Remember me? I'm the one you don't have to wind on.

Apparently I'm marginally less interesting than a collection of scuffed and idiosyncratic vintage cameras. Just ask my boyfriend.

This, in a way, is actually kind of lucky for him, because soon there won't be room for both me and said camera collection in our one bed flat – so at least his decision of which relationship to discontinue in the name of space will be less problematic. Until now...

With my eviction looming, I thought I'd use my second post to make my case. I'll not go without a fight! I'd hate for him to lose sleep; chewing over the pros and cons of each living arrangement, but my impulse to remain co-habited is greater than my concern for his mental well-being. I don't want to be homeless: displaced by an Agfa Optima-Parat and its friends. So here goes...

7 reasons why living with me is better
(That's one for every camera at the time of writing)

1) At 32DD, I'm fully developed.
2) I come preloaded with a brain which you shouldn't have to replace for the duration of my life.
3) My batteries are rechargeable. Top-up fluid can be purchased by the litre at most good off licences.
4) No need to find a snug-fitting leather case for travel. I carry myself. And elegantly too, I'm sure you'll agree.
5) I pay for my own expensive accessories, erm... for the most part.
6) No tripod is necessary - I stand unaided on an ingenious, patented two-leg system.
7) I'm willing to start flashing. Privately. Terms and conditions apply.

So, mister, what do you think? Can I stay?

The tyranny of the blank page

This is a bit like that WHSmith notebook I had in 1990. They did a line of A4 refill pads, each with a great British author on the cover. I chose Virginia Woolf, not because I was a burgeoning feminist even back then, but because she was prettier than Charles Dickens.

I never wrote a word in it. I was crippled by anxiety. What would I fill that first blank page with? Should I use a pen (and risk having to tear out a page) or a pencil (and have to embark on another great rubber search, because those pesky blighters are never handy)? And how in the name of Orlando would I live up to the woman on the cover? Ok - so I may have been a little tough on myself. I was only 8.

Still, this is a bit like that terrible time. There are a lot of stellar copywritten blogs, written by copywriters like and also very unlike me. They're funny and topical and real. I fear I won't be any of these things. But then I remember – no one's going to read it. Huzzah! And as if by magic, my first navel-gazing blog post is complete: that painful white page filled.

Phew.