All has finally returned to normal in the household for the forthcoming week. Gareth isn’t working away in London, which happily means that we are back to a 50/50 split on the work and childcare front. It also means that I’m not waiting for a phone call from the police, having spent the majority of my time worrying about the fate that might have befallen him in the big smoke.
Wait! Did you think that I was referring to a possible - nay imminent - terrorist attack by Islamic fundamentalists, the supposed high-level threat of which is sending us into an absolutely totalitarian, police state spin?
Or could it be that I was, in some strange paradox, referring to the police state officers themselves, who appear to be intent on persecuting anyone who shows any interest in photographing anything other than the flowers in their own back garden? God forbid that any of us should deviate from the state’s ever-narrowing definition of the standard photographic norm; this kind of dangerous, suspect behaviour will be tolerated no longer, folks. You know what happened to Winston.
Here we go. These were taken a few months ago.
I reckon that, despite what the legislation says about “exceptional
circumstances”, at least one of these photographs would now get him
arrested by a uniformed jobsworth with too much time and borrowed power
on his or her hands. If you look at what happened to
this poor guy – or
this one, I wouldn’t fancy Gareth’s chances with the other photos, either.
