The summer continues. I take my film camera to London on a date with Jonny; to the National Gallery, and to the the photography section in Foyles on Charing Cross Road, and along the river in the torrential rain under the streetlights. I shoot pictures in Sussex on the edge of government designated Natural Beauty, on the platform of a tiny rural train station in the sunshine where other people wait but it feels like I am alone with my lover, in the city where my friends and I picnic together for the first time in a year. I catch sunlight on my first visit to Worcester, where Jonny lives on little Camelot now, and in Shrewsbury where one of my best friends turns 21 with bow-tie clad sheep.
Finally, at the top of the Malvern Hills, I fill up the last of my roll with wide skies and patchwork fields, and think about leaving this country for a while. On the way down I click and twist Acer's dials to wind the film back, safe into its dark box, but nothing feels quite right. My camera is old and has seen a lot, and usually she pulls back on me when I ask her to let go of her secrets. Today she gives too easily, slack and lazy. When I peer through the crack in her panel, I already know she has nothing to give me.