Stratford.

Stratford in East London is the base of this year's Olympic games. It's a strange place. For me at least. With the biggest shopping centre in the country newly opened and every corner being under constant change I kind of feel a bit disorientated. I'm not sure how to describe it but all this newness and shopping-focused urban organization puts my brain in a mode of continuous "suspiciousness". I'm weird, I know.

Bits, Few of Them.

Catching Up.

Some loose pics from the streets of London but no story this time.
The young girl seemingly trapped in an alien glass cage, daydreaming the traffic lights away might have a little nugget in it but I'll let you fill the gaps.

My Bulgarian Grandad.

This grandad is not my grandad, I don't have any any more. But he is the closest thing I could ever have. His nickname is "the Bulgarian" and how he acquired it is a story of old, told with the syntax and references of different times.
He goes to the village coffee shop to meet his friends and siblings twice a day; but has only one coffee. He tells great stories and laughs with his heart. Frequently he accidentally calls people on his mobile phone. Every Saturday he goes to the cemetery to visit his wife. He likes young people and especially girls. He loves his granddaughters and his best friend must be his grandson-in-law. He doesn't mind being teased and speaks German. He tries to keep low and stay out of trouble. And he takes pride in his garden. He takes care of the plants and will pick his artichokes, peppers and beans daily. He has all sorts of crops. Sometimes he even takes me up there to show me.

Come to think of it, I think he is my grandad after all. And I'm happy for it.