Peeping

I wanted to use the word ‘obesogenic’ today but I’ve decided not to. Please pretend you’ve not seen it.

I left the hotel this morning to be greeted by a glorious autumn day. I’d about an hour to kill before being needed in my substitute womb so I nipped off across the car park and knocked out a few arboreal images. This is the time of the ‘leaf peeper’.

Pictures of leaves are pretty but curiously unsatisfying – you just know that they’re not even remotely original; all over the Northern Hemisphere, at this time of year, photographers are drooling over these riotously coloured icons of decay.

Determined to cast aside this lack-lustre subject, I leapt into the car and drove off in search of something more challenging. And didn’t find it. Beautiful light, stunning countryside, but nothing took my fancy. So I went to work early. Such is life.

There isn’t a muse traditionally associated with image making or, for that matter, prose writing so I can’t really blame the absence of any inspiration on their being away on a jolly somewhere. Of the ones that are recognised, Terpsichore; dance – not thanks. Not just now. Euterpe; music? Well I did whistle a bit of Mendelssohn earlier so perhaps she’s still about. Melpomene; tragic poetry – well there was a burst a couple of days ago so maybe she’s also on the scene (and wishing she wasn’t!)

Now if I could get Thalia back from the mall, we could all have a laugh.