the contact sheets


I wasn’t going to turn on my computer tonight. But I did. And here I am.

I have just started work on two new screens – one of which is my parents’ long overdue Christmas present.

I’m at the collation and printing stage, pulling together all kinds of stuff, scanning it, cropping it, digitising old photos, sticking them all onto contact sheets so I can print them all off on A4 and (in theory) save time.

It’s kinda surreal, seeing bits and bobs from your family history quickly bunged onto a piece of paper, in random order. It’s cool digging through old stuff. Like the telegrams from Mum and Dad’s wedding and the letters we wrote when we were little. It’s a privilege, I guess. The older I get the more I can see how family history can become addictive.

Went to see Liquid Stone this evening in the Documentary Edge Festival, about Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia. That thing is far too epic and out of this world for this bear of little brain to get her head around. Sometimes I wish I were good at maths. Who knew you could make elaborate curves out of millions of straight lines, intricately manipulated?

Anyway, I’m not going to be here long. I need to keep cutting things out, and I also have plans to paint my nails. But I thought I would share a poem by Brian Turner – one of my old favourites – which I just found when I was delving into things and making a mess. (NB ‘du’ = ‘dusk’)


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