That Was The Month That Was: August 2018

Yep, it’s August’s random selection of snapshots

Spending the afternoon at the Beach in West Wittering, it seemed fitting to take that archetypal holiday camera, the Olympus Trip 35. Millions were sold during its lengthy production run from 1967-1984, during which time there were hardly any changes made to the original genius design. No batteries required; a solar-powered selenium light meter measures the light, and even though selenium photocells don’t go on forever, mine still meters perfectly. If you’re of a certain age, you’ll remember those classic commercials in the 70s with fashion photographer David Bailey.

Camera: Olympus Trip 35
Film: Fomapan 100



Coco The Cocker loves the sea



She may be 15, but Daisy still gets excited about going for a walk. The square format and the belly level perspective probably give away that this was taken with a twin lens reflex camera, in this case a Yashica Mat.
If you’re shooting a meter-less camera and using sunny 16 to calculate exposure, then these sunny cloudless days are the easiest. You can set and forget. I’ve it said that in the UK full sun is never that bright and we should actually use sunny 11, but 16 always works out perfectly for me. Perhaps it’s different if you’re further north.

Camera: Yashica Mat 124G
Film: Ilford FP4



When I step outside my home first thing on a sunny morning, this is one of the first things I see

Camera: Pentax KM
Film: Kodak Tmax 100

And this is the view coming back after my morning coffee



Amongst the dunes on West Wittering Beach.

Whenever I see dunes, I think of the BBC’s 1968 adaption of MR James’ Whistle And I’ll Come To you. If you’re a fan of MR James, then I heartily recommend the Mark Gatiss documentary MR James: Ghost Writer.



This is not a great photo of The Copper House, mainly because it gives no sense of scale or location. Next time I’ll do better. It’s a statue of George III mounted on a plinth in 1831, atop of Snow Hill in Windsor Great Park. When I’m cycling round the park, this is my favourite pace to stop and have my sandwiches. On a clear day you can see the control tower at Heathrow and the arches of Wembley Arena.



My current home of Chertsey is one of the oldest market towns in England. Of particular historical note is Chertsey Abbey. Founded in the ungodly year of 666, it was sacked by the Vikings in 875, who burnt it down and killed all the monks. Bastards. It was later rebuilt in stone, although all that remains is a pile of several dozen bricks, and I’m not totally convinced of their provenance. Its former presence is evidenced more strongly in many local names however, for example Abbey River, Abbey Fields, and Monk’s Walk.

Monk’s walk is an enclosed footpath that apparently once started from the Abbey, but now begins several hundred yards further along in Ferry Lane. It runs for about a mile and a half and you emerge quite suddenly next to St Mary’s Church in Thorpe. The exact date when the Church was built is unknown, although in 1963 a Roman cinerary urn was dug up in the churchyard and subsequently dated to around 150 A.D., indicating that the site itself has been of religious significance for going on 1900 years. It seems likely that the church itself was built in the 12th century, and perhaps Monk’s Walk was indeed a secret route between the Church and the Abbey.

When I cycle along there now the first thing you notice, at least in the summer, are the screams. It runs along the back of what is now Thorpe Park, and through the wire fence you get occasional views of some of the rides. Despite the presence of CCTV and razor wire-topped fences, I think there’s still a few opportunities to sneak into the park, if you’re so inclined.



For fast 35mm film I tend to flit between Tri-X and Tmax 400. Tri-X is a classic, but Tmax has very fine grain for a 400 speed film. I’ve seen ISO 100 films that are far grainier than this.

Camera: Nikon F90X
Film: Kodak Tmax 400



We went to pick our own at Durleigh Marsh Farm. I specifically voted to remain in the EU so we could continue to exploit East Europeans and I wouldn’t end up having to pick my own damn vegetables </sarcasm>


The People’s March for Europe

These photos were taken on a pro-European march a few weeks back. I should probably write a bit more about it, but since legislation was introduced in the late 1990s to make civil discussion about politics on the internet illegal, I’ve found it’s best just to keep quiet.

London, Sep 09 2017
Camera: Nikon F90x
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
Process:Developed in D76 1+1

3


Southwest Celebration Party

Those of us who work in the London office and who spent May in the US supporting the Southwest project were rewarded with a party. We gathered on the side of the river and were whisked away on a cruise along the Thames. Sadly I very quickly lost the light and was only able to fire off half a roll before having to go digital with the X100T. Which is probably a good thing, as thanks to the free bar things got seriously out of focus soon after.

Camera: Nikon F90X
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
Process: Developed in D76 1+1

Camera: Fujifilm X100T


The Beast of the East

At 05:25 on May 9th 2017 flight WN1257 pushed back from the stand at Pittsburgh International Airport, taxied to runway 10L and took off into clear skies, heading south towards Orlando.

1200 miles away in Dallas, several dozen people in the Command Centre watched throughout the day as a further 4000 flights came to life in the new reservation and departure control systems.

In a number of strategic airports across the the US, more than a hundred subject matter experts were deployed to provide technical support and operational advice.

My assignment was Baltimore. They call it The Beast of the East, due to the huge volume of departures; we handled up to 260 flights a day. And there were tears, screams, frayed tempers, banging of fists on desks, banging of heads on walls, periods of dark despair, and mainly that was just me. There was also a great deal of laughter.

Cameras and airports don’t mix well. Being behind a check-in desk, at a departure gate, in the hold of a 737 or wandering around on the apron snapping pictures raises questions, even if you do have the appropriate ID. With film, there’s an extra problem. Whilst I’ve happily subjected film to a couple of x-ray screenings, I knew that in this case I’d probably been going back and forth through security a dozen or more times a day. Therefore I reluctantly made the decision to take a single roll of film and to keep the camera landside, hopefully grabbing a few shots in the downtime.

These are a few of the wonderful people I worked with in a state of barely controlled chaos over the last month. Thanks guys, for all the laughter, warmth and friendship.

Southwest Cutover, Baltimore Airport, May 2017
Camera: Nikon FE
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
Process: Developed in D76 1+1


Arrival

Atlanta, Georgia. Not my final destination, but US regulations dictate that I clear customs and immigration at the first point of entry. I’m nervous. I’m midway along a twisting line that’s snaking its way towards the cubicle one hundred feet ahead. Inside, a granite-faced immigration officer. My hands are clenched into solid fists and I feel the beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. In front of me, a young Hispanic woman with nervous eyes clutches a mewling baby. Behind me, an elderly couple argue in Polish, the man hissing at his wife through clenched teeth. You could slice the atmosphere with a taser.

I’m told that US immigration can be tough. Grueling. That they ask you questions. Ideological questions. One wrong answer and you’re on the next flight home. Or worse. I use my balled hands to knuckle the perspiration from my eyes. My Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down like a monkey on a stick.

I’m near the front of the queue now, and get a better view of the officer. He’s younger than I initially thought. Severe brush cut. Impassive expression. Aviator mirrored sunglasses. One of those black-eyed aliens from The X-Files springs to mind. The only movement in his face is the slight chewing motion of his jaw; gum, presumably. Other than that he’s as still as death.

And then it’s me. I hand over my passport. He swipes it. Thumbs through it. I see him pause on the visa for Kazakhstan and the Egyptian entry stamp. Then the photo. He scrutinises it, looks up at me. Reflected in the sunglasses, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a face that looks like it’s been dipped in flour stares back at me with insane eyes.

“What exactly is the purpose of your visit, Sir?”

I’m stammering. I could be fifteen again, struggling to explain exactly why it is that I want to take his fourteen year old daughter to the school dance. I’m dimly aware of someone babbling something about work, business trip, aviation industry, reservation systems.

He watches impassively as I ramble on, then removes his sunglasses and glares at me. “Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?” His eyes narrow to dark slots.

“Donald Trump? That orange dude from The Apprentice? Well, I’ve gotta be honest – the UK version of the show is far superior.”

He freezes. There’s silence. The air seems to have been sucked out of the room. Blood gushes and pounds in my ears. Very slowly, he raises himself up to his full height. I hear a ptui sound of tongue between teeth, followed by a plop, and a quarter-sized blob of brown chewing tobacco appears on the cap of my shoe.

“Boy,” he says, towering over me, “We don’t like your sort here.” He signals towards a couple of security guards in the corner, who start to stride over. “And what we’re gonna do is haul your sorry ass downtown and throw you in an empty cell. Empty, that is, ‘cept for a single bunk and a big, lonely guy called Bubba. And when you’re squealing, squealing like a pig on on its honeymoon, we’re gonna ask you again what you think of our President.

The security guys are upon me now, each grabbing an arm and forcing me to my knees.

“Hey, c’mon guys,” I plead, but they drag me along the floor, nearly yanking my arms out of the sockets. I’m panicking, my eyes imploring the people in the queue for help. They avert their gaze or look at their feet. I start to shout. “Please, someone help me,” I scream. “Please!” Tears are flowing down my cheeks. “Help! Please! Someone rush to Starbucks and bring me one of those Coastal Elite Lattes to catch my liberal snowflake tears. “HEEELLLLLLLPPPP………..!”

Okay, wait. Hold it right there. Now’s not the time to be flippant. Let’s think this through. I can do better than this. Okay. Try again:


He removes his sunglasses and glares at me. “Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?” His eyes narrow to dark slots.

“Oh I’m sorry. I don’t follow pointless celebrities on Twitter. That’s because I’m not a twelve year old girl.

ptui

plop


“Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?”

I unbutton my jacket to reveal my Make America Great Britain Again T-shirt

ptui

plop


And then it’s me. I hand over my passport. He swipes it. Thumbs through it. I realise that’s he’s not actually wearing sunglasses, neither is he chewing tobacco. He scrutinises the photo, glances up at me, hands it back. I turn to go.

“Just hold it right there.” I freeze. The words sound menacing. Slowly, very slowly, I turn to face him. “Welcome to America,” he says, a friendly smile stretching across his face.

“Erm, thanks.”

‘Well, that was easy,’ I think as I follow the signs for baggage reclaim. ‘I don’t know why people make such a fuss about these things. Damn snowflakes.’


Leaving Heathrow
Camera: Nikon FE
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
Process: Developed in D76 1+1


The Long Goodbye

“Los Angeles was the kind of place where everybody was from somewhere else and nobody really dropped anchor. It was a transient place. People drawn by the dream, people running from the nightmare. Twelve million people and all of them ready to make a break for it if necessary. Figuratively, literally, metaphorically — any way you want to look at it — everybody in L.A. keeps a bag packed. Just in case.”
Michael Connelly, The Brass Verdict

In early 2005 I was sitting on a bench in Los Angeles International Airport, wearing a pair of crumpled black pyjamas that made me look like a ninja who’d spent a night in the drunk tank. Across the aisle I could sense what I took to be the disapproval of an austere middle aged woman, hair scraped up in a severe bun, eyes bobbing over the top of her Dorothy B Sayers novel in my direction. At one point, looking over the top of my own book, our eyes locked, and she leaned towards me and whispered conspiratorially ‘I love that guy’.

That guy was Harry Bosch, Michael Connelly’s hard-bitten LA homicide detective. On the half dozen or so trips I’d taken to LA over the preceding 18 months, I’d thought it an appropriate opportunity to get reacquainted with my fondness for hardboiled crime fiction. In more than one hundred hours of flying I’d re-read much of Chandlers and James M. Cain’s work, finally got round to reading Chester Himes, and accidentally discovered Connelly’s modern take on the noir fiction genre. I still have all those books, and occasionally re-read them.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you about.

45 minutes earlier I’d been sitting in a business class seat on a flight shortly to take off for London.

“Warm nuts, sir?”

Absolutely. Was it that obvious? I’m terrified of flying. The sheer improbability of it all. Several hundred tonnes of metal, plastic, fuel and flesh, hurtling down the runway and vaulting off the end in what to me is the ultimate leap of faith. The irony being that then, as now, I was working in the aviation industry.

“Glass of pre-flight orange juice or champagne, sir?”

“Complimentary in flight sleep suit for your travelling comfort?”

I immediately knocked back the champagne in a single, nerve-steadying gulp – a rather gauche action that no doubt signaled I was an impostor in this part of the plane and should immediately be dragged down the back to join the other serfs – and headed to the bathroom to change into my ‘sleep suit’. Rocky, I’m sure, would not have approved.

I’d met Rocky in London several years before. She’d come from northern Spain to study for a masters degree, a dark-eyed beauty with a steely-eyed character that didn’t suffer fools gladly. A shame really, otherwise things might have worked out between us. Rocky was the nickname one of my friends had given her. She was tough and determined. Plucky. Feisty. Even now when I think of her I hear the Running-Up-The-Steps music. Eventually she was offered an extremely prestigious job in LA that she couldn’t refuse, and that as they say was that. Except it wasn’t. Not quite. There was still perhaps some future to be salvaged, and I probably traveled to LA six or seven times over the following couple of years to see if we could find it.

Many people imagine that working for an airline is an opportunity to gallivant round the world for next to nothing, and actually that’s pretty much how it is. Back then I was travelling on what’s known as an ID90; an industry ticket that is discounted by 90% – you pay just 10% of the cost of an economy ticket. Often if the flight is overbooked you’ll get upgraded, or sometimes if you’re lucky someone will upgrade you just for the hell of it. After all, what goes around comes around. And that’s how I came to be sitting in a seat that might normally sell for up to £10K, clutching a ticket that cost £100. All this sounds great, and of course it is, but there is a huge caveat; you’re traveling standby. Space Available. Subject to Load. And it’s not just the paying customers who get on in front of you. There’s a whole pecking order just for staff. Are you travelling for work or pleasure? How long have you been an employee? Do you work for this airline or another airline? Are you flying from or towards home? Were you sleeping with the check-in agent’s sister who you ended up dumping by text but she had it coming anyway because she’d been seeing that knuckle-dragger customs officer behind you’re back and been spreading BLATANT LIES about your performance in the bedroom? Yeah, whatever. Anyway, all these play in to the decision of whether or not you get a seat, and you never really know until you’re on that plane. In fact, unless you’re an idiot, you should never really relax until you’re up in the air. Because although it’s rare, sometimes you can even be sitting in your seat when you are asked to leave.

Which is how this idiot came to be doing the walk of shame through LAX in a pair of black pyjamas.

It took me another two days to finally make it out of LA. That’s a long time to keep saying goodbye. It was twelve years ago now and I can still remember looking out the window and watching those winking city lights recede and wondering whether this is where I’d end up living.

I never went back.

But that’s not what I wanted to tell you about.

In fact, I didn’t even want to think about any of this again. But I haven’t been able to avoid it. Because for the first time in twelve years I’m heading back to the States. Not LA this time, and for work not pleasure. But it seems to be a flaw in my character that I always look to the past, see the connections and coincidences in things.

Perhaps if I’m really being honest, what I really wanted is an excuse to finish the roll of film that’s been lounging in my Nikon FE for the past 6 months, so I’m all set for my trip. Because when you’re going on a business trip it’s important to remember that you’re there to do a job. And to pack accordingly:

“The French have a phrase for it. The bastards have a phrase for everything and they are always right.
To say goodbye is to die a little..”

Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

All photos: Nikon FE / Kodak Tmax 400 / Developed in D76 1+1