A sunset in south London.

A sunset in south London.

Cromwell Tower. There’s no filter on this, because if anyone can, Barbican.

Cromwell Tower. There’s no filter on this, because if anyone can, Barbican.

Controversial graffiti I found in a north London toilet. Likely a reference to a Demetri Martin stand-up joke, Kevin Saunders tells me. Thanks!

Controversial graffiti I found in a north London toilet. Likely a reference to a Demetri Martin stand-up joke, Kevin Saunders tells me. Thanks!

Canary Wharf, looking shiny.

Canary Wharf, looking shiny.

I express no surprise at this.

Single Studio Available within walking distance of kings cross and Islington. This modern studio apartment comes complete and fully self contained.

You BET it’s self-contained.

I express no surprise at this.

Christ Church was going to get Instagrammed sooner or later. It was only a matter if time.

Christ Church was going to get Instagrammed sooner or later. It was only a matter if time.

On Poverty

Disclaimer: I have been trying to write this for almost a year and I’m tremendously dissatisfied with the result. It is three and a half thousand words long and has been drafted and revised so many times that I give up and release it from this endless, painful gestation.

I have never owned a table.

Sure, the place I live in has a table. It’s a glass table and it’s considerably better than the slightly wobbly wooden table in the previous place I lived in but, being glass, I’m perpetually terrified it will break and then I’ll have to pay for it. Then I’ll have paid for a table and still never have actually owned one.

I couldn’t tell you how much a table costs, but I did buy the cheapest and most basic desk for £50 once. I have a feeling I’d be charged a lot more than that if this table broke.

That philosophy extends to everything around me where I live, where I have lived: I don’t own it, but I will be paying for it if something goes wrong. There is a special sort of added excitement to this, since most of the places I’ve lived in have had all sorts of things wrong with them already, things from faulty electrics to ill-fitting windows to no doors that will close properly anywhere, that are never addressed. I’ve feared these things as well because I’ve wondered if I’m going to be the tenant who is deemed to be responsible for them, particularly because landladies and landlords seem to be curiously divorced from the properties they own. They always live far away, or they’re out of town or they’re overseas again. One landlady looked around a flat I was renting from her with surprise and awe and bafflement, failing to recognise many of its features.

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My local barber has it pretty much covered.

My local barber has it pretty much covered.

Why I am terrified of the Olympics

On the front page of the Daily Telegraph’s website there is a countdown to the London 2012 Olympics. For me it’s a sort of Doomsday Clock, and as yet another digit flips over to a zero, as that row of zeros lengthens from left to right, an event which I still view with a sensation somewhere between vague disbelief and abject terror inches ever closer.

There’s all kinds of reasons why I feel this way. I’ve tried to unravel them all, to gently tease them out from the furious ball of frustration they exist as, all bunched up in my head. They boil down to three things…

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I knew how to use a camera before I could ride a bike. I don’t mean point-and-click photography, I mean how a camera actually works.

I have a Flickr account and, though I don’t use it as frequently as some, I like to give it a quick pimp sometimes. That’s exactly what I’m doing now.

Head this way to see more. I’ve been uploading images for five years and have captured all the clichés, including animals, old buildings, food porn and the odd macro image. Photography tips and feedback are always appreciated.