Thursday, 13 August 2009




Three more Whitby snaps those who enjoy such things things.
It is a curious place, one half gentrified, bookish and expensive, and one half garish, noisy and chip shop festooned. The town is cut physically in two by the channel which runs through it from the sea, and the two sides seem almost totally unrelated to each other. It would be easy to believe that in the off season the locals stage fierce turf wars, north versus south, each side's warriors glorified by ceremonial dress, their headgear a mass of seal totems and longboat prows.


1 comment:

  1. and where's my cock see? you expect my cook to be there or not. I have no cold and that's the last you'll hear it. Cup gone when cold see? Alert mistress at door. You see it, I asked her. Just stood at the door.
    And you think that through thick buggered experience, as they say, that you get, as they say, to the end of, out of is it, it, they say.
    but no cock to start with, then, we are troubled by that.

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