebook feeds as it will be classed as “scroll away media”, this is because people will tend to read some of an article and they will tend to scroll past the rest of the article as it is a natural response when we are not interested in something to go past the post we do not want to read/tap to carry on reading.

Newspapers

Newspapers require people to buy the different branded newspapers/to read them on the buses, newspapers cover a lot of context due to them having different stories within them. The stories may include News stories which will cover recent news, Sport which will interest the audiences that like sport and like reading about sport especially to see how sports teams are going and to see if anything bad in sports is occurring. There are many more things that will include context within a newspaper which would be; weather, reports, entertainment (crosswords), events and reviews. With a newspaper people will tend to look for headlines and photographs which will interest the audience to select what to read about, a newspaper is also known as “throw away media” as the newspaper can be recycled after it has been used.

Framed Photographs 

Framed photographs will contain context in many different ways, for example a framed photograph of an artists piece of work will have an intention meaning that the context will be what the photograph shows and tells some information about the artist and when the piece of art was created. Framed photographs will show how important the photo/piece of work is as it will highlight the importance and the meaning behind the piece of work, these can be shown in galleries/museums which will mostly show how importance is highlighted as many people visit galleries/museums to admire other peoples inspirational work. However framed photographs can also be shown in homes which will create an effective memory as it will also be remembered due to the moment being captured and being framed to show how important the memory is.

Martin Parr (group work)

We looked at the work of Martin Parr and as a group, identified the subject matter, content and the best-suited context for the photograph of a cup of tea.

This photograph shows multiple colours such as;

Red 

Blue 

White

Beige

The red, blue and white shows the colours of the GB flag (and many other countries), it mainly shows the GB flag as tea is mainly associated with Britain which makes people think stereo typically of British people as we are known to drink a lot of tea. The red and white colours also shows that it could be a table cloth that the cup of tea is placed upon, the colours reminds us of the table cloths being used for parties (paper which can be thrown away), Picnics (cotton which can be washed), Cafes and dining rooms (plastic easy to be wiped and clean for the next person to use the table cloth).

The teacup and saucer looks like fine china as it has a painted pattern that looks Chinese. The teacup and saucer are traditional in East Asia as it is expensive and mainly wealthier people would be able to have fine china.This photograph also represents the queen and the royal family due to the tea making people think of Britain, back in the 70s/80s the Royal family were very wealthy and powerful roughly more wealthy than how wealthy they are now.

Martin Parr (Individual work)

Martin Parr photographed Britain in the 70s/80s by using 35mm colour film which made his photographs look really interesting, Martin Parr is known for using different techniques to create his effective images, he uses harsh flash, saturated colours, close ups of the subject(s)/object(s) and he tends to photograph the British culture especially when Margaret Thatcher was in power with the Tories in the UK in roughly the 80s which created “Thatcherism” that caused a lot of problems especially with unemployment within the working class making those people struggle the most with having hardly any money. 

Photographer: Martin Parr Year: 1985 Body of work: ‘New Brighton, The Last resort”

The genre could be about British culture and how Britain can look in different areas which don’t look very appealing to visit. It shows that the people of Britain don’t care about the surroundings and will just get on with their day’s while others suffer with the surroundings. The genre could also be about poverty and how the environment 

The photograph is in colour which looks like a flash could have taken place by the right side of the photo, the photograph also shows a family they’re on their sitting by an overflowing bin eating chips however the facial expressions of these people don’t look very pleased with the surroundings that they are in and how they are suffering with not having as much nice things as the wealthier people.

What does the article say about the body of work?

The article said that The Last Resort “signified a shift in the way photography was understood in the UK”  as in the 80s as the “proper” photography was shot in “traditional black and white” which was known for the proper exclusive medium of proper photography back in the 80s.

After reading this – what do you think this image about?

After reading the article I think the photograph is about the working class weren’t working so they were “claustrophobic” within the area they are in buried “knees-deep” into their chips forgetting about how much of a “nightmare” their environment/society has become.

Why did the photographer make this body of work?

The photographer made this body of work to show how the working class were suffering due to working for a longer period of time and earning less money than the wealthier people. The photographer captured this moment when Thatcherism was taking place meaning the working class had less money and ended up living in poverty which will explain the overflowing bin as no one is emptying the bin due to them losing their jobs.

What connotations are you seeing in this photograph?

The connotations of the photograph would be;

Family being on holiday however they are not very impressed as they are sat next to a bin eating their fish and chips.

The bin is overflowing as no one is cleaning the rubbish away as the working class is rapidly becoming unemployed due to Thatcherism.

The photo is from the 80s meaning that coloured film was produced and able to be used to capture meaningful photographs

I think the main connotation would be society as society is being destroyed by having the different classes which we have always had even back in the Victorian times, however it is being destroyed as they working class are mainly struggling and are not able to cope with no money and no jobs.

Do you think the photographer successfully communicates a message with their image?

I think the photographer successfully communicates a message with his photograph as it represents how the 80s were when Thatcherism was taking place, it also shows that the family isn’t enjoying their holiday as they are sat near an overflowing bin eating fish and chips with disgusted faces with how the environment has become.

EXTRA WORK (A PHOTOGRAPH OF MY OWN):

What is the photograph of?

The photograph is of a man and his dog which seems to possibly have a baby in the pushchair sitting on the street as thought they are homeless and need money. 

What genre of photography is it? 

I think the genre of the photo would be showing poverty of a homeless man within a landscape image, it shows that he is struggling especially his dog. This image shows loneliness as the man is lonely as he has no one to support him and  his only friend is his “best friend” which is his dog.

What message is your photograph communicating?

The message my photograph is communicating is how poverty is still occurring around the world putting many men, women and children at risk of losing their lives have they have nothing. It leads to them begging people everyday for support even if it’s just the littlest money they get given so they can take care of their needs by getting food to eat and water to drink so their lifespan doesn’t decrease as rapidly as it is already going. 

What could you have done differently to make this image more successful?

To make this image more successful I would change the position I was stood to get the photograph at a different angle to see if the photograph would look even better, I would also consider being careful when taking the photo so the subject doesn’t notice me taking the image in the future.

EXTRA WORK (A PHOTOGRAPH OF MY OWN 2):

What is the photograph of?

The photograph is of two people walking to their destinations of where they are going to go, the man looks focused on something in the distance while walking and the woman is looking down at the floor which she could possibly be looking at her shoes/ where she is walking.

What genre of photography is it?

I think the genre of this image would be portraiture as I have captured two people walking and the photo style itself is portrait.

What message is your photograph communicating?

The message my photograph is communicating determination as the man looks determined on completing what he is doing. The determination would be to get to where he is needed to be before he can carry on with the rest of his day.

What could you have done differently to make this image more successful?

To make this image more successful I would change the position to be able to get the man’s whole body in the photograph and get the photograph at a different angle to make the photograph look even more interesting.

Completed: 11/10/18

[plates-of-meat]

To be beside the sea - By Hattie Giles -  April 2020 -For plates of meat, Issue 2,  The Adolescence Issue

I’ve found myself thinking of the seaside as if it were a gourmet feast. The gentle lick of the waves as they pass your feet; the sand subsiding to accommodate your imperial step... All digits- the most hardened skin- softened from the anointment of sea foam. The tartness of saline air neutralised by the fat of chips- salt, vinegar, the puckering of mouths and blistering of the silky sweet crevices within them; only to be cooled by beer. Overflowing lavishly, ample in golden glow- the light of the fading sun rendering it all amber until….my friends and I inevitably piss in the maritime body before us from its burden. 

Last time I was on a beach it wasn’t like this (hungover, pebbles in heels, awful chicken and stuffing sandwich) but this image of leisure and retreat creates hunger. I feel for the locked up Englishman this in essence is the pinnacle of Britannic splendour. A piss up, two fingers raised high over the oxidised, dilapidated swank of the frilly garters of our nation (come over and kiss ‘em quick!)

Although it appears differently in the news. An ashen Brighton Pier is portrayed on the eve news stream (I love the little soma that is this now nightly dose of hysterical release, God help me.) The place doesn’t look as gay as it always does when I arrive at Brighton bus station: around 7 or later. I guess she’s been struck down by a natural force: not the elemental tumult of the deep that she stands stoically over, but by an invisible body some will surely drown in. Is the beach the same depopulated? Bathed in grey? 

They say we must flatten the curve but I find that funny because that’s what I’ve been trying to do for years! I’m writing a mental pamphlet of all the jokes I’ve heard made around pandemic. I mean, there’s still entertainment to be found here in our IKEA catalog caves. You can sit in your pants dragging your hands through a forest of overrun pubes and think my God! Being with some mates by the sea! The Pier! The White Cliffs! Lyme Regis! Why let some billionaire profit from pumping out more fumes into the atmosphere when I could go right there. Melt in the ooze of prehistoric water; bodily refuse; the cunt juice of Mary Anning herself (O lordy!) 

Sitting on my sofa like a pig ready for slaughter saying ’shesellsseashellsbytheseashore’ over and over; faster and faster. Imitating the revelry of a child asked to draw pictures of the seaside in art class (or perhaps geography). Inside a box there’s no room for anger. But give me one can and an indignant speaker and hopefully some creature will stir within. Oh to return to the shore. To realise the fruits of our nation; wanderlust for the nooks and crannies of our island. Without the bodies pilled high upon them.

(Image By Jacob Hopkins - Of Hattie and Silva playing croquet) 

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[putnamrm-blog]

Day 90 - Sumner Beach and Godley Head

Holly was on research last night and found a couple of Sunday markets so we drive out to the racecourse to find a huge market filled with the most useless collection of junk I've ever seen! Entertainingly though, we did discover that New Zealand men like to eat battered sausages on a stick. They look like giant beige icelollyies dunked in ketchup. It's a bit early for me so I pass this time. On to the next one at Sumner Beach, a very pretty little seaside suburb. Probably a great place to live if you work in Christchurch. This market was a little better but littler. We're also conscious we're close to the weight limit on our bags now so have to think carefully about each purchase. The beach here is great so we have a wander. Bit windy for swimming and the sun's heat is being deflected by some high clouds so we settle for a paddle.

Just round the corner is Godley Head. The road up there takes us past a paragliding launch site where we pause to watch them ridge soaring above us, then continue to the head. A couple of hours walk on the grassy headland, taking in views of the beaches and inlets, and the old WWII gun emplacements and supporting barracks. The guns are long gone, just the concrete foundations remain now. I had no idea that the Germans came all the way out to New Zealand during the war. Apparently the guns were never fired in anger but the mouth of the harbour was mined by the Germans.

With some daylight left to use up we compete our lap of Christchurch by visiting New Brighton pier on the way back. I can confirm that old Brighton (our Brighton) is much better. This one has a bare concrete pier, a beach grey enough to be anywhere on our North Sea coast, and little else.

Having completed the loop it's back to the campsite to pack and clean up the van. Here is where I meet my low point of the trip. Campervans deposit all their grey water and toilet water in appropriately named dump stations. Essentially a large sink and ground level. This one happened to be overflowing. I carefully completed our dump before setting to work washing the van with one of those long handled brushes with hose attached. Pretty handy, except that they're hard to control really. So hard that I took my eye off the dump station for long enough to step back straight into it, almost knee deep in foul smelling human waste! Thankfully, I was already holding the very thing I needed to clean myself off so was washed almost as quickly as I was dirtied. Disgusting!

Anyway, we've eaten up everything in the van so there's only one thing for it - Domino's pizza. A little treat for our last real night. Tomorrow we'll fly to Auckland and then on to Hong Kong on Tuesday morning.