The photographer’s life

People think that being a photographer is glamorous. Far from working all the hours of the day, the theme is jetting from book signing to exhibition, shaking hands with celebrities and in between all this glamour you shoot a person or two, almost incidentally. Left hand, of course.

They are right, my life is exactly like that, except that I am right-handed.

First thing every morning I feed the cats.
Could it be that you are late?
No, it’s only ten past six.

Next I jet from their water bowls, mopping up the overnight spillage as I fly by – they like to take a splash – to their litter trays. Afterwards I might shake hands with the dishwasher – could you fill up the water softener with salt tablets, please, but only if it is not too much trouble (my dishwasher is very polite) – or have a quiet word with the washing machine – I am afraid that one of your boxer shorts drowned during the night. We tried everything, mouth to mouth and heart massage, but could not save him.

Delivery drivers hate me. In true absolutist style and because we are next to a road, our cats are not allowed to come and go as they please. They go out into the garden under supervision. I call it structured freedom and they are happy with the arrangements.

I should explain that we have three cats, Kaspar, Camillo and Domino. They are all black & white and look identical to the untrained eye. To the trained eye, too.

With perfect timing, which would easily make an experienced actor turn pale, as I am just about to sign for a delivery, Camillo will appear behind me, interested in the visitor (what have you brought?). I grab him (Camillo that is, not the visitor) and shut him into the kitchen, which comes off the hall. A moment later, Domino will put in an appearance (hallo stranger!).

Here he is again!!
No, it is not the same one and it is a she.

The moment I have put Domino into the dining room, which also comes off the hall, and shut the door behind her – I put her in a different room or Camillo will sneak out as she goes in – Kaspar will arrive (hand over the parcel for a sniff). It is enough to take the illusionary concept of having a sound mind out of any delivery driver.

Yesterday morning I had a change to my usual routine and took my car for its routine service. Being a photographer of repute has its rewards. Instant recognition at my garage and being greeted by name is one of them.

Is it Mrs. Kettler?
No, it’s Mr. Kettler.
Oh.

Car servicing is different to how it used to be. Nowadays it only comes every two years. I remember a time when you had to change the engine oil every six months, or else. Humankind has come a long way.

When I drop off my car, I get to talk to a nice adviser, who is skiving off school for the day and who takes me for a walk around my car. Garages like to transform something as mundane as a car service into a memorable event. Nice people.

The ominous phone call came in the afternoon when I was in a queue at the post office. When my phone rang, the middle-aged lady did not miss a second and jumped in front of me without as much as a smile. The rest of the queue joined her.

It’s the Citroën garage here. You have your car in for servicing.

So this is where it got to! They are very nice people at my garage, telling me, just in case I had forgotten. All day I had been trying to figure out why I was driving around in a strange car.

Our technician has noticed a couple of problems with your car. The wiper blades are torn. Do you want us to change them?
You are phoning because of that? Change them, it’s routine.

And your brake fluid needs changing. It failed the test – meaningful pause.

Have you ever noticed how car service people always speak to you in a soft voice, almost whispering, with an undertone that leaves nothing open to anyone’s imagination. With a simple pause and an almost inaudible gasp they are saying it is your own fault.

Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. It is my fault, two yearly service interval or not, I should have taken the car in to have the brake fluid checked earlier. Every little child knows that brake fluid takes to humidity like an alcoholic to meths. I feel guilty and unworthy of being the owner of such a miraculous piece of machinery.

Do you want us to change it? It’ll cost your left arm for materials and a leg in labour.
Do you want me to die?

I am glad that the people at my garage are considerate and ask. They might not have a clue who I am but at least they make the effort to lessen the impact of the bill when it is presented and make me feel miserable a couple of hours early. They are very nice people.

Oh, and another thing, your horn has an intermittent fault. There is a connection, which is loose.
Ahm, …
It could be potentially dangerous.
Why don’t you just plug it back in?
Okay, so you want us to remove the airbag, reconnect the horn and refit the airbag?

I suppose I should have thought of that before I let the horn bum its connections away.

I have a suspicion that I am being quoted prices without VAT. Then again, if I want to know the exact extent of the damage, I can work it out in my head. They are very nice people at my garage, who do not want to patronise me.

The only thing that I regret now is buying that bicycle the same morning – lovely cool metal, flashing its 21 gears and smiling at me with its mudguards, just waiting for me to get into its saddle, which has never accommodated anyone else – because we won’t eat now for a couple of weeks.

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