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Memoirs from New Years Eve

I found myself filming a fireworks display the other day.
Fine. Does that sound fine to you? It felt ok. My friends were doing it too. And lots of other people had their phones out and were merrily pointing them at the sky. So therefore it must definitely be ok. Right?
It wasn’t until I was lying in bed the following morning that it occurred to me that it might not be ok. I picked up my phone and watched the shaky, shoddy, small screen shambles.
Two things occurred to me:

1. This looks awful,

2. I can’t remember enjoying the fireworks.

Not because I don’t like fireworks. I do, I’ve loved them since childhood. But somewhere along the line the recording of things seems to have overtaken the enjoyment of things and the latter has fallen by the wayside, like a spent sparkler.
There are 1145 photos on my phone. And 73 videos. I have three old phones lying around, each an electronic mortuary of memories I can’t remember. And it’s safe to say I won’t do anything with, err, any of it. Largely because with very few exceptions the videos and photos aren’t very good. They say new technology means anyone can take a good photo. I have a lot of proof to the contrary.
So I’ve made a decision. I’m taking back my life with the help of a little self-imposed regulation.
One photo a week. For one year. Wherever I am in the world (and I do get about a bit) or whatever I’m doing, however exciting or mundane, rules are rules and if I break them I’ll do something unpleasant that I hate. Like cuddle a spider or eat liver. And this blog is where I’ll keep them.
Gosh, I’m sweating a little already. Genuinely sweating. Maybe I’ll take a photo of myself sweating?
Anyone else suffering the same affliction/addiction and looking for a cure? Join me. Free yourself. Just think of this as your ration book, and share your one photo a week with me.
#52perannum.

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