Untitled

I always fancied having a blog entry entitled Untitled, dear reader. I now feel terribly nineteenth century.

Although we're losing Autumn to Winter, there is still some green to be seen.



Mortonhall, slightly hidden by some evergreens, a birch and some strange plant with red stems, the name of which escapes me. I do love the colours, but, as I might have said here before, I hate people who claim that Autumn is their favourite season, "...because of all the lovely colours." I hate people who always look for something positive when all seems negative. I'm not a pesimist, but a realist. I hate fantasists. Perhaps that's a bit strong. I love fantasy. I just hate, I suppose, the glass half full, not empty brigade. They need to get a grip, get real. And I need to stop this rant.



Look! A squirrel! A grey one, not a red, sadly. You have to go up North to see those.



Meg thinks she's a budgie. She loves to perch on the fallen down tree.



Mary's very proud of her immense tongue. I'd love a tongue that size. The things I'd do with it just boggles my tiny mind. I'd never leave the house.

Phyllis took these photographs yesterday whilst walking mes filles.



When I was a wee lad, I was obsessed with the story of the Forth Rail Bridge and its constant painting. I would beg teacher to tell us all about it time and time again. I never thought I'd live near it. It's like winning the lottery.

This photograph was taken, also yesterday, at South Queensferry.



The Forth Road Bridge was opened by The Queen a few years back. It's already falling down whereas the Rail Bridge, which, at one hundred and sixteen years of age, is far older, is still going strong. I have to laugh to myself when I think of this. I don't think many people will be laughing, though, when all the deaths are announced. Let's hope, dear reader, that it happens in the night when as few people as possible are using it.



I noticed this sign, yesterday, in South Queensferry for the very first time. I had no idea what a bleaching green was and had to have it explained to me. All to do with the manufacture of cloth, dear reader.



The sign is at the bottom of this rather lovely clock tower. I've no idea how old the tower itself is, but it only became a clock tower in 1887 when the timepieces were installed to celebrate Queen Victoria's Golden Anniversary.

Tesla Girls.



How, dear reader, I ask you, do you suppose that this vile 1960s monstrosity was allowed to be built next to the clock tower in South Queensferry?



We walked around the harbour wall after a trip up the high street. Another view of the Rail Bridge.



In the other direction an unshven Minge is found with two bitches.



Now, today, dear reader, Phyllis and I went to the beach at Cramond. Just away into the Firth of Forth is an island, Cramond Island, which can only be reached at low tide. Well, it could also be reached at high tide, too, I suppose, but one would need a boat.



Here, dear reader, before Cramond Island, we see shaven Minge.



This is the first and, i think, only building one will find on the island. Shamefully, yobs have written all over it.



The city of Edinburgh can be seen from the island. I can pick out The Castle, Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags. Can you?



Looking back towards Cramond from Cramond Island. The sun was in our eyes. And, thankfully, the tide was still out.



Phyllis lobs with the bunger (and then breaks the bunger). This was primarily done to clean off the dogs' legs. The lobbing, not the breaking.



Sadly, this did not work so a proper leg washing exercise took place on our return home. Look at Minge in rubber gloves. How gay.