Super 8

I’ve never felt less like writing a blog entry. Not because I'm in a bad space but because I've almost nothing to write about. It’s been raining all day and will continue to do so tomorrow, which is a shame because tomorrow is the day we all go to Cambridge for my annual birthday punting trip. I spent the morning today working on the latest draft of the motet and the afternoon writing a little quiz for my friends. If we’re all forced, like miserable sardines into a pub, we might as well have some fun things to do with scraps of paper and pens; a bit like those lunch breaks at school when you weren't allowed to play outside and the dinner ladies were forced to come round with carrier bags filled with broken felt-tips and reams of that cheap printer paper with the holes along the sides, whilst the children very slowly began to climb the walls. I can still see the condensation building up on those windows.

Well it was always going to be a bit different this year. Very few of my friends can make it, and in fact, I have a horrible suspicion I’ve forgotten to mention it to a whole load more. Frankly, from a social perspective, this year’s been something of a wash-out. Everyone seems to be too busy, either nursing babies or nursing successful careers, and in one or two cases, both...


I'm watching a show on the television about old-fashioned cine films. Such wonderful images. So nostalgic and atmospheric. Every shot somehow reminded me of my Grandparents. It also made me very aware of the fact that, although I’m a photographer and a director, I’ve never actually personally shot moving images; well not in any meaningful sense. Perhaps I should buy myself a little super 8 camera and start filming? For my 40th birthday I’ve always told myself I’m going to make a musical film; a celebration of my wonderful friends and family; my community. Perhaps I should aim to film it myself...

Anyway, there’s plainly nothing more interesting to say. How old am I, again? 36? It ceases to mean anything when you get above the age of about 32... I guess until I'm in my 90s when my age will suddenly become the only thing I talk about...

Monday 13th August 1660 was a fairly uninspiring day for Pepys as well. He split his day, as usual between the Navy Office and the office of the Privy Seal and somewhere in between, he visited his father who’d been busily match-making on behalf of Pepys’ distant cousin, John Pickering. Pepys never liked this particular cousin and didn’t much approve of the suggested match, claiming Pickering didn’t deserve it. In the midst of all the vitriol, however, Pepys did coin a rather charming verb; “to propound.” “He had propounded Mr John Pickering for Sir Thomas Honywood’s daughter”. To propound: to put forward for consideration, acceptance or adoption. Perhaps this is a word that many of the readers of this blog will know well, but I've never heard it before and intend to use it!