A familiar scene by now, of the view over the back garden fence, mossily patinated, of the field with goalposts beyond, this evening wreathed in a light mist through which can be seen palely shining the moon, which turns thoughts to the 'Wiring Club' of that ilk, accompanying those of similarities to the aesthetic of George Shaw that inform such a picture, of a certain banality, melancholy & yet also perversely romantic as it seems.
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