Blasted Dogs

When I’m walking the dogs I have to go to a local park. No more trips to Kew Gardens or other interesting things around London. Since the blasted dogs have arrived I’ve taken about 1/3 as many pictures as I used to.


After rather a long hiatus, during which time very little photography has been done.

The most miserable English summer in a hundred years.

The best Olympics ever.

Lots of swimming.

Personal time down to almost nothing.

Oh well. A few pictures at least.

An hour of sunshine

It’s been raining a lot in London over the last 6 weeks or so.

Managed to get an hour of sunshine last Friday before work.

Some City Horizons shots.

Ribena and Cider

Both very old and going down the drain. Used Macro mode for the first time.


How was your weekend?

A common polite refrain heard on return to work on a Monday morning. Mostly just polite chitter-chatter with little interest in what really happened. It’s the Monday-morning equivalent of weather talk.

Mine was busy, consumed by the kids and family stuff. Building bunk beds. Taking the girls to swimming lessons and parties. So Sunday afternoon rolled around and I fancied just lying on the sofa, but Lauren wanted to go to the park. And we were mildly curious about some new houses built near the high school, down by the canal. So we went for a drive and a walk in the park afterwards.

I wasn’t even going to bring the camera, but it’s an X100 and it will not be left at home. It weighs nothing. And it’s hardly warm out, but 15 degrees warmer than it was 10 days ago. So what the heck.

Down by the Grand Union Canal and in Boston Manor Park. Lovely sunshine. Amazing family. Clinging to a tiny little rock for a tiny fraction of time in an unbelievably vast and uncaring universe. Scared, but not alone; a life given purpose in little feet and sparkling eyes. So very grateful to simply live and experience this joy, trying to savour every minute of my brief time with them.

They tried to sneak up on a rabbit (twice). They ran across the grass and up and down hills. Strolled along the canalside. Demanded to be carried when they got tired, and then soon were off again running.

“To be the father of growing daughters is to understand something of what Yeats evokes with his imperishable phrase ‘terrible beauty.’ Nothing can make one so happily exhilarated or so frightened: it’s a solid lesson in the limitations of self to realize that your heart is running around inside someone else’s body. It also makes me quite astonishingly calm at the thought of death: I know whom I would die to protect and I also understand that nobody but a lugubrious serf can possibly wish for a father who never goes away?”

Christopher Hitchens, Hitch-22

A few frosty pics from 2012

I sometimes think that it will be nice when the girls are older and my shots are not snatched while carrying my camera around my neck, shooting one handed as I trudge through the snow pulling a sled with a 3-year-old on it.

But then I think that I’m mad. How can a day get any better?


The Tate Modern building is an old power station. X100 at night in the dark. Cropped square. I can feel the power.