Sea, sun, bird

There's been nothing fabulous enough to post with pride over the past few days so you'll have to make do with this, taken the other day on a squally seafront. There's something about a stormy day that really makes me relish the prospect of heading out with my camera but the results are, more often than not, disappointing. Trying to photograph big waves is rather like trying to capture a rainbow - easy enough to commit to a photograph but borderline impossible to make interesting. Anyway, take it from me, this looked brilliant in the flesh.

The disco shoes are dead

The worst possible news: my disco shoes are damaged beyond repair. They have finally shuffled off their final dancefloor. They are dead.

I bought them about 15 years ago, when spending £125 on a pair of frivolous clubbing shoes seemed the height of good sense. It was a time when Rach and I spent most of our free time clubbing - when we would devote entire weekends to the ritualistic preparation for, attendance at and recovery from parties. It was a very special time in my life that I will always remember with great fondness.

So it's all the more upsetting that one of the few material links back to those fun-filled times has finally given up the ghost. They went out in style though - I wore them to a party last night that was filled with more laughter and lunacy than any 45 year-old retired raver has any right to expect. Towards the end of a very confusing night I noticed that something wasn't quite right and inspected my left shoe, only to find a gaping hole where the heel should have been, with the black sole flapping about like an ill-fitting toupee in a stiff breeze. As I trudged home through the rain-sodden streets of Hove in the early hours of this morning I reflected on how much fun I've had in these shoes and how I'm never going to buy anything like them again.

When those shoes died, a little part of me went with them. This is a sad day.

Size four and a half on the Lawns

I saw this discarded shoe (size four and a half) impaled on a post at the western end of The Lawns yesterday and it sparked off a rather brilliant thought process, even if I say so myself. I'm beginning to think there may be some mileage in the idea of tracking down enough discarded women's clothing to make up a whole outfit. I could then open a little boutique called something like Wardrobe Trouvée and sell them on for vast sums of money. If there's a flaw in my plan - and that's a big 'if' there because I think this is a winner - it's the time it might take to find enough stock. It has, after all, been several weeks since I found the other item, this bra. But I might be able to turn this into a selling point. I might be able to convince the sort of vapid halfwit who might shop in such a boutique that their scarcity makes my items that much more valuable. This could be my big moment! Does anyone have Paris Hilton's mobile number?

Stormy Saturday

Last night we were warned by those sages at the Met Office that there might be a storm today and for once they were right. It wasn't quite as biblical as they feared it might be but the wind was strong enough to drive the rain into my face so hard I had to change direction this morning as I walked towards the seafront. The wind was funnelled along the street I was walking along and the rain felt like multiple pin-stabs on my forehead - really painful. I briefly wondered whether it would have been quite so intense if I'd had a bit more hair but figured there was no point dwelling on that one. Obviously this wasn't the only shot I took. There are loads more on Flickr.

Fishfingers, chips and mushy peas

I had lunch with Madge in the pub yesterday. My choice was fishfingers, chips and mushy peas with a homemade tartar sauce. I had high hopes because this was the Earth & Stars in Brighton and they do know how to make a good lunch, but they outdid themselves yesterday.

The fishfingers were more like delicious stubby little fishthumbs with a hint of tarragon, the chips were thick and crispy on the outside and fluffy within, the mushy peas were minty and mouthwatering and the sauce was just right, piquant enough to make a difference but not overwhelming. To wash it down I had a pint and a half of Arundel Ale, which is a gorgeously nutty dark beer that never gets cloying in the way some of those winter-warmers do.

All told it was a triumph, and if your mouth isn't watering by now I would suggest you have some kind of eating disorder.

Cheap jumpers

It's odd how I can walk through Brighton on one day with a camera and come home completely empty-handed and depressed and then take the same camera around the same route the following day and return with a memory card bulging with promising shots. Odd and rather frustrating.

Saturday was a thumbs up day. I was with the family and we were on a bit of a mission but I seemed to see nothing but photogenic gorgeousness all around me. Perhaps it's because I was in a hurry. Perhaps I only thought I saw loads of good shots but walked away happy because I didn't have the time to stop and make a concerted effort to make the most of any of them. This leads me to think I might be able to guarantee my most satisfying photographic experience ever by leaving my camera at home and just ambling around muttering incessantly about marvellous light and shadow play.

I'll mull that one over. In the meantime, here's a snatched shot that I really like of a clothes rail in the North Laine area. Marvellous light and shadow play, no?

The old and the new

I'm not built for all-nighters any more really, but unfortunately that doesn't stop me staying up all night every now and then. Last night was just such an occasion I'm afraid - I finally hit the sack around 5am after nearly 12 hours of brandy, cava, wine, beer and bourbon, far too much talking and lots of rich food. Just three hours later I was woken by the sound of Lionel, one of my partners in crime last night, chatting to my kids downstairs. I toyed with the idea of rolling over and going back to sleep but figured that would be a bit rude so I sprang from my bed like a young gazelle and skipped daintily down the stairs for a bucketful of coffee which made no discernible difference to the MONSTROUS hangover I now realised I had.

The occasion was a mini Old Dovorian reunion (that's a mini reunion, not a reunion of diminutive former schoolmates), one of whom - Debbie - is celebrating her birthday today. So we had our excuse to carouse til the small hours and carouse we duly did, Debbie, her husband Garry, their son Fred (all pictured above), Lionel, Margo, Sara and me. It was utterly splendid but completely over the top and as a result I seriously don't think I'm ever going to drink again.

Enough empty promises already. What I really wanted to say about the whole thing is that it was a pure delight to spend more time catching up with old school friends and simultaneously making new ones. And that's all I wanted to say - or more accurately it's all I can bring myself to say right now. I may edit this when I've recovered from my current rather pitiful state. Over and out. Bleurgh.

Fireworks

It's hard to avoid taking your camera along to firework displays - almost as hard as it is coming up with anything remotely original once you get there. I quite like this one because it was 'made' rather than just snapped. It was a conscious effort to capture a distant explosion against a foreground of other, closer explosions and some spectators and buildings for context.

I took about 120 shots that night and ended up with fewer than 20 useable ones thanks to a nearby streetlight that I didn't notice at all when we were there, but which leaked light into most of my shots. Good job it was just a bit of fun and nothing important...

Catfight brewing

I've been a bit disappointed by the photos I brought back from Spain. I think most of them were average snapshots. But I'm also aware that I have a tendency to be a little hard on myself, to the point where I'll actually stop doing something - poetry springs to mind - because I don't think I cut the mustard at it. Whether I do or not is entirely irrelevant of course. What matters is enjoying it, first and foremost, but also working at it, not giving up on it, improving because of it. I need to watch this tendency of mine - it's dangerous.

Anyway, I stumbled upon these three while out for a stroll in La Herradura. They were squaring up for a proper scrap I think, but who knows? Maybe they worked it out as soon as I'd disappeared...

He's the greatest dancer

A moment of triumph for our mate Archie as he holds aloft his prize for winning the best dancer competition at the Halloween party at La Bamba, La Herradura in southern Spain last week. We had a fantastic time soaking up the autumnal sun, swimming in the sea, drinking and eating far too much and generally kicking back with Archie, his brother Louis and their parents Liz & Rink for the half-term week.

I seem to be paying the price now though, with a particularly nasty case of man flu (truth be told it's no more than a sore throat at the moment but it's got all the hallmarks of a builder so I'm bracing myself). We also spent far too much money for a one-job family, but enough of such minor irritants. On balance it was definitely worth it.