Solitary men. Mostly. Some in camouflage clothing.
Cameras with long lenses. Tripods slung over shoulders.
Patient people. Often, it seems to me, not quite sad… 857 more words
November the fifth. Monday.
The big public firework displays have already blossomed and died. The weekend nights whizzing and banging. Pulsing with sights that vie with the northern lights for colour, but cannot touch them for magic. 597 more words