The Holloway

The Holloway, Warwick

At lunch I took off to town full of good intentions. I'd seen Martin Parr do it. My intention was to boldly wander up to complete strangers, produce a camera from thin air, say what a lovely day it was, such a pleasure to make their acquaintance, and then slip away. Or, if they fancied a chat, to chat. The reality, I soon discovered, was that nowadays there are fewer truly solitary people outside. Take the woman sat with a bench all to herself that I am now headed for. Four paces off she begins to speak and I discover that the hand out of view is holding a phone to her ear. If they're not in a middle of a spoken conversation, then chances are they're in the middle of a written one. Take the girl with the pinky-orange hair lying prone by a tree, her bike resting beside her. I'd seen her from a higher terrace and was just wandering across when closer inspection revealed the tell tale use of her thumbs. I halted and pretended there was something fascinating happening in the river. I then glanced her way to see she was looking oddly at me, silently saying 'Well? What is it?' And since I did nothing, she resumed her text message. So I moved on.

This was all very disappointing. Where were my guts? All I need do is say 'Bla de bla de bla bla, can I take your photograph,' and at worst he/she says 'No, fuck off or I'll knock yer block off, you creepy weirdo.' It's not the 'No'. It's not even being decapitated. It's the 'creepy weirdo' bit that gives me the shivers. I imagine dozens of eyes concentrating on me at once. Protective mothers tucking their children behind them and out of my sight. Uugh!