There is something quite captivating about fireworks: no matter how many times you have witnessed their extrovert performance, their momentary ostentatiousness, you are still drawn to them. This particular display was at Almondbury Wesleyans Cricket Club last night. A cracking good night.
Looking at fine buildings in Halifax can be a bit like looking at paintings in the National Gallery, you get drawn by the famous and casually walk passed what would be excellent in other contexts. How can I have walked by Lord Street Chambers for seven decades without noticing them?
I have so many memories of the Plummet Line Hotel, you could probably fill the old Tap Room with them. Back in the 1960s the family of one of my first girlfriends ran the pub. I remember going to the folk club that used to meet in one of the upstairs rooms. Memories, memories, memories.
It was a bit of a grey day when I took this photograph and therefore I left it up to my mobile phone to add a filter or two of colour. It does it far better than I could do.
The wonderful Halifax Industrial Museum has a loom set up for weaving the moquette fabrics that were used for the seats on buses and trams. The multicoloured threads stretch from the rack of bobbin holders to the loom itself, and the autumn sun illuminates a woollen prism.
Like crocodile-linked children on a day-out from school, clouds make their way up the Menai Straits, trying to decide between a visit to Puffin Island or ice-creams on the pier at Llandudno.
There would have been a time when this was one of the grandest houses in the North Wales City of Bangor: imposing, eminent, verging on opulent. Now a sadness clings to the building: like mist to a slate mountain.
I spotted this girl who had been stencilled onto a concrete wall in Civitavecchia, Italy, a couple of weeks ago. There is something rather appealing about her – especially in the way parts of her seem to be peeling away from the concrete.