Lord Nelson on loan from the National Railway Museum
A few days cold, a few days warm. Tuesday and Wednesday were cold. Thursday and Friday warm. Today warm, but not as warm.
On arrival at Alton Station, steam trains.
A gang of bikers outside Station Cafe. I helpfully told them Wednesday night, Bikers Night. But why not ring ahead? They would probably have stayed open. And as there was a lot of people milling around for a steam rally, seems foolish not to have been open.
Dropped in Alton Books, quick word. Mentioned Guildford Book Festival last week, bookseller WHSmith. Do they appreaciate the extent to which they are alienating people? Do they care?
Brock’s Butchers, used to be Brock’s Farm Shop, closed. They close at four o’clock. Maybe I may have made it had I not dallied. But I was there before four o’clock. Their loss, simply means I called in Waitrose later.
Small retailers whinge they lose out, but they are their own worst enemy. Do they want businesses or not?
Late lunch at Italian restaurant.
Whilst there, sun was shining, clear blue sky. When I left, cloudy, already getting dark,
Although getting dark, I decided to walk through the water meadows. Source of the River Wey.
I was surprised how dry the river, a mere trickle.
I cut up the hill, via St Lawrence Church. I do not know why, but this route always seems shorter, as it brings me out at the top end of town.
Lights on in the church. There was last time I passed by, even music playing, and yet the door closed. This time open. As I entered, two young musicians left. I had the church to myself.
In the corner by the door, an ugly plastic monstrosity. Sacrilege this was allowed to be built to desecrate the church.
A stage set, high quality microphones, mixing deck, speakers and yet no one about, no indication what for, no posters.
I looked on a table and found flyers for a concert tonight at 7pm. It was 6-15, I did not fancy hanging around.
The set up would be ideal for Jewelia to give a concert.
I looked in O’Connor’s Secret Garden, and said a quick hello to Peter O’Connor. He was hosting a private party. Fortunate I am not wishing to eat, I said. He offered to serve me in the front parlour should I wish to stay.
By now dark. It feels like late night, and yet only 6-30.
Unbelievable greedy selfish bastard in Waitrose, scooped up everything priced down and piled up in his trolley.