The middle of April saw us heading along the M4 in the early hours of the morning on a business trip to the ancient and arguably very beautiful city of Bath. Unfortunately, heavy road works coincided with my entry to the M25, extending the journey by two hours and nearly rupturing my bladder into the bargain. Fuel economy averages around 360-380 miles to a full tank dependant upon accidents, detour and delay but is pretty impressive nonetheless, although I’m not quite so endeared to the ever escalating fuel prices. Five years ago filling the tank from hero to zero cost £25 now it hovers around £40.
Fossil fuels are undoubtedly a finite resource but the greed of oil companies and their shareholders irks me somewhat. Bath is a city in the West Country and a very beautiful one busy but without the frenetic feel of say London and Birmingham. The purpose of this visit was business-an editorial meeting followed by some after hours’ fun and a very steady drive back the following afternoon. On so many levels it was good to escape, meet with much respected contributors and to let one’s metaphorical hair down- I was mildly amused to discover another publishing house had been spending considerable quantities on Maserati and cocaine!
Back with a bump, I found myself in the surreal position of photographing men frequenting a brothel from an external staircase of a solicitor’s in the not so salubrious seaside town of Southend.
In keeping with many old resorts, there are some very affluent areas but an increasing migration of people displaced from various parts of the country sees many of the once grandiose hotels and guest houses converted into flats, bed-sits etc housing individuals and families often unwanted by the London boroughs. 
By the same token, I’ll confess to a love of decay-at least from a photographic standpoint. Salt air’s not good for coachwork and our old friends Joe and Joanna rot had been busily breeding around Kushi’s sills again. The warmer weather and lighter evenings have presented opportunity for further purging- sanded back to bare metal, followed by several coats of rust-busting primer and finally, light applications of Neptune green top-coats as time and climate allow. 
A few days later and once again Kushi and I were headed 165 miles up to Birmingham to see Melody Gardot, get a few shots of some abandoned buildings and even a quick saunter around Spark hill and a butcher’s at the Bull-ring and of course the bubble wrap building exterior it’s sections notoriously removed by drunken revellers wanting a souvenir. Melody, (including her comparatively dignified wardrobe malfunction) certainly captured my imagination as she wowed, teased and engaged the audience in equal measure with a warm, if ever-so- slightly brash New York charm. Birmingham has a notoriously complex road network so I left Kushi in the outskirts, making a trip to the city centre and staying in a concept hotel-not this abandoned car park opposite (although those close to me will doubtless understand its significance and moreover appeal). 
44, 800 miles chimed time for servicing. Received wisdom suggests 10,000 (or once yearly) but by this point, the engine oil will have literally lost any protective qualities. Ironically, entering the garage yard, one that drew fascination and enchantment as a young boy, I spotted Florence sitting quietly in the exact same spot as I left it on that fateful January morning.
It had obviously moved at some point and I’m reasoning cannibalised for spares. Nonetheless, seeing it again conjured some very fond memories and strong sentiments but then, this speaks volumes about my psyche. Sure I can make very prudent, dare I say; rational business decisions but I am not a businessman as cut from the traditional cloth. 
So to its successor’s servicing. This was a very straightforward plugs, filters, fluids affair with a lick of grease, tweaked handbrake cable and replacement driver’s side wiper blade £138 including VAT. (Thanks go to the good folk at Palmers for their skill and moreover, constructive approach to repairs and servicing). There have been some very surreal moments in amongst our mile munching meanders too. Drawing up at the lane leading to my son’s primary school, I hadn’t so much as engaged the handbrake when two of the middle class mothers of moral majority began tittering amongst themselves-in truth they shot a look more commonly associated with the 1978 remake of “Invasion of the Body snatchers” with Messer’s Nimoy, Sutherland et al.
The reason for this mirth being my door magnet promoting “Stenning Photographic” which had been somewhat twisted in translation (talk about lost consonants) to “Stenning Pornographic”. The two women continued this hysteria to the point where I had neither the inclination, nor patience to correct or otherwise engage them in any dialog. Clearly (he says tongue firmly tongue in cheek) they had succumbed to Riche’s construct of neurosis- yes, the psychologist from the Freudian school of thought who asserted neurosis derived from the absence of orgasm.
This location also gave rise to chance encounter with a busty Polish Au pair and her 98 plate Ka- also finished in Neptune green but with the elderly and ominously tappety Endura unit. Seeing me emerge from Kushi, the young woman approached and asked if I thought her engine needed attention. "Tappets" I replied with a smile, explaining these were prone to misalignment on the Endura, requiring about forty minutes skilled garage labour every five thousand miles or so. Hers didn't sound as if someone had thrown the proverbial bag of bolts in but a little too vocal nonetheless. If 77,000 miles were genuine and services regular, this shouldn't present too many nasty surprises....
Fossil fuels are undoubtedly a finite resource but the greed of oil companies and their shareholders irks me somewhat. Bath is a city in the West Country and a very beautiful one busy but without the frenetic feel of say London and Birmingham. The purpose of this visit was business-an editorial meeting followed by some after hours’ fun and a very steady drive back the following afternoon. On so many levels it was good to escape, meet with much respected contributors and to let one’s metaphorical hair down- I was mildly amused to discover another publishing house had been spending considerable quantities on Maserati and cocaine! Back with a bump, I found myself in the surreal position of photographing men frequenting a brothel from an external staircase of a solicitor’s in the not so salubrious seaside town of Southend. In keeping with many old resorts, there are some very affluent areas but an increasing migration of people displaced from various parts of the country sees many of the once grandiose hotels and guest houses converted into flats, bed-sits etc housing individuals and families often unwanted by the London boroughs. By the same token, I’ll confess to a love of decay-at least from a photographic standpoint. Salt air’s not good for coachwork and our old friends Joe and Joanna rot had been busily breeding around Kushi’s sills again. The warmer weather and lighter evenings have presented opportunity for further purging- sanded back to bare metal, followed by several coats of rust-busting primer and finally, light applications of Neptune green top-coats as time and climate allow. A few days later and once again Kushi and I were headed 165 miles up to Birmingham to see Melody Gardot, get a few shots of some abandoned buildings and even a quick saunter around Spark hill and a butcher’s at the Bull-ring and of course the bubble wrap building exterior it’s sections notoriously removed by drunken revellers wanting a souvenir. Melody, (including her comparatively dignified wardrobe malfunction) certainly captured my imagination as she wowed, teased and engaged the audience in equal measure with a warm, if ever-so- slightly brash New York charm. Birmingham has a notoriously complex road network so I left Kushi in the outskirts, making a trip to the city centre and staying in a concept hotel-not this abandoned car park opposite (although those close to me will doubtless understand its significance and moreover appeal). 44, 800 miles chimed time for servicing. Received wisdom suggests 10,000 (or once yearly) but by this point, the engine oil will have literally lost any protective qualities. Ironically, entering the garage yard, one that drew fascination and enchantment as a young boy, I spotted Florence sitting quietly in the exact same spot as I left it on that fateful January morning. It had obviously moved at some point and I’m reasoning cannibalised for spares. Nonetheless, seeing it again conjured some very fond memories and strong sentiments but then, this speaks volumes about my psyche. Sure I can make very prudent, dare I say; rational business decisions but I am not a businessman as cut from the traditional cloth. So to its successor’s servicing. This was a very straightforward plugs, filters, fluids affair with a lick of grease, tweaked handbrake cable and replacement driver’s side wiper blade £138 including VAT. (Thanks go to the good folk at Palmers for their skill and moreover, constructive approach to repairs and servicing). There have been some very surreal moments in amongst our mile munching meanders too. Drawing up at the lane leading to my son’s primary school, I hadn’t so much as engaged the handbrake when two of the middle class mothers of moral majority began tittering amongst themselves-in truth they shot a look more commonly associated with the 1978 remake of “Invasion of the Body snatchers” with Messer’s Nimoy, Sutherland et al.The reason for this mirth being my door magnet promoting “Stenning Photographic” which had been somewhat twisted in translation (talk about lost consonants) to “Stenning Pornographic”. The two women continued this hysteria to the point where I had neither the inclination, nor patience to correct or otherwise engage them in any dialog. Clearly (he says tongue firmly tongue in cheek) they had succumbed to Riche’s construct of neurosis- yes, the psychologist from the Freudian school of thought who asserted neurosis derived from the absence of orgasm.
This location also gave rise to chance encounter with a busty Polish Au pair and her 98 plate Ka- also finished in Neptune green but with the elderly and ominously tappety Endura unit. Seeing me emerge from Kushi, the young woman approached and asked if I thought her engine needed attention. "Tappets" I replied with a smile, explaining these were prone to misalignment on the Endura, requiring about forty minutes skilled garage labour every five thousand miles or so. Hers didn't sound as if someone had thrown the proverbial bag of bolts in but a little too vocal nonetheless. If 77,000 miles were genuine and services regular, this shouldn't present too many nasty surprises....
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