Camera in hand, first thing. Hard not to get distracted by moody town shots that sneak out of shadows, or to lean back on a fence, letting your pen scrawl bus stop scenes as the litter crew sweep up what's left of the weekend.
One of those mornings with a frown about it, when there's just a hint of Autumn in the breeze. A mass of clouds is blocking the heat, every grey imaginable and most you haven't seen since storms shattered the sky in another country.
You've been watching all week, waiting for the tide to run back from shore, wanted to time it right today, rushed out of the house after a cup of tea and a splash of cold water over your face. You kick off your sandals when you reach the sand and stroll towards town the way you can least often choose.
You're happy with 63 shots of the same thing, find that photography starts to turn into painting, into printmaking, into something that holds the fluidity in the frame.