I am a photographer not a terrorist

As you saw from the previous blog, the cut and paste one, I feel quite strongly about photographer's rights, and the chance to protest and raise the profile of the issue was too good to turn down; and so I decided to head up to London early on Saturday morning, at least to make some use of going up and taking some pictures.



And so I found myself getting out of bed at half five to have breakfast and get ready so to catch the quarter to seven train from Dover. Sadly, I was only able to look at my own reflection, as it was still dark outside, and so the Kentish countryside whisked by unseen. As we got to Dartford, a pale blue light spread over the land, and I could make out shapes; under the Thames and out into Essex and then into the East End, and then into the long tunnel to St Pancras.



It was half light by the time the train pulled in, and as I had a couple of hours to kill before I could get into where I wanted to go. I walked round the station, snapping away, at least the station is more than half empty, and I got some good shots. Out onto the Euston Road to find a cash machine so I could then go and get a coffee.
Cash in hand, I head to the nearest coffee shop and have a smoothie, a cereal bar and a huge Americano, and watched London life pass by the window. Tramps and richly dressed couples passed by, and on the street traffic got heavier as London woke up.



I wanted to go to The British Museum, to photograph the Atrium, a covered square which I knew would look great with my wide angle lens. I set off through a housing estate, as gated communities lived cheek by Jowell to council flats, inbetween there were pubs, churches and convenience stores. All was quiet, the occasional person walked to or from the paper shop with a large bundle of newspapers under their arm.



After wandering in a large circle through streets of housing, I found a street map and realised my mistake and so came to the museum quarter of an hour before opening time. Much to my surprise, it was open, or the atrium was, and so I could go in and get my shots. I took about 30 shots, just to be sure, you know.

And then, what to do? It was two hours before the demonstration was due to begin. I decided to try to walk into central London, and see what I would find. The answer to that is lots of interesting places and buildings. I snapped away as I came to the original Tin Pan Alley, Ronnie Scotts and dozens of other fabulous places, some down at heel or plain dirty, other glitzy art shops.



On the edge of Soho I came to an Italian coffee shop, I called in and had a double expresso. The cafe was wonderful, all shots of the great and good who had called in for a cup of Java lined the mirrored walls. I felt more awake at least and set off into deepest Soho.



In Chinatown, delivery vehicles were everywhere, dropping off meat and exotic fruit and veg for the days cooking, the casual photographer takes his life in his hands as he pauses in the street to take a shot.

And then I was into the West End, all theatres and adult shops and closed eateries. My camera went snap, whirr, snap, whirrr, etc. Piccadilly Circus was crowded, and so I set out south to Trafalgar Square.



A few other photographer's loitered around, and so I decided to wait and watch the world's tourist come and go and take pictures, and me take their pictures as they took pictures. As I do.



As midday drew near, more and more photographers arrived, until there was a couple of thousand of us, and so we passed the time taking photographs of each other; which was the point. There were no speakers, just lots of people taking snaps of each other; the BBC and Sky news sent crews to film us, so we took their pictures back. A couple of MPs arrived and said supportive things.



By half twelve I got bored, and my bladder was fit for bursting and so I set off to find a place to fix that and top it back up with some beery goodness. The pub was called The Sherlock Holmes and was more than a little touristy, but they had Speckled Hen on draught, and a place to sit, and a toilet, so all boxes ticked.



And there was just time to catch the tube to Stratford to use the new International station through which all those attending the Olympics in town and a half years will use. Twenty minutes wait and my train pulls in, I find a table empty near the front and soon we are whizzing home. And just an hour later we are arriving back in Dover.



That night I cook roast pheasant, roast potatoes and lots of steamed vegetables. Needless to say it was rather wonderful, even if carving the little bird was tricky, I did find the alternative 'pulling the flesh off' technique worked really well.

Cheers.