Day One

Just wished to give a brief report of what I shall call Day One of being a photographer. Well. Day One of being able to call it my day job, at any rate. Having given up my position in the newsagent I worked in, my daytimes are now entirely free, free to make arrangements, unfettered in accepting commissions, and finally – finally – able to focus my attention upon furthering my career.

I am going to picture the feeling right now, if you will indulge me. There is no other reason for these paragraphs than to remind myself, should I ever become bored of having a little more time to call my own, what a wondrous feeling it is to have that time, and to remind myself how… how… claustrophobic my working week used to be. The majority of 2009 was, necessary as it was, a contradictory mish-mash of absurd commitments and little pockets of availability, joyless, and infused throughout with a sense of slight dread as another twelve hours loomed ever larger, dishing out unspeakable newspapers to Norwich’s finest unwashed. Only twelve hours, mind, but good Gollum, did they last a long time. More irritating, though, was the inexplicable ability of that small dealing of hours to render an entire day a write-off. Rather than make phone calls, send emails and arrange meetings, the morning before a newsagent shift was always a blend of sleeping in and watching (old) football; even days off would be spent in this way, as a reward for the twelve slow hours just gone by, and an odd sort of denial of the twelve slow hours coming up.

Spending most of one’s time at work standing just beside the shop’s owner would test the character of anybody; perhaps the worst thing about it was the necessity of being polite. To everyone. Once or twice, that involved assenting to meet customers for tea; to stay in the owner’s good books I agreed to enrol on a mind-numbingly inane retail skills course, involving a mathematics project that I could have done at the age of ten. For a job in a newsagent, it definitely had a way of spreading its tentacles to take up more space in one’s diary.

Yet, I am being a little unfair. The shop’s owners were – are – a lovely couple, generous, flexible and helpful. In a different environment, they would be far more of a pleasure to be around; I’m quite sure they’d admit that themselves. The point is that it is a little unhealthy in any job, or even in any relationship, to spend so much time in the immediate vicinity of the same person. One can only tolerate that to a point.

It says a great deal, though, that I spend a good deal more time working in the Fat Cat than I did there, and consider it a thousand times less of a burden than the newsagent. I have three evenings coming up this week there, and am actually quite looking forward to them. Space in the job, and the freedom to forget about it afterwards, you see. Those things become a treat after you’ve been deprived of them in another job.

…and I’m done. Without the faint but persistent distraction of newsagent dread coming up, I have arisen earlier in the day, made far better use of the time and – just today, on Day One – achieved just as much as I did in the preceding few weeks. If you’re still reading this, God alone can help you, but would you like to know the best thing about turning my daytimes into a blank canvas for my photography career? I’m looking forward to tomorrow…

Looks Like a Brown Trouser Job

Gentlemen. Ladies.

I have been given quite a task over the next few weeks. This morning I rolled out of bed, shovelled a sandwich together and traipsed through a foggy, muddy and icy Mousehold Heath. On my way to a meeting, the prospect of getting lost amongst the branching pathways and missing out on something exciting had me fearing the worst. Why do I leave my preparations until the last minute?

Those fears, though, are as nothing compared to what I now face up to, in the wake of the meeting. I’ve just been to discuss a photography competition being held across Heartsease Primary School, Angel Road Junior School and Sewell Park College, at which I managed to offer a little bit of support and input – you know, helping out with mounting the prints…

Not a bit of it. No sooner did the teachers get a sniff of the fact that I am a photographer, than they drafted me in to actually help judge the thing. Innocuous stuff, you might think, although they are of course leaving the self-esteem of hundreds of vulnerable children in my hands, my faux-pas ridden, gaffe-ridden hands, and my dear things, it gets worse.

They have also asked me to speak to a school assembly or two, to provide a drop of inspiration and a dash of advice to the children entering the competition.

Those of you who know me will already have gasped with fright at such a prospect. Ask yourself this: would you trust me with a speech at your dinner table? Of course you wouldn’t. Oh, this is the worst kind of nightmare for everybody concerned. Do dry cleaners do underwear…?

Only too pleased to help out though. I shall let you know how it goes. I wouldn’t come too near me until the end of March if you’ve a keen sense of smell, though…