Every so often you’ll come across a stone on the beach that someone has written on. Sometimes the text will be simply rude or banal: ‘Tracy is a slag’ or ‘Susan luvs Damien’ or ‘George is a wanker’ but occasionally you’ll find one with something a little more complex inscribed on it. These are invariably anonymous, like the one I found today (pictured here). It doesn’t matter if these thoughts are original or not. Clichés are clichés because they link us together as beings who share the same hopes and uncertainties.

Why do we leave these particular kinds of messages on stones? You won’t find the same thoughts carved into a tree, or on a toilet wall (well, you’ll find the ones about Tracy, Damien and George, but these are endemic) and why leave them on the beach? Is it because here the messages are more likely to be lost, like the thoughts themselves; words lost like droplets in the sea. They are, because of their nature, addressed to complete strangers, or to those who are unlikely to ever find them, and even if they did, would not know where they came from.

A while ago I was discussing these messages with a friend at work. He confessed having once written ‘I love you’ on a beach pebble only to find, a few months later, the same stone on the desk of one of the administrators. Of course he never told her that it was he who’d written the message, and yet it seemed to both of us strange that the intimacy with which she valued these words was entirely different and private to his original intentions.

Things to do when you’re bored

Left hand picture: rather obvious illustration of Roland Barthes ideas on the relationship between the punctum and studium in photography.

A few years ago I decided I wanted to make some videos of cherry blossom swaying in the breeze at night. I’m not going into the ‘why?’ of this as it’d take up too much space. However the idea did create a problem: given that, at the time, camera sensors were not quite sensitive enough to be able to use only streetlight to get the correct exposure, I had to find a portable means of illumination bright enough to make the idea possible. I started looking at ‘specialist’ torch sites (yes, they do exist) and ended up spending some time reading entries in some very peculiar chat rooms, largely populated by security professionals and border patrol guards. Most seemed to agree on one particular make and model; this is the torch I now have. Though not the cheapest, it really is very bright.

I knew where to find the cherry trees, in a park not far from where I live, and so, one night close to midnight I set out.

Having set up my tripod and brand new video camera in some bushes near a particularly good sprig of blossom, I switched my torch on and began to film. It was then that I began to notice just how many carousers used the park, some simply to get home from the pub, others to continue ‘partying’. After only a few minutes I could hear a group of lads coming straight towards me and, realising at this point just how much I’d invested in my equipment, and how difficult it would be to extricate myself from the shrubs and make a run for it, my heart began to sink. I wasn’t necessarily expecting a fight, these things don’t happen that often, but conversations in the middle of the night can sometimes be difficult.

Yet, at a certain point, the whole group suddenly veered off in another direction. A little later the same thing happened again. First the loud voices, then some muffled muttering, then the sounds once more dwindled. It was at this point that I realised what I must have looked like to outside eyes: no one wants to go near the nutter hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night. Emboldened by this, I carried on filming, happily disregarding the other goings on around me and finally went home with a full memory card feeling quite pleased with myself.

A few nights later I related this adventure to some friends in the pub. They just laughed and said “Chris, they didn’t think you were some kind of pervert, they though you were the police”.

I’m back on the beach next to the Pier photographing starlings again. The wind is stronger than yesterday and on days like this the starlings fly much closer to the water. I want to be as low as possible so I can still see them against the sky, and I’m pretty close to the waves as I don’t want any people in front of me, just the birds. The murmuration has started and I’ve already been photographing for about ten minutes when two men and a woman blunder into shot, right in front of me. They start to take pictures of each other clowning about. It’s difficult not to see this intrusion as provocative, the beach is almost empty today and they could have stood anywhere else to get the same pictures.

Both men are huge, and of the sort that go ‘hur hur’ rather than genuinely laugh. I would bet on one of them being called Jason, or at least wanting to be. The girl is a wispy blonde. All are dressed in their finery; all set for a night out somewhere. I’m saying nothing as I get the impression they want some attention, and anyway, they’ll soon go, but no, they are now looking at all the photos they have taken, and then taking some more while moving a bit closer to me.

I am being really patient about this as the starlings are now flying, full throttle, making some fantastic shapes, many of which I’m not getting good shots of because of this group. But you know what? I’m happy for them to be exactly where they are, so close to me, and the sea. Because I spend a lot of my time on the beach taking photos, I’ve become an expert at judging where to stand to avoid the occasional larger wave that travels that bit further up the beach than most. I’m positioned just beyond this safe limit, but because they are in front of me, they aren’t. I keep taking pictures, and so do they.

After maybe another minute I hear the inevitable squeal and, peeking up for a moment from the viewfinder, witness the tableau of three people caught up to their shins in water, followed by a lot of stumbling on the pebbles. Some jovial and urbane comments follow from the group and it now seems the right time for me to find a new position a little further up the coast to carry on photographing from.

Cruelty comes in many forms.

Today when heading off to the seafront I came across a box of Christmas crackers lying on the pavement. None of them had been opened. What’s more, these were of no ordinary variety; the box said so, proclaiming on its top in large letters that these were ‘Luxury Christmas Crackers’. Well what would you have done? I immediately opened the box and started pulling them. My first disappointment was on finding that none of them made any noise; more of a ‘plip’ – I suppose the damp had got to the small explosive charges that would normally have facilitated some sort of a bang, or crack. Nevertheless, undeterred, I rooted round inside to see what sort of gift could be obtained from crackers that proclaimed themselves ‘luxury’. The first contained a small puzzle made of several bits of bent wire that had already started to rust. Not exactly luxurious, but, I reasoned, you always get a few sub-standard surprises inside crackers. I pulled another. This revealed a small plastic pen that made the puzzle seem rather more attractive in comparison. The contents of the third cracker: two plastic golf tees, confirmed my worst suspicions that the description on the box was a marketing ploy devoid of any integrity.

Yet it is an ill wind that blows no one any good. While engaged in this activity I had spotted several people walking down the road towards me and, had I not first experimented with these three, I might have had the false confidence to approach them with the box in the hope that they would have pulled the remaining crackers with me in a random and spontaneous act of friendship. Thank heavens I didn’t! With my newly acquired knowledge of the contents of these ‘luxury crackers’ I was able to avoid the embarrassment of revealing myself as some kind of cheapskate to complete strangers.

My only regret is that, in thereupon beating a hasty retreat, I forgot to read the jokes.

First day back at work and several lengthy documents have appeared in my inbox requiring responses within 24 hours. The following paragraph is one I particularly treasure:

“The Chair informed the Panel that scrutiny of the periodic review documents on the online blog by the School Academic Scrutiny Committee (SASC) had not taken place early enough prior to the event for the CDT to undertake the recommendations. The Panel would therefore review the documentation at the Periodic Review event for the course team to take forward the recommendations from both the SASC and the periodic review, and submit the confirmations of recommendations after they had considered all of the suggestions. The recommendations made by the Panel would need to be responded to by the CDT, and the Chair would be responsible for signing off that they had been considered.”

I hardly feel like I’ve been away.