Half a lifetime ago, back when newspapers were printed on dead trees and wet process darkrooms were still a thing, I used to be a photojournalist.
I left the business just as digital photography was coming in, setting aside my cameras for computers and trading abject poverty for a steady pay-check.
Yet despite the techie job I now do to ensure that money pops out when I stick my card in a cash machine, I am, will always be and have always been, at my core, a photographer. It is how I define myself to myself.
Here are a few of my pictures.
I am not gifted with natural coordination. My maths education stopped abruptly 25 years ago and my map reading skills are best described as "wobbly". Yet, as of late, most weekends I find myself lurching into the air over a muddy airfield in Essex at the controls of a battered but adored Cessna 172 attempting to earn my private pilots license.
It turns out that flying is even more geeky than IT and for the uninitiated, reading about either field can be as entertaining as listening to your uncle's golf stories.
Nonetheless, writing about flying is what I have begun to do and the first excerpts are inside.
I move around a lot and not simply to avoid capture. "Home" is therefore an elusive concept. I've been marooned in the British Isles for nearly 14 years but it still strikes me as odd that I live there. London is where I sleep in-between being somewhere else.
Over the years I've written a lot about life here, there and everywhere. It would seem that no matter where I am, there is always some place else I would rather be.
In no particular order, some of that writing is here.