[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 September 2021].
damn paparazzi!
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 25 August 2021].
from the stable yard
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 11 August 2021].
I ticked quite a few things off my to-do list today but not the major ones I need to. Like cleaning the kitchen and finding new clients, both of which I need to have done "yesterday".
While it was mostly a good day because I closed off some items and stopped to pet Susie on my way back from the high street. Tonight I'm feeling flat.
Finding a flatmate is proving to be as time-consuming and demoralising as trying to find a new flat usually is. I really don't have time for it right now, but I need a new flatmate as soon as humanly possible.
I had lots of energy and focus today for bringing in business and getting more of my work out into the world. But, instead, it had to be channelled into more immediate domestic tasks.
When I could finally sit down to decide what to share today, I perused many possible places from my travels near and far. But it was one of those days when nothing felt right, nothing fit my mood.
Eventually, I settled on this image, which I actually edited back in September 2019 but for some reason hadn't previously shared online.
I took this photo of the entrance to Hatfield House from the stable yard back in July 2019. It reminds me of so many Merchant-Ivory period films.
The image feels like standing on the outside looking in, which feels appropriate to my mood tonight. But also holds the promise of possibility, which will hopefully be my mood on waking tomorrow.
untitled #19
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 25 July 2021].
Today was a learning experience: I am not superhuman.
Back out of self-isolation - finally - and feeling like a million bucks, I went ahead with plans made before catching Covid. I ventured into central London to meet Phil to see the Sophie Taeuber-Arp exhibition at Tate Modern.
It was meant to be my first visit to the gallery since 8 March 2020, just before the pandemic started.
Instead, it was a fool's errand.
Double-masking for the Tube journey, by the time I reached Holborn, I knew something was wrong. I started to feel faint after the short walk to the station and about 15 minutes of standing on the train. The cooler air as I came up to the Central line refreshed me a bit. But I grabbed a seat for the two stops to St Paul's.
By the time I got out of St Paul's station, it was a quick call between the Co-op for food or sitting down to avoid falling down.
I went for the latter on a park by the back of St Paul's Cathedral, but then I was too far away from the Co-op to get food and drink to revive myself.
Full disclosure: yesterday was a mess of a day, and in the process, I neglected to eat. I'd had a handful of sour cream and chive pretzels while dressing this morning and thought I'd be okay until I could grab a sandwich at the gallery.
When I realised my predicament, I called Phil to let him know, and I ended up bailing up a passing couple who kindly took some cash from me to buy me a sandwich and a drink. They came back with both plus some fruit. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers!
The food helped but not enough. I realised I couldn't walk 20 minutes from St Paul's to the gallery, let alone 1.5 hours slow-walking around inside the gallery in a mask. As it was, even after finishing the cheddar ploughman sandwich and a third of the cherry 7Up Free, I was struggling not to feel lightheaded standing on the spot.
At that point, I admitted defeat and told Phil to go ahead with the exhibition on his own, and I'd figure out how to get home.
It took me an hour, all told, to get transport.
I managed to get to a nearby Starbucks to use their bathroom. I then tried to head home via the Tube, but as soon as I got down to the platform, it was clearly a massive "nope".
I quickly made my way back up to the street level to try to hail a cab. There were so few of them, and those that passed already had passengers or were on the wrong side of the multi-way intersection I was near.
I sat back on a bench about two over from the one I'd landed on when I came out of the station. I repeatedly swore as I waited for the Uber app to download, and I went through the process of setting up an account. Finally, I was able to book a car to collect me.
The seven minutes to arrival felt like the longest seven minutes ever. I had a feeling of pressure on the back of my ears and across the back of my head, indicating I was perilously close to fainting. I couldn't lie down on the bench because it had armrests between each seat.
The relief when my Uber arrived was unbelievable. I was finally able to lie down in the back of the car to recover. It took about 5-10 minutes until I could sit up and talk with the driver for the rest of the journey. He was a nice guy, and we had a good conversation while he drove me back to the safety of home.
I made it into the flat safely but was still very low on energy. So I crawled back into bed to try to recover.
After a 50-minute call from a friend in Melbourne and replying to some messages, I felt like I would at 3 AM, not 3 PM. My body threatened to fall asleep while I was typing into my phone.
While thunderstorms raged outside, I slept for most of 1.5 hours. Then close to another 2 hours before I finally felt able to resurface and get some chores done and edit the photo above from a visit to St Ethelreda's Church in Hatfield in 2019.
Based on today's experience, it will be a while before I venture far from home again. I might try to walk to the high street (about 500m from my place) tomorrow for some small things. But I'll be ordering groceries online this week and laying low while I recharge my batteries.
On a "related, but not" note: it is not ideal to have symptoms of carpal tunnel syndrome for the first time when in the midst of, and recovering from, a highly infectious and deadly virus. But at least now I know what the strange tingling in my left arm is. And the panic surrounding that particular symptom has disappeared.
Also related: the virus has made me a cheap drunk, at least temporarily.
mushed rooms
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 July 2021].
The past two days have mostly been a write-off.
Apart from an official call, some personal calls, a chat with a good friend on FB Messenger and a couple of minor tasks yesterday, I spent most of the day sleeping or trying to sleep. I managed to eat and keep my fluids up, but not much else.
Wednesday and Thursday brought a day and a half of coughing, headaches and mild temperatures. In the wee hours of this morning, I must have had a fever, as I woke up with my t-shirt drenched and clinging to me. So today, I went to the nearest walk-through Covid-19 testing site for my first ever PCR test.
I still feel it's more likely just a head cold knocking me for six after not being ill since early in 2019. But there were enough potential signs from both the early variants and the Delta variant for me to err on the side of caution and do the right thing by my fellow citizens.
Thankfully, by this morning, I felt more confident in my ability to complete a 90-minute round-trip on foot to the testing centre. Unfortunately, I was still too out of it to think about putting on SPF50 for the journey.
If I had thought of it, I possibly also would have worried about sunscreen contaminating the test. But, at least, I would have slathered the sunscreen on my arms and taken it with me to apply to my face for the return journey.
Alas, no good deed goes unpunished. So, to add to my poor health, I now have a fierce sunburn on my forehead, nose, upper arms and around the front of my neck. Suffice to say, the sunburn didn't improve my headache any.
On the positive side (thank goodness there is almost always a positive side!): I took a detour on the way back through Tottenham Cemetery, including a wander around the lake there, a few glimpses of the River Moselle, and communed with the Canadian geese, pigeons, squirrels, and some other birds I didn't recognise.
I'm feeling vaguely more human now. Enough to do some small pieces, like edit the above image to share with you. But I'll likely call it a night again soon and hope my test results come back negative tomorrow and that this was all just a nasty head cold.
Either way - and at the risk of cursing myself - I seem to have passed the worst of it now.
For those who'd like to know: I spotted these fellows at the base of a tree in The Royal Oak's car park in Ashbourne as I was departing the hotel after a hearty breakfast with my parents in June 2017.
I hope you're keeping well xx
untitled #140
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 July 2021].
In the wee hours of this morning, I had the chance to watch the final episode of Can't Get You Out of My Head: An Emotional History of the Modern World. I mentioned it in my post on Friday.
While there was a little cognitive dissonance for me in some of what Adam Curtis talked about in the closing section of the docuseries, I'm willing to look into that further. I think elements may not stand up given further information that has come to light between the series being released to BBC iPlayer on 11 February and now.
However, I was (pleasantly) surprised that the docuseries ended on a hopeful note.
It was not so much Curtis providing a 'solution'. But he quoted an American anthropologist and anarchist activist, David Graeber, who I'd not previously heard of. Based on the quote and the title of his books, I will definitely have to read up more on him and read his books.
About this time last year, I first heard about Doughnut Economics. And in September last year, I wrote a rant titled Fuck capitalism! What's next? I spewed out ideas that had been whirling around my head since close to the beginning of the pandemic.
I haven't re-read my rant since I wrote it, so I'm not sure it's worth sharing, and it wasn't complete. But around the same time, I was having conversations with anyone who would listen about how we needed to take this opportunity to do things differently going forward.
Some people were open to what I had to say. But a lot - including many close to me - responded with statements like "That won't happen in my lifetime". Or "That's a pipedream". Or (in respect to discussions about Universal Basic Income) "But how would we pay for it?"
Graeber's quote from The Utopia of Rules: On Technology, Stupidity, and the Secret Joys of Bureaucracy neatly encapsulates my response to most of those naysayers:
The ultimate, hidden truth of the world is that it is something that we make, and could just as easily make differently.
At the time of these discussions, I didn't claim to have all of the answers. Or even any of them. And I still don't. But I didn't (and don't) see why we couldn't (and can't) be asking the questions and completely changing things up.
People before us came up with capitalism, communism, socialism, dictatorships, and on and on. Why can't we create something new that works for everyone? That may include the best elements of the above and/or completely new ideas?
And yes, I know I sound blindly optimistic about this. But why not? What is actually stopping us?
I have learned so much in the past year or so. Predominantly through listening to others and being more open-minded about how we could improve. And how we can move forward with greater equality as a global society.
Sure, there are likely to be few "quick wins", and there are plenty of right-wing folks scaremongering and creating division to protect "the old ways" that favour them.
But there is so much to gain if we can make the world differently.
please keep this gate closed
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 July 2021].
Phewf! Feeling that strange, scattered, drained feeling at the moment. The one I get after I finally make it over the finish line of a project and my brain starts to zone out a bit.
I had a manic evening into the wee hours overnight. And again this morning until mid-afternoon, ensuring I got a client's design work finalised for their first conference, which is now taking place virtually as I type.
Between client work and my own photography/art/writing, I've already clocked up 36 hours since Saturday. And I have plenty of plans for more photo editing and other bits and pieces for the rest of today and tomorrow, including a call with a potential new client.
I also need to squeeze some cleaning in before a potential flatmate comes to view the flat on Saturday morning, but that can wait until tomorrow. This evening is all mine and will be full of photo editing, and likely some 'Vikings' when I run out of steam.
I took this photograph at the entrance to the field surrounding St Thomas a Becket Church in Fairfield, Kent, on Walland Marsh, part of Romney Marsh, in 2016.
I still have so many photographs of the church and the resident mowing team (sheep) still to edit and share with you from that little oasis.
But for now, it's back to editing photos of Londinium :)
the tenant of wildfell hall
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 4 July 2021].
It was a wet and windy day when I visited Anne Brontë's final resting place in St Mary's churchyard in Scarborough in June 2017.
The weather felt appropriate, as did the wilted flowers against the headstone.
toni's ices
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 22 June 2021].
I'm looking forward to the prospect of day trips out of the city with friends this summer.
The last one with friends as a collective in the UK was to visit Cambridge in 2018.
I took this photograph in Cambridge, but it was during a road trip with Mum and Dad on their last visit to the UK in 2017.
It was definitely my Mum's last international trip but, hopefully, Dad can come back to the UK sometime soon.
That trip was stressful and emotional as it was the first time the development of Mum's dementia was unmistakable. Previous travels with my parents had been stressful and emotional, but for other reasons.
But it was still enjoyable for the places I could visit or revisit and the time spent with my parents in the calmer moments. And, obviously, the photographic opportunities.
Where are you looking forward to spending your days out this summer? Answers on a postcard ;)
love you all x
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 13 June 2021].
In the wee hours of Friday morning, I got caught up in discussions with a friend and a lover (two different people). Two random conversations about oscilloscopes, dating and relationships, Black Box Recorder, Sarah Nixey (if you look closely, you can see me in this video), and The Jesus & Mary Chain. Subsequently, I didn't get back to photo editing.
On Friday afternoon, I caught up with one of those people and three other friends for our first proper reunion since well before the lockdown started in March 2020.
Of the four friends I met with, I'd only seen Sophie in the interim, and even then, on three occasions months apart.
It was a lovely afternoon and evening which lasted longer than I had expected but still felt all too short.
Here's to things getting back to normal over the coming months and us being able to catch up more regularly again.
Love you all x
untitled #184
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 June 2021].
There have been rumblings of a potential day trip with friends again this year.
You know, so long as the rumblings about a third wave of coronavirus here in the UK don't turn into a rollback of restrictions before we have a chance...
In September 2016, Chris, Sophie, Paulina, and I ventured down to Margate, then to Botany Bay and Broadstairs.
In 2018, at the beginning of September, Chris, Sophie, and I pootled down to Durdle Door via Brockenhurst and Wilverley Plain.
At the end of the same month, Chris, Sophie, one of Chris' friends and I popped up to Cambridge for the day.
In 2019, Simon and I went further afield a month later, so there was no real opportunity for a proper summer jaunt together as a group.
And last September, well, let's just say we had to stay local, and restrictions meant we weren't all allowed in the same car together anyway.
Days out last year were kept within the M25 or just over the county lines in Hertfordshire or Essex.
So far this year, it's been the same. But perhaps this September we can once again arrange a day out of the city in the sun somewhere.
Destination to be confirmed.
mayfly graveyard in the sky
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 June 2021].
I wanted to call this suspended animation. But the mayflies were definitely not still alive in any interpretation of the word.
These fellows made their presence known along the River Lea in Hertford last Monday when Simon and I ventured out for the day. I didn't know what they were at the time but found out tonight.
I found this line from the Encyclopedia Brittanica entry about the mayfly particularly drew my eye, though, thankfully, we didn't notice that at the time:
"The winged stages attract attention through mass emergences when they may make roads slippery, clog gutters, and taint the air with an odour of decay."
Today was calmer and more positive, despite a rocky start before going to bed in the wee hours of the morning.
For a start, my periodontist appointment was nowhere near as painful as I'd expected it would be after some relapses into bad habits in the past six months.
I have a new design/social media project to work on for a former colleague. I also have a research role I want to throw my hat in the ring for tomorrow.
And I've decided to try - as far as possible - to share a photo a day with you. And by "day", that may mean it carries over into the next day, technically. But as long as I'm awake, it's the same day, right?
Sometimes with a diary-like entry, like this one and my previous post. Other times, just an image.
Forgive me in advance if it doesn't happen every day, but I'll try.
The photos will be whatever fits my whims at the time. Perhaps something to reflect my feelings, the day I've had or just something random.
My other weekly themed shares will continue, and I'm still working on my Love letters to London, I promise.
I also bought a dust-free eraser and a putty eraser today. I want to continue sketching when I have the time and energy. I won't share everything I draw but, hopefully, there will be sketches I want to share from time to time.
My latest earworms are linked below. Two out of three feature Robert Smith from The Cure, one of my constant inspirations since about 1989. I spent many an evening writing terrible teenage poetry by candlelight while listening to Wish. Simpler days, though still full of angst.
How not to drown - Chvrches featuring Robert Smith
Not in love - Crystal Castles featuring Robert Smith
Thanks to Chris for bringing the Crystal Castles track to my attention.
untitled #174
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 26 May 2021].
memoirs of an invisible man
In his early 20s, before he'd typed the closing line of his first play, his agent arranged a photographer to visit his attic apartment. She was sent to photograph him for the publicity stills.
The photographer had carried an unwieldy medium format camera and a wooden tripod up the narrow, rickety staircase. He'd had to stay still for long minutes in the soft light cast through the dormer window. Gazing intently at the curious device in front of him. Feeling awkward and ungainly and wondering to himself if she was capturing the dirty dishes to his left. Dirty dishes that had been clogging up the kitchen sink for weeks now as he worked tirelessly on finishing his debut play.
As he forcefully typed "Curtain" - a cigarette dangling from his lips and the last vestiges of a glass of bourbon and dry on the dusty table to the right of the typewriter - he wondered about the portrait. How he would be perceived by theatre-goers, critics, the big names in the industry, and even the leading ladies in the play he'd just completed.
Months later, as he stood in front of the theatre on opening night, his visage gazing back at him at more than double his size, he knew his agent had sent the right photographer. She had captured him as the talented and sophisticated, though currently penniless, playwright he'd always imagined himself to be. He vowed then and there to strictly control his image. To always be portrayed a particular way and not be caught unawares by those around him out of character.
He was meticulous in this aim. As the years went on, he shunned family photographs, casual photos with friends. He found convenient excuses to leave the room whenever someone drew their camera from their pocketbooks. It became more difficult as the devices became smaller. But somehow, he stayed always a step ahead.
Despite his aversion to being captured by keen amateurs, he became a keen amateur photographer himself.
He employed the photographer who captured him that first time to show him how to use a more modern, more compact device. She patiently taught him all she knew, and soon he was capturing candid photographs of the cast as they rehearsed. As well as portraits of the backstage crew as they worked the curtains and lights.
When they both had time, he practised taking more formal portraiture with the photographer as his subject.
Through these lessons and portrait sittings, they became fast friends and then lovers. They traded jokes and flirted as he snapped away, capturing her beauty on film. She appeared as effortlessly beautiful in front of the camera as she was assuredly in command behind the camera. She was the only one he allowed to take his publicity portraits. But he wouldn't allow even her to photograph him at ease, unawares.
On one occasion, he realised she had captured a candid Polaroid of him as they honeymooned. He angrily snatched the still-developing print from between her fingers as she fanned it to speed its development. He swiftly drew his lighter from his pocket and touched the flame to the corner of the print. He watched it melt and burn before discarding the remnants in an ashtray on a table outside a nearby cafe.
He turned on her and reminded her his image was his, and his alone, to curate and control. In that moment, he watched her happiness and love for him also melt and burn away to ash, but he barely noticed through his fury.
She ceased working as a professional photographer to raise their children. She focussed her lens on them, and he sought out a new visionary to direct in his depiction of himself.
Many were competent, and he was able to cultivate the persona he wanted through their eyes. There was something different, though. The images were good but not up to his wife's standard.
Over the years, he and his wife both photographed their children extensively, and he still trained his lens on her. She never photographed him again.
During family reunions, they pored over the snapshots from their travels with their families. Both sets of parents commented on his conspicuous absence in the photos. Seeming to ask if he'd actually been with his family on this trip or that. If he had, he'd seemingly left no trace in the photographs. He shrugged it off and pointed out the photos he'd taken as proof of his presence.
As the decades went by, his plays gained new audiences. They opened in theatres all around the world to packed houses. And curtains closed to standing ovations.
Uncountable column inches were printed discussing the themes in his plays, the characters. How well written they were, how evocative the storylines, and how intense the dialogue.
He was photographed by some of the most formidable talents in the industry to accompany the various articles, biographies, published scripts and programmes for his plays.
Over the years, he continued to maintain a close rein on his image. Even his children were forbidden from photographing him, writing about him or being interviewed about him. It was the one thing he enforced. Always.
As he reached his peak, he was invited to write his memoir by a prestigious publisher.
Writing the memoir was a walk in the park after all the dramatic plays he'd written over the years. He knew how he wanted to be seen, what he wanted to say. His memories were vivid and flowed easily from his heart and mind to the printed page.
But, as he worked with the art director and publisher on pulling together the images and quotes from others for the autobiography, a gap quickly appeared.
For someone otherwise so devoted to his family, there was no visual or written connection between him and this woman and children.
At his request, she had never uttered a word about him to the press in love or in anger. Nor had his children.
The family photographs appeared to be of a single mother with her two children, not of a loving, caring family of four. He was notably absent, even if not actually absent, out of frame or behind the camera.
He had pages upon pages of rave reviews from critics. Lengthy articles and interviews from all the major papers and theatre press. Publicity portraits from each of his plays.
But, as far as his family was concerned - the people he felt most important in his life - he was the invisible man. He simply didn't exist.
untitled #54
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 15 May 2021].
'Early birds' often swear by the hours of the morning before everyone else wakes as their most productive. Or maybe their self-improvement hours. Hours when they go for a run or participate in other forms of exercise. Or get in some quiet reading or meditation before the hustle and bustle of the day begins.
There's a false belief that night owls are somehow inferior. That we "waste" our day in bed.
Instead, many of us enjoy those same quiet, calm hours of productivity. We just prefer to experience them between 23:00 and 05:00, and they probably don't include physical exercise.
Yesterday I allowed myself a lie-in because I'd participated in two intensive two-day courses from Monday to Thursday and needed some recovery time.
Despite going to bed after 02:00, and initially waking before 09:00, I possibly allowed myself to linger longer in bed, dozing on and off, because of the vivid, emotional dreams I'd had before waking.
I was exploring a seaside town I've never been to. Wandering backstreets and footpaths and pubs and - as often happens for me in dreams - grappling with paths both inside and out that suddenly require me to wrestle with my fears of heights and falling.
Later, in one of the dreams, I found myself, barely clothed, in a customs office in Australia with Simon. I was begging for permission to enter the country despite all my identification and belongings having been stolen. I remember thinking of myself as an illegal alien.
In the afternoon, back in reality, I washed my mammoth pile of dishes. I won't tell you how long they'd been accumulating. You will judge me. However, they were all thoroughly rinsed, so there was nothing offensive about them beyond the quantity. While I washed them, I listened to a podcast about forensic science and then another about Einstein's theory of general relativity.
After a call with Simon, a shower, a supermarket run and dinner, I felt unsettled.
Nevertheless, at about 23:30, I settled in to edit photos for my long-overdue next instalment of my Love Letters to London series.
For the first time in what feels like months and probably is, I managed to edit photos without distraction for about 2.5 hours. It was bliss.
This photograph was taken at the location of some photos that may make it into my next 'Love Letter'. It fit my mood in these quiet hours, so I edited it to share with you this morning.
I paused at 02:00 mainly because I found myself thinking of a friend in Victoria who I knew was going under the knife this month. I wanted to check in on him while he was on my mind. In the calm, mellow hours of the morning, I got a positive update on his recovery, and we had a brief catch-up via Facebook Messenger.
While I was editing, I had the chance to catch up on new releases from St. Vincent, Juliana Hatfield, Paul Weller, and now Nicholas Britell. As well as singles from other artists.
The Underground Railroad soundtrack is particularly perfect for the frame of mind I'm currently in and seems a positive way to gradually wind myself down before heading to bed.
Many night owls don't sleep our lives away. We sleep about the same number - often less! - than early birds.
We just find our productive hours in a different part of the morning. Or in the afternoon or evening.
Are you an early bird or a night owl? When do you find are the most productive hours of your day?
Are you a vivid dreamer? Do you believe you don't dream? Or do you know you dream but never remember them upon waking?
Do you love hearing about others' dreams and sharing yours, or do you find it tedious to hear about others' dreams?
cædmon's cross
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 7 March 2021].
I took this photograph in February 2012, in St Mary's churchyard, Whitby, and only just found out about the poet it was erected in honour of, Cædmon, tonight.
I've got quite a few things still left to do before midnight as today was an exceedingly lazy one, but I will have to read more about him when I get those things done.
Once again, my photography leading me to more learning and discovery :)
upon a country lane
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 24 February 2021].
beeson's yard
[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 2 February 2021].
A year ago today, Simon and I spent the day in Rickmansworth.
I don't recall exactly, but I don't think coronavirus was even a thing we discussed at that point.
Personally, I was just trying to stay upright!
I was out of my "moon boot" but still struggled with balance and confidence in walking on questionable surfaces. So, after a short attempt along a muddy path, we had to skip the Ebury Way and head in the opposite direction toward Batchworth Lock.
After a wander along the canal, one of the final points we passed was Beeson's Yard, and obviously, the signage caught my eye.
bluebell barn
In the wee hours of this morning, I was again reminded of the many reasons I love photography. In this case, the random connections it creates between complete strangers and the many and varied memories it can evoke for different people.
norfolk_girl_ came across my digital collage, waiting for godot, when searching for photos of farmhouses on Instagram.
I took this photo of Bluebell Barn on Briscoe Lane, East Briscoe, Baldersdale, as Kyle and I prepared to leave The Old Chapel after staying there and seeing the sights in the area for a week in February 2012.
Though we broke up nearly six years ago and I still haven't finished editing and posting all my photographs from that holiday, I have a soft spot for this area. It was a lovely break away.
norfolk_girl_ recognised it as the holiday home her family visited for many years, and it brought back many memories for her. Coincidentally, their last stay had also been in 2012.
When she commented on my post to tell me and tagged her family members to show them, I promised to share the original photo there later in the day. I said I would check if I had any more photos of the 'barn', but unfortunately, as I suspected, this was the only one.
As promised, I’ve now shared this on Instagram for her.
an eye for optical theory
[I originally posted this image as early access for my Patreon patrons on 14 December 2020].