There are as many approaches to photography as there are photographers. Some are top of the chain hunters with all the gear, going up mountains to get that special image. Some are machine gunners, shooting everything in sight, hoping to at least hit the target once. Some are scavengers, going out to know where people have already taken great shots, and just hope they can get something too. Others are fishermen.
And, of course, I identify as a fisherman. Now, in a time, long, long ago, before I tried to reboot a semblance of a musical career, I used to go fishing. I wasn’t a serious fisherman and didn’t have all the kit, but I had a couple of rods and knew what I could get put of them despite being a complete beginner. I wasn’t really bothered about getting a fish from the river, to out of the river, and onto a dinner plate. Even though it was an obvious bonus. It was about being outside. It was hearing the sound of the river as it was, about hearing the birdsong and about sharing something with my son. It was like a sort of mediation. You become so aware of every sensation, and it brought me so much peace.
I was far from being an expert, and getting up at the crack of dawn to go to a specofic spot just wasn’t going to happen. I didn’t chuck in a grenade to get everything out of the river. Maybe I was a scavenger, without having the vain hope that they seem to have. I think it was my patience and gratitude for every fish that did it fr me. No instant gratification…
Could this apply to my photography? Possibly. Am I that hunter that will climb mountains to get that one shot? Well it has happened, but only because there was a funicular. Or because I was in Paris and knew that I was bound to get something on film. Or even in Nantes.
I have a certain amount of gear and a certain number of cameras. I know how each piece of kit works and what I can get out of them. But the most important thing is being out of the house. It’s about being to detatch oneself from the scene and becoming an observer who is conscious of what is going on around you. If you get that prize-winning photo, then great, and if you don’t, then great too. Just having a pit stop to have cake, and a nice cup of tea makes everything worthwhile.
When I used to suffer from anxiety, that fact of being able to detatch from a scene and become a mere observer did me the world of good. I was no longer in constant flight or fight mode. With my 40 years of this photo lark, I have managed to take one some of the basics and still manage to get a not too shabby hit rate. It’s about doing and not thinking. Yes, of course you think about your composition and your settings, but just taking everything in is far more important.
Some people have sport. Some have painting. Some have a multitude of creative pursuits that allow them to express themselves. It would appear that mine is exploring the world around me with a camera. Sometimes you win, and sometimes you don’t. The mere act of being out there exploring and letting the images present themselves to you can be enough.
Sometimes you have brunch and just feel that all is well with the world. Well, that Sunday, all was definitely well with the world, or at least, well with my world, which isn’t a bad way to be on a delightful sunny February afternoon. Out in town with my camera, well-fed, and just wandering around, seeing what would turn up in front of my camera.
If I were to be honest, I know that if I go to such-and-such an area, I will get such-and-such a kind of photo, so we can’t about wandering around aimlessly, but there was a sort of randomness… Sort of.
Get ready for some technical information, which will hopefully explain the style of photos that I am presenting to you today. When converting my images to black and white, I edited as if I had a red filter on my camera and as if I were using black and white film. When using this red filter, anything that is blue comes out in a darker tone. It’s going to be easier to use an image instead of a thousand words…
Basically, anything that is a deep blue turns almost black and makes for a powerful image. Some people love it (I do), others don’t (ah well), and that’s all fine too! You get the picture!
A lot of the photos that follow will exhibit this effect as if they were case book studies. You need the sky to be a certain way or it just won’t work, but when it does, you get the kind of image that jumps out at you. That and the 16-35mm lens, you can’t really go wrong. Mind you, after that delicious brunch, not a lot could go wrong…
When does Happy Birthday become Happy Not Dead Yet Day? Is there a cut-off age for birthdays, or should men become like women and become just 21 again? Are birthdays just for children? Why am I talking about this anyway? Today is the anniversary of my birth. I was born on this day in 1972, 51 years ago. When this article will be published my birthday will have passed so don’t try finding my date of birth. Some people love their birthdays and enjoy them and just go for it. I, surprise, surprise, am not one of those dreadful people. Noooo, I am just in a foul mood, and despite receiving happy birthday wishes with good grace, I remain, under my breath, just an angry old man. What is wrong with me?!
It could be because my birthday isn’t even being celebrated on the day itself. Well, it is but it isn’t. I expressed the wish for a beer and pizza night. So, of course, I’m the one who has to go out and get the effing pizzas and get the beer. I’m not even allowed to choose the effing film, because I am a sucker for a Rom-Com, and my family members aren’t so we won’t be watching one. My daughter chose a birthday cake, a chocolate cake, which I am rather partial to, but it has that sickly sweet icing on it and is a unicorn rainbow cake. She’s basically taking the piss out of me. This isn’t me being paranoid since she actually admitted everything! I’m even more pissed off with myself as I should be grateful instead of being selfish. Damn you conscience!!!
I don’t like being the centre of attention and feel very uneasy about it. If any bugger sings happy birthday to me, I just want the ground to swallow me up.
There were actually people last year for my fiftieth who actually came around for a party! The utter gall of it! Apparently “they,” say you have to be made a fuss of and receive presents. It was awful. You have to sit there pretending to have a good time. The thing was a disaster and I still have a wine stain on my favourite shirt!
I told my son last night how I generally love my fellow man, and he promptly replied with the word bollocks! You hate people! I don’t necessarily hate them, and I do like them, far away, and on my own terms, i.e. not in my house wishing me a happy birthday!
How can I be like this?? I have no idea. I remember my childhood birthdays with great affection, and I can’t blame booze for giving me just partial recollections. My mother always went the extra mile, and I remember various styled chocolate cakes with great affection. Even when I was at boarding school birthdays were fun. I would get some cards, and Thornton toffees from my grandmother, and Matron would come round asking me if I wanted a chocolate cake or fruit cake? I generally asked if I could have a chocolate cake, and at the end of supper, the cake would be brought out of the kitchen and divided up amongst the whole school which was a great way to do things.
Even when I came back into the state school system, you would get the bumps which never really hurt, and one would have to pretend to struggle and just take it, but it was a laugh. Now it would be classed as bullying and possibly assault! How times have changed!
So, thank you to all who have wished me a happy birthday. Thank you for not picking me up by my hands and feet and not kicking me! Thank you for taking a moment to have a thought for me on my special day. I really do love you all!
Françaises, Français, Belges, Belges, Mon président, Mon chien, Monsieur l’avocat le plus bas d’Inter, mesdames et messieurs les jurés, public chéri mon amour. The manner in which that French genius Pierre Desproges greeted his audience in the infamous radio show Le Tribunal des Flagrants Délires.
It was something I heard repeated on Rire et Chansons when I used to listen to French Radio trying to learn how to become more French than the French in the vain idea that I had to learn all about French culture to be accepted by them. Now I realise my erreur! All I had to do to be like them was to talk French incorrectly, smoke, drink wine, feel as if I am the light of the world, and judge people. A damning indictment possibly, but how true!
Am I here to slag off the French once again? Not really, but it’s always something so satisfying… They think they know everything, and yet… But I’m just going to leave that there today and not develop, because it is not the done thing, however fun it might be!
The quote by Pierre Desproges is quite revealing in the way he addresses his public, chéri, mon amour. Do I write for others uniquely, or is it part of my therapy and a means to expedite my inner daemons? Do I write only to leave a trace on this world before I die? Is this my legacy for my children? As a writer, not that I class myself as a “writer” in the way a French intellectual might, I do write the articles on this blog, and I hope, in some small way, to either amuse you, to help you pass some time in public transport and depending on my subject of choice, help you realise that there might just be a different way of looking at the world. Possibly. Who knows? Who really cares? You, Dear Reader I hope, in some small way. Sharing is caring, after all.
According to the statistics that I get back since I started this weird and wonderful project, there have been 8 826 of you that have visited my site. There have been 33 994 views of my pages. The French have viewed my site 17 810 times, followed by the British with 5029, and our Colonials across the pond with 4157 views. This amazes me firstly, because I write in English for the French apparently, and they seem to lap it up, and secondly by the views from my home country, the United Kingdom. Thanks Mum and Dad!! As I look over the history of IJM Photography, I would like to thank the guy in Ireland who often has a look in. Buy that man a pint of Guinness!
Not a map of the British Empire despite the pink…
When I see all the countries in pink on this map, I keep telling myself that this is not the British empire but people from the countries who have taken a moment and have visited this blog. I still find this amazing. I’m just one person, among 7bn on this planet. It’s as if I have had over 8 thousand people visit my home and have a look inside my mind.
The most popular article was about the X100F camera that has a place in my heart and camera bag. 586 views that one!! In 2019, it was an article about Humber Street with 169 views. In 2020, Don’t Panic with 112 views. 2021 with the X100F article, and this year 2022, it was the Parisian Nights Part I. Please have a look through the archives and maybe discover things you never knew existed!
When I declared to my mother that I was going to start a website, she declared it would never last. For once, you were wrong mother, and I apologise for this exception to the rule. I tend to have no filter concerning what I write about and how I write it, which can lead to interesting insights into the functioning of my dysfunctional brain. I’ll let the head shrinkers have a field day with that one. You get me, a rather large English-Irish gentleman, and my heart goes into each page and word that I write for myself and for you, Dear Reader. Thank you for being part of this strange adventure.
Dear Reader, I may have mentioned before in previous articles that for my many sins, and to curb my pride, I am a musician, and some might even go further still, and remind me I am a horn player. As a musician, we can have a tendency to “do” concerts and play in them, rather than going along as a listener. I mean, of course, that we listen to our fellow musicians, especially when playing that music together. It is a team effort, after all. But not as a spectator.
Little did I know that when I went to taste some homemade beer at my friend Hervé’s house, he would invite me to take some photos of a concert he was playing in, on the 18th of June. I, of course, jumped at the opportunity. An evening of taking photos and getting to listen to live music at the same time? What a way to spend the hottest day of the year so far!
We were rehearsing together the following Friday, and he said to be at his house at such-and-such a time, and that I should just park up in the driveway. There would also be my old and very much revered horn teacher, as in my previous horn teacher, and not my old new horn teacher, nor a teacher that is old despite his great wisdom. But that is a story for another day. Hervé was going to drive us to the concert. Jérôme, my very much revered horn teacher, plays in the same ensemble as Hervé. They are members of the Brass Quintet Arabesque, made up of instrument teachers from across my particular region of France.
So, I got into the car, turned on the ignition, saw the temperature, and promptly melted. 44°C! For those who only work in Fahrenheit, body temperature is 37°C, and 44°C is 111°F. My point exactly. By the time I reached Hervé’s house, it was a mere 40°C. A tad warm, even for me!
I drove up, parked, saw my horn teacher in very summery attire, but always with a hat, saunter up, and Smaug, the family Labrador, who you remember from my last article, who does not know what sauntering is about, just ran around the car three times and jumped up to say hello, being as friendly as ever. Bless him! We quickly went inside into the shade and cool. I do like a bit of cool from time to time.
We eventually got all the kit together in the car, thanks again Hervé for doing all the driving, and set off. The way to Guérande isn’t very complicated, and it’s pretty plain sailing. We talked about everything and nothing, about my presence at the Wind Band next year, and what alternatives I could think of, about the photoshoot from the previous week, about the various instruments and would we change instrument, how much it might cost to change, and what newer instruments could bring to the table, or should I say rehearsal room…
Parking in Guérande was a doddle, and we headed to the Collégiale, or church inside the medieval walls. We dropped everything off in the church, and things suddenly became very serious. Where would we eat? The first place we tried, a creperie, was no longer serving food, so we headed to Plan B. Plan B was fully booked, but was able to fit us in. Five brass musicians, one organist, and yours truly. Luckily I don’t seem to take up much space. Simon said he had to go and shave and came back with blood on his face. Michel, the organist that would be playing with the quintet, told us that the organ in that building needed a makeover and was basically shite. Out of tune, and half of it didn’t work. That’s something you don’t really want to hear when you don’t have a huge amount of time to have the pre-concert setup and run through. Another thing you don’t want to hear is that you’re all going to have to tune your instruments up to 444hz. This basically means you’re all fecked because your instruments have been in slightly warm cars. After all, it’s boiling outside and you’ll just never make it. The brass expands in the heat and therefore will sound flatter, and at 444hz you really need to be on the sharper side. It’s a bit like me trying to walk past a slice of cake and a nice cup of tea; it’s just not going to happen… Luckily the food arrived, as did the beers, and the puds. We were happy. I had all my camera gear, and most importantly plenty of batteries in case the batteries inside the cameras gave up the will to live. Some lovely shots were begging to be taken outside the church.
What I didn’t have, especially inside the church, was a whole lot of light. For photography, light is quite important. Understatement of the year contender again… This was going to be interesting. I had been fed by Arabesque, and now there was bugger all light inside, so photography was going to be a tad tricky.
Luckily, somebody turned on the lights and I was saved. Who said miracles never happen in the Catholic Church? They did this evening. The only photos I could take were before the concert actually began because afterwards the church would fall into darkness as there was going to be drone footage shown on a screen behind the Quintet as they played, showing the church in which they were playing. This was the main idea behind the concert. Through music and film, show people the church they were in from a slightly different viewpoint. It was great just to sit and take in the music. And take in the music I did. I was always told the importance of concert-going to musicians and how it helps us develop musically in so many ways. I only had to make an effort to sit there, make no noise, and just listen and be captivated. And captivated I was! I thought the tuning was fine and not at all the catastrophe announced by the organist. But I was just here to listen to some quality sounds and not to be a critic from the Times
The first half finished with the Toccata by Charles Marie Widor from his Organ symphony number 5. Any pedal notes that were missing from the organ were amply covered by the bass notes of the tuba that seem to just go right through you. It’s also a piece of music that has, amongst others, the ability to make my eye become all watery with emotion. I’ll leave it here for you to listen to.
The interval arrived. I say that but it didn’t really make an entrance. It just happened. The public was invited to walk around the church and rediscover images from the film in real life. They could also purchase CDs of the Quintet. 10€ each, or 20€ for three. They could also subscribe and have a CD of the programme, as well as make a contribution to the Association Résonnance, who gave their name to the entire project. It also meant that I could take more ambience photos and not be in anybody’s way.
Up until then, I had been using the Canon 6D Mark II which makes a tremendous noise when the mirror moves up to expose the sensor. I was worried that I would disturb everyone and switched to the comparatively silent Fuji XT2 with the 18-55mm zoom lens, which is a 24-70mm full-frame equivalent, so a good all-rounder for reportage. During the second half, I could be seen trying to move silently the way Corporal McCune taught me to so as not to disturb my fellow concertgoers.
The second half started with the horn and trombone playing a one thousand-year-old tune for the Easter celebration. Unfortunately, the audience hadn’t cottoned on to the fact that the second half had just started and some were still talking! As soon as the other musicians appear and Hervé started introducing the next piece, they seemed to get the message and promptly shut up! They lead us through time through the Baroque, the Classical, and the Romantic periods. They ended up with Aaron Copland, and music from Grover’s Corner, whoever Grover was. I suspect it wasn’t the same Grover that lives on Sesame Street…
After the concert, we did the official group photo, and eventually said good night and see back at Hervé’s house. It was midnight, much cooler, windy, and felt as if a storm was on the way. Jérôme fell asleep in the back, and Hervé and I just chilled, talking about this very blog and photography, especially the differences between being a good amateur photographer, and a professional photographer and how the two are completely different, in the same way, that I quickly realised when doing my music studies here in France. You have to produce consistently good results, and the pressure is on. They were already doing the concert debrief about everything that went wrong. I tried to reassure them that it wasn’t a competition and that as an audience member, I had a great time. Basically, the same things that I had been taught by Jérôme. If the audience is happy, then the audience is happy.
On the way home, we saw the sky fill up with lightning and thunder. It felt magical, and also the temperature had halved. It was a mere 22°C. It felt wonderful. We got home first and had a beer whilst waiting for the others to arrive. The others arrived and there was still some English beer for them, and some homemade beer too. It received the seal of approval from everyone present. We ended saying what went wrong with the concert and how it was a learning experience. I still thought it was brilliant. So there!!
I was at Mass, in Nantes, on a Sunday evening, and being appropriately prayerful, knees bent praying to prepare my mind for the sacrifice of the mass wondering if I was going to be able to stand up again. Despite my gammy knee, it wasn’t a problem. Mass started, and they were off. During the entrance hymn, my director of music at my Wind band, but most importantly, my friend, Hervé, accompanied by his wife, and daughter, walk in and sit just in front of me. We gestured hello, but you don’t interrupt the Word of God, and we saved niceties for after Mass.
It was a genuine pleasure to see him there and not just because we share the same faith, but just nice to see a frightfully nice chap, but also an all-around good egg! We exchanged conversation and I said how wouldn’t it be nice if we could go to the pub for a pint. They’d had a long day, but to his utter disbelief, Veronica, acquiesced and we were given her blessing. I suggested they park in the same place as I usually did and that we meet up. We both knew where the pub (John Mc Byrne) was and headed off to claim our reward for obvious good behaviour.
They were already at the pub by the time I parked and so I walked up to join them. Strangely my nose just seems to lead the way! I saw him standing outside waiting for me and I showed him the best seats in the house, or for me, nearly a home (it’s where I see my friends). I introduced him to Simon who knows nearly everything about sport, whiskey, and good places to eat in the vicinity, the Rob, whose jokes are almost as cringe-worthy as my own, and lastly to Gavin who is half and half… Half Scottish and half French. His parents are obviously to blame.
We commented on how the establishment wasn’t a bar but was a proper pub, and how nice his pint of Irish IPA was. I persuaded him to taste a pint of O Hara’s Nitro, which is the nearest thing that I found to Yorkshire bitter over here. We both seem to have similar tastes in beer, which helps in a friendship. It’s unbearable when one likes lager and the other friend, beer…. It tuned out that he had some homemade Bitter that he wanted my opinion on. Ah well, there goes a perfect reason to meet up again! Fortunately, I was going to be on holiday during that week, so we set the date and time said goodnight to each other and headed home.
I asked if I could bring along my portable photography studio to take his portrait and he very kindly agreed. At the appointed time, on the appointed day, I turned up with my studio and dog. Molly wasn’t very sure about hanging out with a big very friendly, almost too friendly for her, beautiful chocolate Labrador, who was coming out of puppyhood and entering doggyhood.
I said she could stay in the car and left the windows slightly open so she would be fine and said that I would come back and check on her now and again. Smaug, the Labrador, was put on one side of the house, and Molly decided she could stay by my side and still be OK. We tasted the beer and were unanimous in our praise of this wonderful concoction. Then the photoshoot. Hervé already knew that I dabble in photography, as do you Dear Reader, and was most impressed when I set up the studio. I was quite impressed by it too because it was only that afternoon that I had back to revise how to operate my speedlights and trigger. The first shots were more to break the ice, not just for Hervé but also for me, and already we were getting some good shots. He played me a recording of a new project launched by the Brass Quintet with whom he plays and has my old horn teacher as the horn player. It was amazing. They were playing in church with a massive organ played by the organist from the Nantes Cathedral. Wow, that is all…
We then go the instruments out. First the E flat tuba. I thought, let’s just break him in gently. Then I went back out to the car to get my horn and make him look like a proper musician with the most beautiful instrument from the orchestra in his hands. We would suggest to the horn teacher that Hervé had finally seen the light and wanted to convert. Then we messed it up by getting out his conductor’s baton. All in all, we were having a laugh, talking, just as friends will be want to do.
I ate with them and by the time I left that evening the two dogs had even sniffed each other and were even respecting their own private space. That Smaug is one lovely dog and not at all dragonlike as his name suggests. He’s a big softy. A bit like myself Dear Reader…
Yesterday I looked death in the face. Whilst at work, yesterday at around 10 am, crossing from one building to another, I suddenly looked up and saw a big flash of yellow in front of me. A forklift truck was just 3 feet away from me. I was between the two forks. Three feet between me and potential death, and a prison term for the driver.
The driver has a certain “reputation,” and the guys from the workshop where he can be found the most say it’s just a matter of time until he actually kills someone.
When it actually happens to you, it makes you think how much you would actually enjoy living a tad more. Not necessarily an epiphany, but (going for the understatement of the year prize, 2022) definitely a bit of a shock. Three feet, that were the difference between my wife with whom my first date took place 30 years ago to the day, becoming my widow!!! My children were three feet from losing their father.
Fortunately, my plus 2 saw the whole thing and came storming out of his office saying that it was unacceptable that I should have to suffer being in such danger, and that the colleague would be suitably bollocked by plus 2 and the 2 plus 1’s that he frequently comes into contact during the day. My plus 1 and the driver came to my stores, to say sorry, with smiles on their faces. It was like being told by the teacher to see the child that they had just bullied and apologise. I said that I would send them the cleaning bill for my underpants that I had just soiled. There’s no point in going full frontal and yelling at them. Be the better man and all that… Also, I’m English in France, I’m fifty, I have a gammy knee, and despite everything, this job pays the rent!
Clocking in this morning, I saw the driver who had nearly taken me out and asked him if he wouldn’t mind not trying to kill me today. When Plus 1 said good morning to me, I said that I was just glad to be alive and that I was hoping not to be killed today either. I also reminded them that had I been killed, then there would have been prison not only for the driver but for the driver’s boss. Strangely enough, the driver has stopped driving so fast and seems, for the moment at least, to take his responsibilities on board.
I will be the better man, I will be the better man, I will be the better man, and with the help of God, remain glad to be alive for a little longer.
COVID-19: I tried it so that you don’t have to! As with most things, I always seem to be late getting “on trend” and with Covid, I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, I had got through it without catching it. Little did I know that the next day, Covid would come along a smack me about the face!
It was a Tuesday. A rough day at work. The sort of day where you feel shitty all day, but are still vertical and not horizontal, and therefore not ill. Serves you right for only 4 hours of sleep last night… Wednesday. A really rough day at work. You slept a little better but are still tired. Coughing a bit. Must be just the sleep thing. Exhausted and not hugely productive in the afternoon. I’ll just check my temperature, you never know… 35.4°C. Could be worse, I suppose, but wow, not felt this bad for a while. Vive la “going home time.” Yay; I got home in one piece, and let’s just go to bed. An early night won’t do me any harm. It’s freezing in bed and I can’t get warm. I have the covers on, and my dog is next to me, but I’m absolutely freezing. This is not good.
Day 1. Thursday morning. I get up at the usual time. Not one for pulling a sickie, I seem to have the do I, or don’t I debate in my head. Well, I didn’t. My wife said to do a Covid test last night. Didn’t feel up to it. But this morning I plucked up the courage to stick something uncomfortably far up my nose. Had great difficulty reading the tiny printing, but worked out how to do everything, and how to do the test. Two lines appeared and usually mean pregnancy, but it can’t be that. I’m just fat. No, I was Covid positive and positive that I had Covid. Out came my phone, first, to write the mail to my bosses informing them I will not be there today, and second, with blind optimism, phone the local nurse to get something else poked up my nose, but officially this time. Could I come straight away? She didn’t have any patients that morning. Yes, I could. Told my son where I was going and was asked if he could come too. We were both in the car with our masks on, drove to the nurse’s office, and got poked right up the nose. I was now officially positive, and my son was officially negative. Did he realise how many points he had just lost in the favourite child competition? No masculine solidarity at all. He was actually looking quite smug! The cheek of the boy!
Back home to work out how you do everything for the Social Security, and how you get your sick note. It would appear that you have to grass up anyone with whom you were in contact for over 15 minutes without wearing a mask. The only people were my daughter and wife. And of course the dog. A miracle happened. To finish on a high note, I got all the French Covid admin done from my phone and could enjoy being ill at last. I was still chilling and felt cold, and coughing, and put on Netflix and get back into bed. It would appear that I have drifted off… Again…
My daughter was tested later that day and became my Covid Buddy. She also gained points and won the coveted favourite child position. The day was spent sleeping, and feeling awful.
Day 2. Friday. Much the same as Day 1, still with the coughing and feeling cold. That beautiful doggy dog didn’t move one inch from my side. I tried taking paracetamol to see if it would do any good. Who was I trying to kid? It was about as useful as a bicycle for a non-cycling fish! Kept trying to drink lots of fluids. I had a goodies parcel from the UK and was gradually working my way through glasses of orange and lemon barley water. I still had good taste. Which is something just not worth contemplating losing. If it were to make me pee during the night, then I could just sleep the next morning.
Day 3. My wife became a Covid Buddy too. She had vainly tried sleeping on the sofa downstairs last night, thinking that this would protect her. Well, it didn’t. She was quite worried about phoning her boss, but I reassured her saying that Covid is Covid and so is the week off you get as a consolation prize. Full pay too! Less coughing.
Day 4 and 5. Much the same. Bed. Snoozing. Feeling pretty crappy. During the night, suffered from horrible muscular pains in my thighs of all places! Stopped me from sleeping, but I knew I could snooze later.
Day 5. If I were Covid negative, then I could go back to work. But despite the mail from my boss asking how I was and possibly hoping that I would be back, it wasn’t going to happen. Back to bed, and snoozing.
Day 6 and 7. Much the same, but by the end of Day 7, I was starting to feel nearly human again!
Day 8. Back to work, but not necessarily bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but definitely vertical again. During the whole Covid experience, that dog never left my side for over 10 minutes at a time! She got loads of brownie points.
Rating. 2 stars. Nice to have a fully paid week off work, but not nice being too ill to get the most out of it. Wouldn’t recommend it to a friend.
Good afternoon Dear Reader. All is quiet on the Western Front, basically I’ve turned down Alexa’s volume from 5 to 3. My boss said the radio was little loud sometimes. I told him that it was because of my partial deafness. He then said something that I could quite catch; I didn’t have my glasses on.
Yesterday I celebrated my 50th birthday, and therefore, am no longer an old young person, but rather a young old person. To be perfectly honest with you, and why the heck not be honest with you, I didn’t even think I would get this far. It has been referred to as one of those milestone birthdays. Like 18, 21, 25, 30, and 40. But this one really feels advanced.
Let me just check. Weight around the mid section. Check. Deafness? Check. Glasses? Check. Hair? What hair is left is now grey. Beard, check. One of my redeeming features. Knees? Arthritis in the right one. Dog? Molly is fabulous. Slippers? Not really, I traded a pair of security boots for my son’s bright yellow Crocs. Really comfy. Children? Check, one adult officially, might be leaving home soon, and one 12 year old daughter going on 30! Becoming a snappy dresser with a little more elegance than before because I want to dress for myself, my wife, and don’t really care about what anybody else thinks. Get those yellow Crocs!! Maybe I’m finally an adult and have actually got the hang of all this adulting? Are there any more squares on the 50 year old bingo that I might have left out?
I check things that move out of my body from the front or the back. That started happening late in my forties so I don’t know if it’s I’m the right decade. Looking to see if I’m properly hydrated by the colour of my pee. Feeling very out of sorts if I haven’t pooped by 7am. Drinking a litre of water before I leave for work. I have a smart watch, which tells me how I sleep and how far I have walked every day. It also gives me my pulse and stress levels.
Doctors. Doctors seem to have become so much younger nowadays. My old GP retired a couple of years ago, and the replacements aren’t even thirty and it’s like going to see somebody who’s just out of school and not older than my son. At work I have noticed normal people leaving to go into retirement, and I have become one of the less young members of staff. Youngsters come and join the team, and I don’t even know their names.
I’m trying to think of the 50 year old stereotypes, and I can’t think of any. No longer young, but definitely not old yet. Professionally “they” seem to say well you’re not going any further. If you leave now, it’ll be hard to find work elsewhere as you are considered “passed it” whatever “it” may be. Do I just have wait here and wait for retirement? Will I be able to retire? Politics and all that… I really have no idea and it’s slightly frightening.
When you’re 20 you’re young and have energy to move mountains. It is the pssage from childhood into the real adult world and can be a rude awakening. I just moved to France. Asking for trouble I suppose. By the time I was 30, I had one child and by the time I was 40 I had my second child. I was starting to get the hang of this parenting business. During my forties I went through quite a lot of depression and wondering where the hell my life was going and probably was a little too self-centered and I would like to work on that during this next decade of my life. Maybe my fifties are there to prepare me to be a grandparent.
As this new part of my life begins, I will keep you up to date regularly and you my even get some photographs from tie to time. Until then, I’ll just have to look forward to getting home and having a nice cup of tea and a couple of biscuits…
As I said a couple of articles ago, for my many sins, I am a musician. In 15 minutes I will be on stage playing in a concert. It’s almost an other-worldly experience. Random thoughts wondering through my mind. I know I turned off the iron, because I did my ironing yesterday. But on the 45 drive minute drive to the theatre I was just taking in the landscape and the colours of Autumn, telling myself that “that” would make a nice photo. Capturing the autmnal colours of the trees, seeing those that were in all their warm coloured glory. Wondering if I should use a 50 or the 16-35mm zoom. Well in that very instant the answer wasn’t a problem. I was driving and not taking photos. Michael Ball was on Radio 2 talking about Children in Need and giving praise to those fund raisers that keep the UK going. I was there and yet so far away in my mind.
I was sat down on stage at the correct time, secretly hating all those who were there before me making me seem late. 8 minutes to show time. Thoughts in my mind telling not to screw up such amd such a passage. And thinking that in Mars I start the concert with a bass horn solo. So no pressure then. Once it’s over I’ll be in the action and not thinking anymore. Looking forward to the horn section solo in Jupiter. No need to play too loud, but on the contrary, just be present with a large sound and enjoy the shit out of it!
Time to go and I’ll finish after the concert or maybe at half time. I don’t know yet… You’ll just have to see. It’ll be a surprise.
Well that could have been worse. I mean it wasn’t disastrous, but little details could have made it better. Lack of concentration maybe. It’s a long hard slog after all.
I’m not saying that I feel like death, but…. I tried to die quietly which is all anyone can ask of you. The cold seems to have to descended onto my chest, so thankfully no sneezes but quite a few coughs. Each one on a down beat of course…
Next up is the de Meij Symphony. Let’s hope we give proper tribute to the composer that introduced us to the inner workings of his composition. After that home time, and if I have the energy I might develop some film. I have a backlog of films to get through. Just arrived in the car and the choise seems to be pub, or home…. Decisions, decisions
It ended up being home. See you next time for an other enthralling episode…..
Hello Dear Reader, maybe you don’t know what Facebook is, or Instagram, or WhatsApp, but yesterday they went down on the entire world, but not in a sexy way. Facebook is the Face of Social Media, Instagram is the camera of Social Media, and WhatsApp is where we tell everyone what we are doing by private message. Twitter was where we were all taking the piss out of the aforementioned Social Media outlets last night.
This is a big thing in an ultra-connected world. At work I listen to the Jeremy Vine show on BBC Radio 2, and they spent 30 minutes talking about it. It has featured on all the news bulletins that I have heard today. This is a big thing! So many of us have mobile phones, and I’m not talking about the indestructible Nokia phones, whose batteries are still working. I’m talking about “smartphones” that are so smart that they have degrees in smartness from Smarty-pants University. They are capable of so much more than the computers that sent men to the moon, and they fit into your pocket!
Some people with depression and social anxiety called in to say how they depend on Social Media to have a manageable contact with the outside world, others who use it to advertise their small businesses to those of us scrolling through, and others of us who are addicted and can’t put our phones down, because of the dreaded FOMO, or fear of missing out.
Whilst at work, my mind can wander, and something that comes back regularly is the desire to go back to my prep-school and tell them what the world is like in 2021, or forty years from now. Some of my masters were WW2 veterans, others were baby boomers, and some of them weren’t actually that mad, despite appearances. I remember one Maths lesson where the teacher told us to find arithmetic patterns in our times tables. I got three and had to find the pattern. My first algorithm. Now these algorithms are omnipresent and artificial intelligence is using them and running the world, especially on these platforms. Think back to Brexit, or the 2016 American elections.
Smug people came onto the programme saying how we had lost the power of conversation, or how come people just don’t pick up the phone. Some talked about the wake-up call. Others were talking about Gen Z, who have lost the power of communication. However, there is nuance everywhere, which is something these platforms like us to forget. I see people like my daughter, who is always on her phone, but she is conversing and communicating non-stop with her friends at school or a version of her tribe. My son does the same thing. They communicate differently. I often wonder what my First Form Master, Fr Gerald, would make of it all. Now we use emoticons to reply to some of our messages. Have we gone back to using hieroglyphs? Is that a problem? They say a picture can be worth a thousand words.
How did I manage? Not too badly. To begin with, I was worried that my Internet might not be working. But I soon found out what was happening. It wasn’t much of a hinderance. I still had my music on Amazon Music, and I was scanning negatives for my son. They were from 2016, and he shocked to see how he looked just 5 years ago. I think he used the word cringe. I missed putting them on Facebook to share them with the rest of my French family. Maybe Facebook has its uses after all, and shouldn’t the rule be able about moderation? Use it by all means, but don’t let it become your master. I’m still glad that they’re online again…
I’m not going to talk about the new film with Anthony Hopkins, where we see the effects of Alzheimer’s on an elderly man. No, I am going to talk a little bit about my own father, as everyone in the family knows, is destined for the Sainthood. I have been made to swear by my mother not to talk about private lives of family members, so I will try not to give too much away.
I phoned my parents on Friday and everything was great at home, my mother going out to play golf, and my father going out to play bridge with the boys. I said I would phone them later during the week. I hear people complaining that they haven’t seen their parents for x months over COVID. I haven’t seen my parents since August 2019, so please, for the love of God, stop complaining and count your blessings!
On Tuesday night, after work, I called home. My mother answered the saying how they had had a bit of an“eventful weekend”, and that my father had had a heart attack. So having stolen my father’s thunder, she said she would pass him over; John do have the phone upstairs? He did, and we started talking.
As you may know, I live in France, and I don’t think I’m giving too much away saying that my parents live in the UK. In some respects it could be on the other side of the world, seeing as how we can’t see each other. But over lockdown we have “heard” each other. But what about the now ubiquitous “Zoom” meeting I hear you saying. You can “see” each other with that. My mother, bless her, is a technophobe and zoom is something from the realm of science-fiction.
So, I was allowed to talk to my now thunderless father, and asked, what did I just hear? Have you been trying to be interesting again? I was given the low-down and got all the medical details. I still don’t get it. He was a high level athlete as a young man, not a huge drinker, nor a total abstainer, we seem to mistrust them. He is not what one could call a “big lad” as I am. He eats very healthily. It was just bad luck, and blocked arteries.
It’s the kind of situation that puts you right up against your own mortality, and I have friends of my age who have lost their parents, and not in the fishing aisle in the sports shop. I am constantly aware of how far I am and how helpless that makes me feel. I love both my parents with all my heart, and dread “that” phonecall and hoping that althought enevitable, I will never have to face it. I asked as politely as I could if he could possibly refrain from dying please, until I actually manage to get over to the UK for my next visit, next summer. He said he would try and I hung up, knowing that everything was fine with him. It was as if the weekend had been less eventful, verging on the boring. But it does give you a bit of a scare. It’s not always nice living so far away.
Post Scriptum
Our new Constitution is now established, and has an appearance that promises permanency; but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.
A certain Ben Franklin
The envibility of death is ompnipresent in our world, some being closer to it than others. Do I want to die? Not really. Am I ready to die? As a Catholic I woud prefer to get to confession first. Some see death as a deliverence, and I think it was Voltaire who said, “The man who, in a fit of melancholy, kills himself today, would have wished to live had he waited a week.” I think he also said it was the only real way to say Merde, to God. Death is part of life and I think not to be feared. But I would prefer that certain people would hang around for a little longer so they can share even more of their wisdom, their sense of justice, and above all, their love!
At school I wasn’t a winner. Not really. There was one time at prep school when I won the First form prize, which was a book about birds. I still have it! I once entered a competition to win a first day cover of stamps featuring various fish native to British rivers, and won the first day cover as well as postcards of the stamps. I wasn’t a great sportsman, something which seems to have followed me through my life and therefore didn’t have the chance to win a cap for my school. Whilst I used to wear green for a living, I would often hear the phrase, “It pays to be a winner gentleman,” being yelled by certain junior NCO’s. I was of course never that winner, so would have to repeat the exercise with all the other losers.
You get used to being a loser. In certain respects, it’s great because you don’t have to bother yourself with that maternal ambition that was imposed on you. It lowers your expectations and you get used to accepting your fate in life. You ramble along, as you may have seen and read Dear Reader, I am a rambler. I was fine with that.
Then of course I moved to France. Try being English in France. Then again maybe don’t. It’s worse than being French in the UK. They lost WW2, yet celebrate VE Day every 8th May. Oh sweet Caroline, I mean irony! But that’s fine. It’s in their mind-set of being the inheritors of the Glory of France. Then the bastards went and won the World Cup in 1998. They are ghastly when victorious, and I remember saying to myself, they’re going to talk about this for 20 years… 20 years came and went, and they only went and won the bloody thing a second time!!!
Whenever they beat us at rugby, I am inundated with mentions of how great they are, and yet when we beat them, I am allowed to remain silent and hide in my office! This losing does have a tendency to teach you about humility.
Now I will talk about the B word, yes, Brexit. As I may have let slip, I am a remainer, and therefore “lost” the vote in 2016. Since that time, my life here in France has been in suspended animation, suspended rather than animated. My future was dependant on a “deal”. Then Boris came along. I was going to be buggered one more time, yet despite the odds, we “won” an agreement that would allow me to stay here. But knowing the French, nothing was certain. That uncertainty doesn’t help a guy’s mental health and Brexit has taken it’s toll on me. But less of the grumbling.
On the 22nd June, 2021, I receive an email from the prefecture telling me to come and see them on the 9th July, with this mail, my old carte de séjour, my residency card, which allowed me to remain in France, and will allow me to remain further. I arrived here in France on the 9th of July 1994, to start the rest of my life. I got that mail, read it, and had tears welling up. For the first time in 5 years, I was turning into a winner.
That week I entered a competition on Instagram. One of those things where you win a basket full of samples from a shop, and you have to like the post, post the names of two people on the comments, and they will announce the winner in a story. This was for a shop that sold CBD products and I thought why the hell not. Well when the story came out announcing the winner you’ll never guess who won. Yes me!!! So for a perpetual loser like me, this was amazing. I was high on the positive vibes. Things are calmer at home and at work, and I have less pain in my arthritic knee. Maybe it does pay to be a winner after all.
I am not a fan of Shadenfreude, except when France is the cause of it. In the Euro 2020 competition, happening in 2021 because of Covid, no winners there really, France was knocked out of the tournament by Switzerland. I haven’t said a word about it at work. Wouldn’t be cricket after all. Oh and we beat Sri Lanka in the Cricket too! On Tuesday night there was the fateful match, between Germany and England, and I don’t want to hear anything about two world wars and on world cup!! Even though…. We beat them, for this first time in a tournament in the knock out stages since 1966 when we beat them in the world cup… The English side of me was very happy, and yet I have been gracious in victory and not mentioned it at work to my French colleagues despite the desperate urge to do so. Even if I were to mention it, it would be wasted on them and wouldn’t be cricket! Damn you gracious VICTORY!
IJM Photography 