Tout doucement, sans faire de bruit...

Here again , like a giant game of bar skittles, are more of the wind turbine towers  under construction over in the eastern docks. Last weekend (was it Easter weekend? I don't do religion or Bank Holidays ... anyhow it was warm and windy ...) this country burnt no coal to power the national grid for over 90 hours, coal being a big nasty smelly troll that kills future generations of pig-tailed Swedish children ... This achievement went practically unmentioned in the MSM while what can only be called a paid claque of middle class swivel eyed self-styled eco-protesters were gluing themselves to public transport and blocking off Westminster and the West End of London while the police colluded ( I almost wrote cuddled). I can report no MP was harmed in the making of this demonstration (Parliament was not sitting) though several made asses of themselves fawning over Pippi Longstocking and her doom saying utterances. The idiotic demands of these puritanical "activists" would push ordinary folk back to the stone age while they would just jet off to the next gig ... 

Meanwhile, in the real world, the world's largest off-shore wind farm quietly produced its first sparks of electricity in February all from this modest looking place in east Hull. Well done them!

Also, sans faire de bruit, I notice that Hull and Hereabouts has been going on about stuff for nine years ... what was I thinking?

The metaphysical bus company

To would-be passengers waiting in the bus station with no knowledge of the world outside (no doubt plugged into their phones for safe keeping from whatever reality might be) the arrival of their bus would appear an event occurring without any antecedent cause. "Oh look!", says Davey Hume, "There's my bus! See, I told you it was a logical possibility".

I believe Margot pressed the button on the camera which resulted in this image being formed by some process beyond my very limited ken.

The Weekend in Black and White is here.

Various Cranes

There are a few old warehouses left in the old town all converted into flats and/or restaurants/nightclubs and so on. These still have wall mounted cranes as a reminder that these buildings once had a different purpose. In my ignorance of things mechanical I was going to call these hoists but I find that a hoist just moves stuff up and down, while a crane moves the hoist around; but then you already knew that.
The robust no-nonsense one above is on 47 Queen Street and the light-weight fancy one below on the Posterngate warehouse I posted yesterday.

Those two are just puny tiddlers compared to this big red whopper close by the Museum Quarter.

Monogram

I've passed the old warehouse/nightclub at the end of Posterngate a zillion times give or take and never noticed this intricate monogram. I'm told it reads JP 1831. Someone will know who JP was and might care to inform me. I've even posted the warehouse years ago but perversely cropped out the monogram.