I’m sorry, am I boring you?

As the mighty throat garbler Paul Young once sang; “by the look in your eyes, I can tell you’re gonna cry. Is it over me?” The answer to Paul’s question is most definitely a resounding “YES IT ARSING WELL IS!”. Now, I shall grant that you whilst Paul’s voluminous rendition of the Harold Wilson classic “Wherever I lay my hat” may have been referring to love and all its infinite pangs of pain and suffering, but I know that of which he speaks.

However, my understanding of Paul’s pain is not driven by lustful trousers or a chocolate filled heart. My alignment with Paul’s strangled pain come down to the paranoid and soporific impact of my conversations regarding all things photography. I have a dread of boring people, a stinging paranoia that sits right at the front of my thinking, just behind the eyes and above the Neanderthal. I have honed this paranoiac qualm over many years, fine-tuned it to an art form that gives me a deep insight in the psyche and body language of others when my conversations are in town.

I try not to bore people, I genuinely do. I strive to be interesting and I believe that I largely am as I listen to the words spilling forth from me. Having thought about where this paranoia comes from, I think it all stems from when, as an 8 year old, I was forced, by our  Tweed festooned, weeble of a form tutor Mrs Taylor, to stand in front of scuffed, snooty and bruised 8 year old school chums and regale them all with a story about my trip to the park with my Nan. As soon as I started to speak, Mrs Taylor, wobbled, yawned, rolled her eyes and then fell off the table edge having suffered a major heart attack ina crumpled heap of moth-eaten clothing.  Now that, is bound to dent a chap’s confidence.

So now, I can see the repressed yawn pulling at the corners of their mouth, the desire of their eye-balls to roll backwards or  their restless fidgeting hands start to scratch at themselves. And all I want to do is talk to them about the fantastic spot I found in a derelict mill covered in painting or the magnificent mural adorning the arse end of Manchester, but I don’t. I can’t. I can’t have another incident of “yawn, roll, thump, silence……” on my hands.

Here’s one I prepared earlier.

all eyes on you contrast

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