Yesterday I managed to upset a seagull. This morning my digital camera committed suicide. I dare say an electrician would have told me not to replace the batteries whilst it was connected to a 3-volt adaptor, but this is merely a rational explanation, and electricians are notoriously cautious. They are to be trusted as much as the politician who says, “Mankind needs politicians”. Anyhow, there was a rather vengeful spark, and then – nothing. It died with its one eye still open; its gut fortunately empty of pictures.
Karleen professes not to understand this, but I loved the camera all the more for being glued together with Araldite and Sellotape. I’ve spent days repairing it in the past, when she urged me to chuck it and buy another. I could have got a better one, but it could never match what the human eye can see. This is why I took up sketching.
It must have read my mind, and died of shame. Its final humiliation was to be used in place of a scanner. I don’t have room for such gadgets where I’m living now.
My camera had been like a faithful dog to me, accompanying each rural ramble, wagging its tail excitedly when a suitable scene appeared, sniffing the best angles. Now it’s stiff, frozen, dark. Excuse the babbling. It’s grief and guilt mixed, after betraying my friend.
a wayfarer’s notes 
alas! RIP magic box, who used to capture souls in it's souless eye!
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Digital death dies deeply, denying definition as double duty scanner, desperate, but dealt denigrated destiny, dispensed by dastardly daring to dismiss a decided-dance with an electrician, dealing a card of wrong batteries? Poor Camera, I wish you coulda saved it, such an interesting life lived, and such service to the world. Alas, my heart is touched, your words Vincent, are a fitting memorial, a wonderful tribute to a special friend. Sketching is good.
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And I have turned the photo of the poppies into a pastel, and given it to my younger daughter framed, until she turned wayfarer, and gave it back to me in the meantime.
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