At what point do I stop calling myself a photographer and start calling myself an ex-photographer? That is the question I was pondering a week or so ago when I decided, enough is enough, it’s time to face the perfectionism (piss off perfectionism!) and pick up the camera again.
I love photography, I did a whole damn degree in it; but it scares me a bit too. All my creative hobbies do. What if I try and fail? And film is so expensiveeee (£4.70 on a mediocre oat latte, no added frills, is fine though). I pick up my polaroid occasionally, but it isn’t the same as ‘proper photography’.
‘Proper photography’ is loading a roll of film, going some place pretty, taking way too many photos of the same thing because you got a bit excited (ah-hem, squirrels), and waiting with anticipation mixed with a sprinkle of dread for the processed film to arrive via dropbox. Nothing hits quite like that. So I did it again. And I think it went quite well. So I’ll do it again.
Photos: me, obviously.
Half-Baked 
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