Observation

It is my belief/understanding that patchwork quilts/bedspreads came about through the practical re-use of scraps of fabric remaining from garments which were no longer of worthwhile use; the ankle-ends of pyjama bottoms etc.
Nowadays, whole bolts of perfectly viable woven fabric are cut into little pieces for the current fad of home creativity (no disrespect to Mrs Madwill).

When I left work on Friday evening I was aware of a twinge in my lower spine. From Monday I am facing a very important week at work and I simply cannot be out-of-action, so I decided to take a therapeutic walk to ease it.

An “Artisan Market” on Saturday in Rochester High Street had been advertised and so I thought it would do me no disservice to wander along there to pay it a visit. A few stalls; one selling home-made cakes (not interested); one selling vegan/gluten-free Scotch eggs (not interested); and several, all from the same creative collective (more interesting).
Unfortunately, pretty-much everything in the latter section had an Xmas theme (not interested), though the creativity and the pricing were worth a second look before I walked away with my wallet still intact.

I then zig-zagged back home again via the usual haberdashery and charity shops which tend to stimulate me. I already have quite enough woven fabric to embark on a sewing project, should an idea materialise, but so far, I am without inspiration, so I am playing about with some more embroidery.

When I lived in a traditional Greek village, nobody owned a sewing machine yet everyone created their own wedding trousseau, so patchwork was not a “thing” but embroidery was everywhere. 
Wandering in-and-out of haberdashery shops with a galaxy of printed woven cotton yet a paucity of embroidery threads just broke my heart. In my little Greek village I could get every single colour in the manufacturer's catalogue, and it was good quality too. Here I can get maybe 50 shades and all of them tangle.

Be that as it may, on my wander into Rochester I decided that my blip for today would probably be my local pub – not that I frequent it very often, but of all the local oases, this is my favourite.

On my homeward journey, poised to take my blip, I realised that reflections would ruin what I had hoped to show. So this image is a compromise.

I feel I ought to mention the fact that this pub is owned and run by people from France. Most welcome here!

It was only last year that I realised that my life-saving surgery occurred on the 73rd anniversary of Kristallnacht.
It was only this year that I realised that the Berlin Wall was broached on the 51st anniversary of the same event.
(also, 9th November 1918 and 9th November 1923)
Happy birthday Germany! Happy birthday new me! :-)