Years ago, it used to be one of my great dreads (yes, a sheltered life) that someone would brandish their holiday photos. How many oohs and aahs can anyone produce with a degree of authenticity before the eyes glaze with boredom and the rictus grin fails to convince? Now, we have the i-phone slide show, that is, if Face Book has not already ensnared you in its tendrils and broadcast every detail.
Nobody gives two hoots about your holiday. Nobody notices your suntan if you have been away during the only heatwave that the UK can remember for years.... They don't want to see your photographs where you diced with death to get a truly unique photo of a Lisbon tram and the sea behind. They don't want to hear about your white knuckle ride with crazy Portuguese taxi driver as he drove on two wheels, in a death-rattling Dacia Duster to get you to the station with minutes to spare. Or when the sound of a gunshot in Montparnasse station, Paris, redirected the crowd ahead, all getting off the overnight train, towards you in the opposite direction, with a thunderous volley of trolleys... Because it wasn't a disaster. Thankfully, as it turned out, no explanation, but more importantly, no bodies.
Except mine. It's considerably larger than when I left home. As we left the boat after a wonderful time cruising the Mediterranean, I asked Dearest to take my photograph on the quay with the boat in the background.
I may look the size of a house, but at least it's much smaller than the size of the ship behind me.
It's all about keeping a sense of proportion, really.
I suspect I've eaten mine.
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A post card by Antonio Pedro Ferreira of the extremely beautiful city of Lisbon.
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