My Camera

I have a new camera. It's not replacing an old camera. Until now, I've never had a camera of my own.

It's in a box, a little cardboard box, with the top torn off. It has a special cable, that likes to stay curled up.

The cable is like me. I like to stay curled up. But I wanted the camera. So I have to change my modus operandi.

My modus operandi, before I had the camera, was simple. I looked at things, and turned them into sentences.

Now, if I've remembered to take my camera with me, I look at things, such as

a row of bicycles outside a shop
a row of wooden ducks
an Edwardian gentleman speaking to a lady through a listening tube, painted on a fence.
a smiling plaster chef outside an antique shop, holding up a sign
yellow, blue and red-and-white posts along a linear park trail
water spreading over sand
and yachts at the end of pathways through the dunes

...with a view to what they'll look like in a frame.

That is fine, it's good to see things differently. But what I must get over is regret.

As yet, this hasn't worked out very well.