Only two and a bit more weeks of this desperate nonsense and I can write about pubs again. Well, pub wine gardens, which I reckon will be just as full of human life on the 12th*.
In the meantime, I’ve been tidying my photos and observing some of Sheffield’s little oddities that probably account for the fact that 107.3% of students choose to stay stay in the city after graduating.
I’m sure James only moved here because he was hypnotised by the Mondrian patterns in windows across the city**.
The first picture is a reflection from our windows onto the new floor tiling Mrs RM is so pleased about; the second is from the Shoulder of Mutton in Worrall, the last is the Florist which is a B+ attempt.
James now has a full compliment of housemates, reuniting with three mates whose friendship stretches back to primary school, in a manner reminiscent of a 1980s frat movie (not THAT one).
After a slow start I’m warming to the local culinary delicacies, like the pork bap with crackling and stuffing from John Crawshaw’s of Hillsborough.
Which prompts me to wonder why the locals here are so thin;
The other thing you notice is how they manage to get their missing cats to sit still to pose for those photos wrapped round every lamp post.
And why they’re more intelligent in say, Mansfield or Middlesbrough. Glasses are a sign of brains, yeah ?
*I see we’re getting two glorious days of sunshine next week; I daren’t look at the long-range forecast.
** No, actually it was the faster WiFi.