cleanskies

Yesterday, on the way up Queen Street I spotted out a biggish group of Oxford's roughsleepers gathered by the twin-town sign in Bonn Square, all stood up, looking animated and anxious. Walking past, I caught the conversation -- they'd heard about the bombs and were worried about their mates in London. A little further up the street, I walked past D & J, two of my colleagues who do outreach work (we call it "detached") heading their way; as is common when they're working, I nodded and smiled, but no chit-chat. And they went on down to check on the group and make sure they got the news just like the rest of us, and provide access to a phoneline and internet for those who needed it.

I flickred jinty's delightful barbie, at which I got drunk, encouraged Ellie to swing on doors and shut people in cupboards, wept all over the hostess and messed up lighting the barbecue. It was the least I could do. Some of the photos are public, but some are friends-and-family -- brixtonbrood, isn't it about time you got a Flickr account? Then you can snicker at pictures of Adrian very much en famille (Ellie took this one).