A selection of photographs from NYC.

It’s now a forgone fact that the cab ride from JFK into Manhattan will pass off with nothing of note taking place. That’s to say that nothing unusual or untoward generally happens. The taxi is hired, the hotel address is given, the driver drives, the journey is made, the destination is reached, and the fare is paid. Easy.

The return journey however, is something else. Drivers have fallen asleep, battled to control faulty steering, preached religion, played deafening music, reminisced sentimentally about the time they once lived in Streatham and provoked death threats from fellow motorists. Thankfully these events have never occurred during a single journey, but have accumulated over the years.

One reason for this eccentric and unpredictable behaviour is quite possibly brought on by the time of day. Catching a mid-evening flight means that it’s necessary to leave Manhattan between 4.30pm and 5.30pm, allowing a healthy margin for heavy traffic. On bad days it can take in excess of two hours for a journey that is usually completed in under an hour, especially if it’s wet. This is also the time when the day shift is finishing a long and weary tour of duty and is on the way home. The last thing many drivers desire is troublesome trip out to the airport, especially if home is in the opposite direction.

Standing on the sidewalk outside the hotel, my bag in hand, the lobby clerk was having a hard time finding a cab. There were plenty flashing past, but they were all taken, their for-hire lights turned off. The one he did manage to flag down refused the fare. He was going off duty. Then, at the stop light down the street, a cab dropped off a passenger. The clerk stepped into the road and raised his hand high, somewhere between a wave and a dictator-style salute: the kind of summons that could not easily be refused.

Sure enough, the yellow cab pulled in at the kerb. The clerk stooped, stuck his head into the open window, gave the destination, straightened, and within three strides and as many seconds swung the bag into the trunk, slammed it shut, accepted and pocketed my gratuity and was heading back to the lobby before I took my seat. Smooth.

‘What airline?’ the cabbie asked, partly turning his head, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. But would his eyes stay open I thought as I gave the answer. ‘American Airlines’. A slight pause as he negotiated the right turn into 38th Street. ‘American international?’ he said. I replies yes. Another pause as he pulled up at the lights. Then, ‘Why you not fly British Airways?’ This time twisting his head around to catch my eye. Okay, I thought, I’ve got a talker. But a talker is better than a sleeper, sermoniser or agent provocateur anytime, believe me. I was happy to talk if it meant staying alive.

My driver had sussed my accent, now what about his. I placed it in the east, someplace behind the old iron curtain, a first generation immigrant, earning a living at the second oldest profession: cab driver. Glancing at the driver’s I.D. on the dash, his name offered no real clues, but his origins were far from Anglo Saxon, Asian, Latin or Hibernian. Once through the mid-town tunnel we made good progress in the light traffic. I was surprised then, when he made known his intention to leave the freeway at the next junction. ‘When the road goes up a hill soon, it back up. Then, slow all the way to JFK. You see’.

As we exited onto the slip road, sure enough, red illuminated stoplights marked the start of the tailback. ‘There, it begins’, he said, ‘traffic slow now, all the way to JFK’. This way, no problem. You see’. Rather than treat his prediction with scepticism I was inclined to believe him. There was something about this large man from Krakow or Minsk that spread warm feelings of trust and reassurance. Instead of fretting about this meandering route that criss-crossed residential streets, I was able to sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

Rather than catch sketchy glimpses of the large borough of Queens from the freeway, this detour took us through the heart of it. We traversed neighbourhoods, quiet and leafy, passing rows of neat, detached villas, many constructed of wood, some of red brick with bright white mortar. In front, well-tended lawns, with neatly trimmed shrubs, a few with statues and cascading fountains. Crossing a junction in a shopping district we passed beneath the elevated subway tracks that run right down the centre of the street, seen often in movies like ‘Saturday Night Fever’, but this the first time I’d seen them for real.

‘Is like England, this place here?’ my driver asked. ‘No, not really’, I said, avoiding a lengthy explanation on the subtler points of detail that made it different. Passing the gates to a thickly wooded area my voluntary guide informed me that this was the Queens Forest Park, or something similar, proudly announcing that its acreage dwarfed that of Central Park. ‘You can hire horses here for riding’, he said, adding almost wistfully, ‘But I don’t know how people have time for these things’. The comment no doubt coming from his own need to work long hours to earn a living wage in the city that never sleeps.

With only a few miles remaining, we finally rejoined the main freeway to JFK. The driver reserved his final comments for the recently constructed tracks of the Airtrain, towering above us on concrete piles. Watching its progress over the years, I assumed that when finished, the link would whisk passengers from airport terminal to the heart of Manhattan. Not so.

‘You see this? It goes nowhere’, said the driver, with a nod of the head, a strong hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Millions of dollars to go nowhere’. And he’s right. The track, built at great cost, merely ferries passengers to the closest subway station, where it terminates. From here, it’s necessary to change onto the existing metropolitan network using busy trains that were designed for local commuters, not long-haul travellers with bulky luggage. But for my cabby and others like him, this is good news. It guarantees the continuing need for cabs as the fastest means of transportation to and from Manhattan.

Coming to a stop at the kerb outside of the American Airlines terminal, my driver opened his door and made his way to the rear. Once standing, his full height became apparent. He must have been 6 feet 5 or more. And full-face, rather than shadowy profile, he looked years younger. I took my bag and passed him a larger than normal tip. ’Thanks for the ride’, I said, ‘that was the best trip ever to the airport. Really interesting to see parts of the city I’ve never been before.’ He brushed back a fallen lock of thick hair from his forehead, his face lit by a wide, old-world, smile.

As I reached the electronic entrance doors, there was a flash of yellow in the corner of my eye and he was gone. Back to his new life, making it in the new world. I entered the terminal and prepared to return to mine.

8th Avenue starts at Columbus Circus, on the southwest corner of Central Park and extends downtown to Greenwich Village, where, at the junction with Bleeker Street, it morphs into Hudson Street. Around 10am on my final day in New York I set off to walk its length taking photographs as I went.

In New York, the Avenues that run north to south are one way, taking turns to alternate the direction. On 8th Avenue the traffic runs south to north, so I was walking against the flow. It starts in a modest kind of way, flanked on both sides by anonymous office buildings and apartment blocks. But once the numbered cross streets switch from the 50’s to the 40’s the character begins to change. These streets lead off Times Square and are the heart of the theatre district.

Times Square itself has undergone a transformation since the 1970’s when it was notorious for sleazy cinemas showing xx rated movies, strip joints, peep shows, porn stores, junkies and low life characters. Now it’s become the tourist hub of the City, the must-see destination, attracting thousands each day. This part of 8th Avenue escaped this moral purge and still hangs on to the remnants of the bad old days. A few girly bars and peep shows have survived and the buildings have a run-down, faded patina that is a throw-back to the days when this district and westwards to the Hudson River was largely residential and known as Hell’s Kitchen.

Once clear of the 40’s the Avenue settles down, leaving sex and theatricals behind and replaces them with local stores, offering everything from decorating materials, tailoring, hair and nail salons, milliners, haberdashers, cut-price perfumes, neighbourhood bars and diners. On the left hand side I passed the New York Port Authority building, the main terminus, not for ships as its name suggests, but buses, with destinations in all the city boroughs and beyond. A few blocks on is Penn Station and the rear entrance to Madison Square Garden.

The old Penn Station was torn down several years ago, dividing opinion in the city. Campaigners wanted it saved, dismayed at the casual ease with which the ruling authorities had consigned this and many of New York’s iconic buildings to the ball and chain. Others, including the mayor’s office and Port Authority who ran the station, said the building had outlived its capacity, was dark, insecure and no longer fit for purpose: it had to go. It went. And like many so-called improvements, it may be lighter, safer, and more efficient but, unlike Grand Central, has no architectural or cultural merit whatsoever. I didn’t pause to photograph the place as there’s nothing to photograph.

I continued on my way until I reached Greenwich Village. Down here the Avenue becomes largely residential, with a mixture of public and private blocks. There are small parks and trees lining the sidewalk. Checking the picture count on the camera I saw that I’d taken over one hundred photographs. It took me over three hours since leaving Columbus Circus. Time for lunch.

I crossed the Avenue and walked down Bleeker to Fish, a favourite restaurant from previous visits. I ordered a grilled tuna salad and a beer and settled down to review my morning’s work. After lunch I continued along Bleeker, passing a shoe store that I visited the first time I came to the city many years back. It’s called ‘Magic Shoes’ and is run by a formidable Chinese woman who is determined not to let anyone leave her domain without making at least one purchase. Alas, her tactics cannot have been working of late as the doorway displayed a closing down sale poster.

Alarmed at the imminent disappearance of a personal landmark I was panicked into doing the rounds of other such places in the area and recording them as a precaution against a similar fate. These included the Parisi bakery, Monte’s, a favourite restaurant, a bar with no name, and Moe’s Albanese Meat and Poultry store.

This done, safe in the knowledge that I would always have a picture to remember them by should they be gone next time I visit, I set off for the hotel, for alas, it was nearing the time when I would have to leave for JFK and my flight home.

In New York, as in many big cities, there’s a lack of public toilets; in the Big Apple the name ‘comfort station’ is favoured for the handful that do exist. I say handful; I’m only aware of two - one in Central Park, the other in Washington Square. I had cause to use the second recently. It was not the sort of place where you’d want to spend a second longer than is absolutely necessary. This, despite the three or four attendants who appear to be on permanent duty outside. Their presence may have more to do with security than cleanliness. And being a man is a great advantage. If it’s only a pee, it doesn’t involve cubicles and sitting down. I don’t envy the ladies.

So, faced with this universal problem where do you go? In London, which has seen the closure of many public facilities over the years, I have a few trusty standbys. Large railway stations are good if there’s one close by, making sure that you’ve got twenty pence handy. Department stores are another good bet. Although be prepared for a trek to the top floor, where the toilets are often to be found. In Liberty’s, if memory serves me well, they’re in the basement. Public galleries too, after 10am and before 6pm, offer good facilities, although in New York entry is not free. $20 , even $12 is a bit steep for comfort, despite the favourable exchange rate. The National Portrait Gallery is a favourite of mine in London’s West End. Located in the basement should you need to go. Pubs and bars are a possibility in most cities, if you’re prepared to ignore the ‘toilets for the use of customers only’ notices. Crowded places are best. This also applies to cafes and restaurants.

Faced with the need to go while on the streets of New York, I considered my options. I could drop into a coffee house or diner, ordering the minimum as a price for using the rest room. But this inevitably means some kind of drink, which was the cause of my need in the first place. In an hour or so, I’d be back to square one. While pondering my dilemma, the problem getting ever more pressing as is usual when relief is not at hand, I looked up and saw the answer. I was passing a large ‘boutique’ hotel - the kind that’s featured in interiors magazines. Perfect. Hotels are good. The bigger, the better. Hundreds of people pass through the doors each day. Staff cannot possibly know whether you are a guest, there for a meeting, or to visit the restaurants and bars. As long as your appearance is presentable - not difficult these days, with casual dress codes accepted just about anywhere - and you act confidently as if you belong, you’re in.

The lobby here was on the first floor, reached from the entrance by an escalator. Once there, I slung my rucksack over one shoulder, as if just starting the day, not yet in full street mode, and walked purposefully through the crowded lobby looking for likely rest room locations. In a corridor next to the lifts I struck lucky. I entered the largest WC I have ever seen. It could have accommodated a small jazz band with space left for a dance floor. And it was spotlessly clean, with a stack of fresh towels. My Mum would have been impressed. In fact, it would have made her day. It certainly made mine more comfortable.

Now I was able to concentrate on my plan for the day. The second of my photographic expeditions. A walk down the length of 8th Avenue.

Sunday was a day of rest. Well, a rest from the camera at least. I decided to have a photo free day and take in MOMA, the Museum of Modern Art on 53rd Street. After that, a spot of shopping, leaving Monday free to set off on another photographic expedition. As the museum didn’t open ‘till 10.30 I had a leisurely breakfast at the hotel before stepping outside.

The heat and humidity still hung heavy in the air, a shock after the cool of the air-conditioned interior. Walking the streets yesterday, I would occasionally be showered with drops of water. With clear blue skies above it was a while before I realised that it was condensation falling from the thousands of air-con units pumping away on buildings all over the city. Is it any wonder that the polar ice is melting?

I joined the line for tickets that had formed outside MOMA. Sunday is a popular day for museum and gallery visits. Not just with tourists. Native New Yorkers are enthusiastic culture seekers. It’s common to see whole families enjoying the exhibits, with Mom or Dad taking time to involve the kids with uninhibited and knowledgeable explanations of the works on show, often delivered at volumes that inform the entire room. No British reserve here.

The main exhibition featured Richard Serra, a sculptor. The show contained pieces spanning forty years. I wasn’t familiar with his work, but couldn’t help but be impressed, if for no other reason than to marvel at the sheer scale of it. The sculptures were so large that you could walk through them. They were created with this intention. He had constructed, from massive sheets of rust red steel, what can best be described as a series of canyons, the sides towering 20 feet above you as you followed the narrow, winding pathway around blind corners that led to a large central space that completely surrounded those inside. It reminded me of the canyons I’ve visited in Arizona and Utah.

After canyon lands, I worked my way through the six levels of galleries, pausing at the pieces that caught my eye. There’s just so much to see here that it would take days to do it justice. After a couple of hours gallery fatigue took hold and it was time to go. Hungry after a light breakfast I headed for Grand Central Station on 42nd Street. There’s a diner across the street from the main entrance that I thought would be an ideal place for brunch.

On the way I couldn’t resist a look at the station concourse; more cathedral than railway terminus and one of my favourite spots in the city. On a weekday, I’ve often made my way there before breakfast to watch the crowds of commuters pouring in from the outer suburbs and towns in New York State and Connecticut, including the wonderfully named Poughkeepsie, a place familiar to fans of ‘Popeye’ Doyle in the 70’s film, The French Connection. There’s no better way to gauge the pulse of a city than to watch its workers beginning their day. Today though, the migration was in reverse; people leaving the crowded, non-stop intensity of the island of Manhattan to spend Sunday in less frantic surroundings.

Pilgrimage completed, I crossed 42nd Street and took my place in the diner. I went for a burger and fries, washed down with a Belgian beer. I tried for draft Guinness, but it was off. Shame. I really fancied one, ice cold. But on this hot day, Belgium was a good substitute for Ireland. Replete and refreshed, I felt ready to tackle the afternoon.
I crossed back to Grand Central and bought a ten-dollar Metro card for the subway. This bought me five rides, with an extra trip thrown in for free. I hopped on a downtown train as far as Spring Street.

This area has undergone a transformation in recent years, once the heart of ‘Little Italy’, its streets a thriving community, filled with neighbourhood stores and local restaurants. This end of Broadway, the longest street in the city, was a mecca for cheap and cut-price clothing stores with top brand names at bargain prices. Since I’ve been visiting the city, I’ve witnessed the steady and relentless gentrification of BoHo. In a town that loves its acronyms, this stands for ‘below Houston’, a four-lane thoroughfare that dissects lower Manhattan, east to west.

BoHo is now crammed with chic boutiques, expensive eateries and fashionable bars, larger up-market stores – Bloomingdales have opened a local branch – as well as chain restaurants and coffee outlets. But one place that continues untouched is the deli, Dean and Deluca, a New York institution. With several stores around the city, the one down here on Broadway is one of the largest and most established. Passing the door I couldn’t resist a wander around its shelves and counters to wonder at the variety and quality of the produce on display.

Soon tiring of the Sunday shopping crowds, I took the subway - thankfully cool – back to 33rd Street and did all my shopping within a half-mile of the hotel. Result. That evening weariness set in. Unable to raise the energy to set off in search of a restaurant, I slipped out to a local deli for a sandwich and spent the evening in, watching television. Unable to maintain concentration on the movie I was watching - interrupted by long and frequent ad breaks - I switched off and had an early night. For tomorrow was another day.

‘You’ve got a lot of nerve to say you are my friend’. So goes the opening line to Dylan’s “Positively 4th Street’. This then, a bitter, spiteful song about betrayal and reprisal, was the starting point for my first outing with the new digital camera.

4th Street crosses Manhattan from the West Village, continuing across Broadway - where the West ends and the East begins - ending in Alphabet City in the East Village; this district so-called as it straddles Avenues A, B, C and D. My plan was to walk the length of this iconic street and takes pictures as I went. I had no preconceived set of subjects; I would take whatever caught my eye as events unfolded.

I left the hotel around 8.30am and crossed one block to 5th Avenue where I turned left, heading downtown. The temperature was already rising, the humidity high. I stuck to the shady side of the street. I needed to stay cool. It was going to be a long day. Despite the early heat I wanted to walk. There’s always something to see on the streets of New York.

At Madison Square, strangely not the site of Madison Square Garden, which is located several blocks west, but the place where the Flat Iron Building is to be found and where Broadway cuts diagonally across on its way downtown. I took Broadway as far as Union Square, for it’s here that today, Saturday, the farmer’s market is in town. By 9am the colourful stalls were already doing brisk business, with hordes of New Yorkers, often whole families, taking advantage of the resplendent variety of wonderful fresh produce laid out before them.

The vendor’s vehicles and stall fronts bore the names and locations of their farms and orchards: small towns and hamlets in upstate New York, Connecticut, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. They must have to load up and drive through the night in order to be set up by dawn. As well as all manner of fruit, vegetables, herbs and flowers, there was home-baked bread of all kinds, honey, an egg stall with the longest queue of all, cheese, wool, even bison meat for sale. The country had truly come to town.

Leaving the market, I crossed back to 5th Avenue and walked to its end at the north side of Washington Square. 4th Street skirts the south side, so I passed beneath Washington Arch (similar to Marble Arch), and took a diagonal path to pick up 4th at the southwest corner. The square was already beginning to fill with a mixture of tourists, entertainers and locals, but I didn’t pause, saving that for my return journey. Once on 4th Street I set off in search of its source. I was already seeing subjects for photographs, making a mental note as I passed.

I wasn’t certain where 4th street began. I thought it might start at the Hudson River, which meant I still had a fair few avenues left to cross. It didn’t and very soon I came to its end, or in this instance, start. Positively 4th Street. I took the camera from my rucksack, fitted the lens, attached the lens hood, turned it on and began a shooting session that was to extend to early evening. The zoom option and auto focus meant that I was able to react quickly if need be, making taking pictures a fresh and exciting experience for me.

Although I love my manual Leica 35mm, having to focus by hand and eye, with no option to close in on a subject, often meant that opportunities were missed. Not that this seemed to inhibit the likes of Frank, Cartier-Bresson, and Levitt. But these were masters of the art. Us lesser mortals need all the help we can get.

Taking the first shot at around 10am, by 1.30pm I had reached the East Village and was ready for lunch. I reviewed what I had taken so far and after an hour felt refreshed and ready to step out into the street once more. Setting off back towards Broadway I had every intention of heading back uptown. But walking in the opposite direction things looked different and I began shooting in earnest once more. I continued until I had walked back to the very start, some two hours later.

Now I was well and truly on my knees. A glance at the shot counter showed more than a hundred and twenty photographs taken. Enough for one day. I packed away the camera and set off for the hotel in the orange glow of early evening sunshine. Passing once more through Washington Square, it heaved with all human life. There were blues bands; jazz bands; singers with guitars posing for video cameras; a troupe of acrobats; preachers of the gospel; kids splashing in the fountain; chess players, heads down in concentration; lovers on benches; lovers strolling; lovers entangled; raggedy men asleep on the grass, their hands across their eyes to block out the light; a guy practicing his cheerleader baton moves, with balletic skill and grace; sitters; gazers; readers; talkers; listeners; watchers; eaters; drinkers; players; all here sharing this space, this interlude in the forward rush. And for a brief moment, I was part of it.

The flight was quiet and quick. With light head winds the plane touched down at JFK half an hour ahead of schedule. Immigration control had only my three quarters full flight to process and the serpentine line moved steadily along, the cavernous, sterile arrivals hall echoing to the multiple thump of the officers’ red inked official stamps. Over hushed conversations and the drone of air-con units, the line manager called out desk numbers from his position at the front of the queue, ushering passengers to their positions behind the red line with an exaggerated wave of his arm.

In the US, authority takes itself very seriously. To ensure smooth entry into the country, it’s advisable to take a leaf from the official rulebook and do the same. Remain behind the red line until called forward by the black shirted officer to whom you have been directed. Once at the numbered booth and after politely exchanging the time of day, don’t speak unless spoken to. Only offer small talk if they start it. Even then, don’t push it. Keep conversation short, to the point and most important, respectful.

Despite almost sharing a language, never forget this is a foreign country and special relationship aside, you are an alien and a potential enemy of the state, here to do it harm unless your passport data, finger prints, iris scans and answers say otherwise. Remember this and things should go just fine. Fine, that is, if the two forms that most EU visitors hand across - the green Visa Waiver and white Customs Declaration - are correct, with no alterations and fully completed. If not, you may find yourself heading back to where you started at the wrong end of the long line where new forms are to be found and filled out correctly.

All that said, I’ve stood before a sprinkling of officers who have smiled, exchanged pleasantries, shared a joke (theirs), even laughed. But not this time. My guy was in no mood for smiling, laughing being definitely out, with dancing way down his list. But if an invitation had been forthcoming, it would have been a salsa. Wasted anyway. I don’t dance. Why should I? How could I, monsieur, with you? Silly.

With all the scans, stamping and questions seemingly complete, there comes the final trick question, delivered as an almost casual, throwaway line. ‘Been here before?’ This asked while silently reading details of previous visits from his computer screen. ‘Yes, about six months ago, in March’, I reply. He nods me through. Barely satisfied but not showing it.

I take my freshly stamped customs form to the next checkpoint and I’m in. An in-flight announcement had warned of a shortage of cabs at JFK this sunny Friday morning, advising that alternative means be used to get into the city. Public transport links to this airport are disjointed and lengthy, so I ignore the advice, bypass the help desk and decide to take a chance that I’ll get one of the few yellow cabs available. The gamble pays off. Stepping out into the bright sunshine I see three or four cabs waiting in the rank and within seconds, I’m on my way, leaning right as the driver steps on the gas taking a left onto the ramp for the exit.

A glance at the clock on the dash tells me that since the aircraft wheels first scorched the tarmac, the whole process has taken little more than forty minutes. My good fortune continues. The freeways that lead to the city are flowing freely and another thirty minutes has me swishing through the white tiled mid-town tunnel and out onto the eastern end of 37th Street. After six blocks, my driver drops me on the corner of Madison Avenue and I walk the short distance to my hotel in warm September sunshine. By eleven forty I’m checked in and opening the door to my room. A record; back in New York City in time for lunch. But right now, I’m not hungry. I’ve got places to go and things to see.

Newly returned from a hot and humid New York City, I'm jet lagged and sleep deprived, which is only to be expected.

The drop in temperatures and heavy rain, as predicted on the BBC website last week, failed to show and it was truly 'hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck'... Anyhow, fatigue is battling with consciousness right now and the 'f' word is winning. So, I shall get some rest and come back soon, recharged and writing.

Well, my visions of roaming the New York City streets with my new camera, in the warmth and mellow sunlight of late summer , seem destined not to be. The weather forecast is crap, with only Friday predicted to be clear of precipitation, as the Americans quaintly refer to rain. So, due to be in the city around lunchtime - if the passage through immigration is swift and hassle-free - I’ll have to make the most of the Friday afternoon sunshine.

With the temperatures set to only be 15 degrees on Saturday, with heavy rain, I better revisit my packed bag and include some warmer, waterproof clothing. What a drag. I’ve spent the past half hour trawling through gallery and museum sites to see what the exhibitions are, all set to spend at least a day in the dry and warm soaking up a bit of culture. I should have known better than to pick the weekend that coincides with the finals of the US Open tennis tournament at Flushing Meadows, NYC. If the example of Wimbledon fortnight is any guide, it was destined to bring on the rain.

Looking on the bright side, boredom and lack of things to do is not an issue here, it just means I have to adapt my plans, that’s all. Sunday’s prediction is for sunshine and showers, so this looks like the best day to try out the camera. I’ve still got to swat up on the numerous features and operating instructions, but I’ll have seven hours on a plane, time enough to read the manual several times over.

Trouble is, I can’t read on planes. Don’t take anything in. Too many distractions I guess. What with the obligatory screaming child or two, crew announcements, drinks trolleys, meal trolleys, duty free trolleys, getting up to allow people out to go to the toilet, getting up to go the toilet myself, interesting conversations to overhear, not very interesting conversations to overhear, a blocked sinus and earache caused by the pressurised atmosphere, cramp, exercising to cure the cramp, turbulence, how can I possibly concentrate on a book? Simple. I can’t.

So, I attempt to watch a film. But any film that I see again, having watched it on a plane, is like seeing it for the first time. Nothing sticks. It’s there as a distraction, nothing more. If you’re really desperate, there’s always the map. The one that gives altitude, airspeed, time at place of departure, time at destination, hours left to destination and of course, the route. This only serves to highlight how slowly time passes at 35,000 feet.

Strangely, once inside the terminal, the hours that have been wished away telescope down to nothing and are soon forgotten, as if consigned to a state of amnesia. I believe it’s the brain's way of dealing with the flying experience. If we could remember every dragging minute of it we’d never get on a plane again. With total recall, the emissions from aircraft wouldn’t be a problem. No-one would be flying. Apart from those that can afford a first class ticket. Bastards.

Anyway, as I’m leaving the house at 5am in the morning, I’m going to shut down this computer, have an early night and lie awake waiting for the alarm to go off at 4.15am.

I love the smell of oil paint in the morning. And the afternoons. And at night come to that. As long as I can shut the door on it when I’ve done. I admit it’s an acquired taste, or I should say smell, as eating the stuff isn’t to be recommended. Although Van Gogh did and the poor man ended up shooting himself, so there.

I got hooked on oil paint through my Dad, who was a keen painter himself and taught me the rudiments as a kid. Then once at art school it got serious. On the foundation course at Southampton we had painting once a week. Our first tutor, Mr Lefevre, lived in the New Forest, rode a motorbike and sidecar, wore a brown pinstripe suit, a beard and was extremely thin. So thin we students were convinced that rather than legs he had two lengths of wire that joined his brogue shoes - his feet being wooden moulds as used by shoemakers – to his snake-like hips. But he was a good teacher with wicked twinkly eyes (especially for the girls) and I remember lessons learned and techniques taught to this day.

Next came my degree course and specialising in graphic design meant that oil paint took a back seat in favour of gouache, the preferred medium of the graphic artist, due to its water based, quick drying properties and its ability to produce an even, flat colour. We were occasionally let loose with the messier oils on fine art days, but this dropped off the curriculum after the first year. And that was it for oils, having spent the last thirty years or so as a graphic designer where the necessity for speed has favoured gouache, with acrylics for artier stuff. Now both usurped by computers, but thankfully hanging on in there.

But now oils are back in my life, I’m glad to say. Painting for myself once more, the only deadlines are the ones I set myself and I’m a lot more generous than most clients. And I’m loving it. I’d forgotten how much more flexible they are than acrylics. Staying wet for so much longer it’s possible to move the paint around and get really subtle blends. And the smell combined with turpentine smells like… victory. No, don’t be daft, that’s napalm, or at least it was in Apocalypse Now. No, it smells like something much less destructive… endless possibilities.

Took a pootle down to Poole yesterday to get my new camera. I imagined a gentle ride through the late summer English countryside, made extra verdant by the many inches of water that have rained down during this climatically changed season. Truth be told, it didn’t appear to be any greener than usual. In fact, some leaves were already on the turn. Rust probably.

My illusions of a carefree day trip were soon shattered, when not five minutes from home, some clown in an oversized 4WD overtook me on the inside lane of a dual carriageway with a 60 MPH limit and then began a campaign of reckless bully-boy tactics in an attempt to terrorise those in front of him to clear the road.

So angry was I at this real-life toad that I turned off too early, only to get stuck behind some bozo in a white van that sat at a junction making no attempt to move even though the road was clear. When he did eventually decide to pull away, I saw that the driver had a phone clamped to the stupid fat ear of his equally stupid fat, shaven, head. I gave him a blast of horn as I overtook him, first having to check where around the steering column it was located. In a year and-a-half of owning the car, this was the first time I’d been moved to use it. Then the cretin had the nerve to blast me in reply, the mobile still glued to the side of his fat face. Not a good start.

Taking deep breaths, while murmuring some half-remembered meditative Buddhist chant, I vowed to calm down. I could not drive the eighty or so miles to the coast in a state of high anxiety induced by idiots. Life is too short. And it would be just that if I didn’t reduce the blood pressure.

Eventually joining the motorway, any lingering hopes of an open road were dashed. Everyone and their mother, wife, kids, dogs, mates, colleagues, had decided that today was the day to climb into a vehicle, any vehicle, and drive: Trucks, coaches, vans (grrrr), 4WD’s (grrrr again), pickups, people carriers, horse carriers, caravans, motor homes, motorcycles, cars. All there, going my way, but for the moment at least, managing to keep the wheels turning. This didn’t last. Once the motorway fizzled into an A road, we all came to a brake light illuminated halt, the colour red stretching as far as the eye can see.

Once through the New Forest - snatched glances to the side revealing the glorious purple of heather in bloom on vast stretches of heathland - we crawled through the built up suburbs that merge Bournemouth and Poole, with only the frequency of retirement homes for the elderly giving any clue to our proximity to the coast. Passing one ancient couple, arms linked, pushing and held upright by a shopper on wheels, my wife observed, ‘that’ll be us one day’. ‘Today’, I replied, ‘if this journey takes much longer’.

The calming and mildly irritating voice of Nina, the name we have given to our satnav (Why? That’s another story), finally directed us, with pinpoint accuracy (isn’t technology wonderful?), to the industrial estate on which the camera suppliers is located. Checking their address on the web earlier, I was advised to ring ahead to make an appointment, as the bulk of their business is mail order. Despite this, we were greeted by a member of the friendly and extremely obliging staff, who gathered up the various bits and pieces I’d ordered and treated us to an almost extinct level of service and jolly bonhomie. Marvellous.

Leaving happy, we broke the return journey with a late pub lunch and arrived back home without further incident. I’m now faced with the prospect of having to read the pages of operating instructions for the new purchase, before taking off for New York next Friday. I have an instruction manual phobia. Ridiculous I know, when faced with an unfamiliar piece of kit, but I can’t help it. I managed to set up my previously mentioned satnav with a process of stubborn trial and error. I got lucky. And as a consequence, no doubt there are hundreds of extra functions that are denied to me. But usually I’m forced to turn to the dreaded booklet. Ah well.

(While checking this piece for spelling, often a source of bizarre suggestions, I was offered ‘poodle’ as an alternative for ‘pootle’ in the first sentence. Well, it made me laugh)