yizhivika

A photo (or three) a day for 2012.

Boxing Day Sales at Gunwharf Quays…so two last pictures of the Spinnaker Tower, and one of…a tailfin and some reindeer ;)

The Spinnaker Tower, approaching dusk...

The Spinnaker Tower, approaching dusk…


A tailfin sculpture amid some Christmas paraphenalia at Gunwharf Quays...

A tailfin sculpture amid some Christmas paraphenalia at Gunwharf Quays…


Four real trees, a red Christmas tree, and the Spinnaker beyond...

Four real trees, a red Christmas tree, and the Spinnaker beyond…

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5 thoughts on “Boxing Day Sales at Gunwharf Quays…so two last pictures of the Spinnaker Tower, and one of…a tailfin and some reindeer ;)

  1. secret squirrel on said:

    Very colourful pics for such a wet day. I love the colours in the Spinnaker Tower. I must try and go up there one day. 🙂

    • If you do, make sure it’s a summer’s day with blue skies and all, not a dismal day like yesterday ;). Gunwharf actually looks misleadingly quiet here, but in the main shopping areas it was pretty busy, with one or two shops operating queuing systems. I spent most of my time there with XQ, choosing clothes for her 3 year old granddaughter in China, and we actually walked to (and from) Gunwharf from Fratton, despite the occasional rain. There were a few buses running in Portsmouth yesterday, but we were feeling virtuous…;)

  2. … And everywhere there is light, gentle snow. 🙂

  3. Haha…methinks there is poetry in your soul, andelieya ;). Actually, one of my favourite poems is one by a Czech poet, Vladimir Holan (1905-1980), called ‘Snow’. It’s not quite as lyrical as ‘Good King Wenceslas’, but it has a bleak beauty all of its own. 🙂

    http://www.artofeurope.com/holan/hol2.htm

    • Thanks, yizhivika, for sharing another poem with me!

      This one deals with an interesting and timely topic. It seems that today, more than ever, people in general avoid spending time alone with themselves in stillness. They distract themselves with movies, music, activities, anything to avoid having to confront themselves in silence. If someone got up at midnight and couldn’t sleep, they would probably turn on the TV or read a book until they could go back to sleep. Maybe even pop a sleeping pill.

      Why is it that people are so reluctant to be alone with themselves? The last two sentences in the poem give a pointer: “You are alone. Spare the gestures. Nothing for show.” So what is left?

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