It was hard to imagine it was a coincidence that he was here today. Something larger was guiding him back to the place that had been so significant all those years before. Although this wasn’t where the magic happened, of course. But it was where he spent the majority of his time, during this period of his youth, waiting for the call. Back then, when he had a full head of hair and far less bulk around his midriff, he would come here almost every day after work in the hope of seeing her. She was spectacularly unreliable - but worth it. No one before and no one since had made him feel so alive, full of self-belief and confidence. Even though he knew it could end at any moment, and he was keenly aware of the vast void she would leave in his life. He could not help but pursue contact with her.

He had been living in Finsbury Park with a friend in a bedsit and hated it. Unfit for human habitation, but gloriously cheap. Still, if it weren’t for his miserly living, there would have been no way he could have afforded to see her. Someone of her infamy was not a person you could spend time with cheaply. Although he paid his way, he knew there were many others who could give her so much more, financially. She found it hard to ignore the allure of them, or rather, their money.

She would call him when she could fit him in. These were the days before mobile phones, and the bedsit could barely manage carpets, let alone the mod-cons of a telephone. So he gave her the number of a phone box near where she lived.

The phonebox was a classic K6. He’d never really thought about them before he spent so many hours standing and sitting outside of one, here on Hyde Park Corner. When it was raining or cold, he’d welcome its shelter gratefully. He could still smell the distinct odour of ‘K6’. Even though, on occasion, it would be masked by someone who’d relieved themselves. ‘His’ box was pre-55 - you could tell by the fact it had a Tudor Crown rather than Queen Elizabeth’s favoured St Edward’s Crown. He could still remember the number, forty years on.

That someone could physically affect you with just their presence was unlike anything he had ever experienced since. Here today, he realised that he had never lost the yearning for her touch: precise, delicate, economic from its absolute precision.

Passing it now still gave him a physical reaction, a nervous shudder, almost a fright. She had stopped calling, of course, when she stopped him from seeing her. To try and relieve the agony of parting, he had moved away from London, suffering three long years of misery before finally accepting that he would never paint again. Which, for him, was like weaning himself off drugs. The sobering up that ensued allowed him to regain control of his life and to move on. A wife, two sons and a fresh start.

She was, in every way, a remarkable woman. She had such insight and wisdom that everyone wanted and sought out her counsel. A wild and free spirit. Everything was art to her, the way she looked, dressed, walked, breathed, and, of course, created. At the time, he was convinced that she saw something in him. When he was invited to present his work to her at just two of her impromptu salons, he felt there was a connection. Although she eviscerated the paltry, juvenile sketchbooks, he knew she saw potential. He knew she was pushing him to a place of greatness. And she should have known.

As he passed the box this last time, a melancholic gasp of loss exhaled smoke signals of comprehension. The realisation that it was not what wise words of advice she could offer. It was not the art that she left behind. It was that she herself was her art. Unique, mysterious and beautiful. His life was richer for having been in the presence of it.

A handmade photo zine. 16pp A5 on 170GSM silk paper. Hand letter-pressed cover, letterpress (on an old Adana press) and stamp on the inside. 23 Colour pics. First in a series of two.

2nd print run available on Etsy:

This post shows only the first zine - second to follow.

Available on Etsy: New York Snow Zines

1. New York. 2019. Nikon d750

2. Granada, Spain. 2025. Nikon z8

3. Amsterdam, Netherlands. 2025. Nikon z8

4. Lyme Regis, Dorset. 2024. Nikon d750

5. New York. 2019. Nikon d750

6. Cádiz, Spain. 2024. Nikon d750

7. Porthleven, Cornwall. 2025. Nikon z8

8. Madrid, Spain. 2013. iPhone 4s

9. Madrid, Spain. 2024. Nikon d750

10. Sorrento, Italy. 2023. Nikon d750

The communication breakdown hadn’t helped. I had assumed that a driving licence would be sufficient for ID, but apparently, only a passport will do for registration. At least the prim, hard-to-age woman had warmed to me. She’d tapped my identity away into her computer, just for it to spit out a blank white card. Perhaps she saw the sweat beads on my forehead and had taken pity. Why was I feeling like this? I thought everything past getting in would be a cinch, yet I found myself shaking. Everyone’s eyes were on my every move. My face, now a traffic light red, was clearly telling me to stop. Everywhere lay trip hazards, condescending looks, and secret rituals a library virgin would be instantly flummoxed by.

This is why I ended up right in the middle of the row, with people on either side able to directly see what a charlatan I was from what I was doing. Each minute movement, sniff, keyboard tap was directed at me. You might be wondering why I was here then? Putting myself through a masochistic humiliation? I was, of course, interested in someone.

​You see, the library was on the way to work. I’d pass it every day. It was sunken below street level, with large plate-glass windows. This meant you could see the busy students below. Before, the library was just another building. I never thought of the people there, what they studied, or even why. But the day I noticed her, everything changed. How could I have missed her? She was radiant, always in the same seat, every morning, when I passed. I got to know what she wore and her sense of style. I could see she liked her coffee black (did they usually allow drinks in libraries?) She used a MacBook, not a PC. Sometimes she had her hair tied up, sometimes in plaits tied around her head, never loose. She always wore a bright silk scarf tied around her neck. Was she hiding something? I gave her a name. I’m too embarrassed to tell you.

​She was the reason I found myself in a foreign land, unable to speak the language. But fear, shyness, and awkwardness were hardly what I wanted her to see when our eyes first properly met. But now, there was little choice. And she, somehow from all of my stumbling and confusion and lack of a plan, was right there, ten meters from me - I could see her bent head above the small shelf that separated us.

​I’d been there for what seemed like an hour, but was probably only two minutes, and I needed to make eye contact. I just knew when our eyes met (what colour eyes did she have? Were they kind, or were they wicked?) that would be it. That would be the locked-on contact, communication established. But how would I initiate this? Should I cough? Would she look at me, raise a finger to her lips, and shush me? Would she smile as she realised what an incredible specimen she was looking at?

I didn’t know what to do. Imposter syndrome chilled my veins. I hadn’t even managed to open my laptop. So I pushed the cool metal of the screen away from me and up.

​“ You total wanker“, screamed the speaker as the damn thing woke up. YouTube - that moronic guy I couldn’t stop watching had just announced my arrival. Yes, what an incredible specimen I was.

I never saw what came before him on the worn terrazzo,
five nights in la bella Málaga, cradle of Picasso.
At each breakfast in Kawama’s ‘Miami Vibe’ I’d spy,
his stooped silhouette and its tether, too late to reach my eyes.

Autumn’s trigger, switching instantly, snaps the summer stone dead.
The sadness follows, seeps in, and triggers my seasonal dread.
For the solace I think of him and the glorious warm air,
bright days alive with Feira, Cartojal, flowers in the hair. 

And I realise you’re not the lonely traveller who’s lost.
But an old familiar friend, the trusty and steadfast Argos.

Photo: Malaga, Spain. 2025. Nikon z8

Hand-sewn, 28pp A5 on 170GSM silk paper 16 pictures. Card covers with polymer plate letter-pressed title treatment - letterpress on my trusty Adana

Each edition contained a unique, colour Fuji Instax mini print.

There are a few left on Etsy:

Hand-sewn, 28pp A5 on 170GSM silk paper 12 pictures. Card covers with polymer plate letter-pressed title treatment - letterpressed on my trusty Adana

Each edition contains a unique, B&W Fuji Instax mini print.

“Where in the hell am I?”. George was startled. He wasn’t quite sure where he was or how he got there. Everything was beige; it looked like some kind of office, but with the barest of furniture - just a table and two chairs, opposite and facing each other. George was on one side, and across from him, a rather nondescript chap in a scruffy, slightly frayed blue suit and peaked cap that looked like the moths might have got the better of it.

“Ha - well, not hell, that’s for sure … I don’t want to disappoint, but … “ the office worker lifted a clipboard from the table and flipped the top sheet over. “ … ah, atheist, I see. So actually, give yourself a pat on the back, you were right, no hell, no heaven, just this. Just a decision”

“ I don’t understand". George was getting a little irate, mixed with a small amount of trepidation.

“ It’s quite simple, sir. You’re dead “, the official said it with such nonchalance that he might as well have said that bananas were yellow. He could see, from the look on George’s face, that he had, perhaps, been a bit too matter-of-fact and relented.

“ What is the last thing you remember, sir? “ At least this had a touch of kindness about it.

“ I was late, which winds my wife up. I was having to get on a bus, I’d lost my wallet and cards and the driver wouldn’t let me pay with the twenty I had on my pocket, and I’d had to run to get the bloody thing so I was out of breath and vexed and all I wanted to do was to teach that little shit a lesson. Damn, I think I was about to punch the security window between us, which is very unlike me.

“ Hmmm, well, you certainly taught him a lesson in the art of being petty. You had a massive coronary and died in front of him. He thinks it’s all his fault and is currently partaking in grief counselling over the trauma your trauma caused him. Quite amusing when you think about it. But, I’ve said too much and you still aren’t any closer to giving me your decision” There was a touch of irritation from him now - as if he’d said too much again.

“ But you need to tell me where I am if I am dead, am I in heaven, hell, purgatory, what, the actual, is going on?”

“Listen. I could tell you. But it would be pointless. Once you’ve made your decision, you won’t remember a single thing about this, so - really - it is pointless explaining anything to you “

“ You keep on about a decision - what do you mean?” George still hadn’t accepted that he was dead as the chap seemed to insist - maybe, hopefully, this was some weird, sick joke?

“ You have died. You now have three choices. You can go back as you are.”

“ You mean un-die?”

“No, no, you are dead. Nothing will change that - you can go back to the same type of life, everything will be slightly different, of course, but you’ll have the same emotional outlook, you’ll be the same gender, ethnicity, religious belief - or not - sexuality, you’ll be in the same country, likely the same birth town. You will lead your life again in a very similar vein. You will likely think you can make different choices, but, sorry, you won’t. You’ll probably even restart with that nasty heart defect which finished you off this time. Or, you can take your chances and go for a 'potluck' restart. Who knows what you will end up as? It could be way better, or worse, or much the same. “

“ You said there were three options?” George was having a little trouble taking all this in.

“ That’s right, but people rarely take the third “

“What is it? “ George asked a little abruptly. It looked like the man was about to tell him anyway.

“Nothing. You don’t go back. This will be the end. No more you. No more future you. It’ll be like the atheist death that you probably imagined - just a whole bunch of nothing. Recycled matter thrown back into the great universe to never have another sentient thought again. As I say, not many do this “

“ What kind of people do - it sounds like a very desperate thing to do? “ George was genuinely interested.

“ Funnily enough, it’s not what you’d think. Most people who are desperate, the addicts, the lonely, the pathologically depressed, all seem to want for something better - they think they can go around again and change, or they throw caution to the wind and give the random choice a chance. No, the ones who generally go for ‘the nothing’ are the ones who have had it all, done it all, want for nothing. To them, going back seems utter pointlessness “

“ Oh. Interesting, “ said George

“ This is all very well, but we are seriously over time here - I’ve got a quota to get through, you know, and there’s just been a nasty natural disaster, so there’s a backup to get through. So … “ the man looked again at the clipboard.

“... George. What will it be? “

“ I’m tempted by never being late again … “

2020.

1. Woolwich. London. 2009. Pentax ME Super

2. Woolwich. London. 2009. Pentacon Six TL

3. Catford. London. 2009. Nikon fm2

4. Greenwich. London. 2009. Pentax ME Super

5. Lower Sydenham. London. 2007. Pentacon Six TL

6. Sydenham. London. 2009. Nikon fm2

7. Sydenham. London. 2009. Pentacon Six TL

8. Lower Sydenham. London. 2010. Yashica Mat 124g

9. Forest Hill. London. 2008. Nikon f801

10. Greenwich. London. 2009. Pentax ME Super

11. Sydenham. London. 2009. Canon QL-17

12. Forest Hill. London. 2009. Nikon fm2

13. Sydenham. London. 2008. Nikon fm2

14. Sydenham. London. 2008. Holga 120GFN

It was late. Rigby was jet lagged. The ancient lift in the apartment block where he was staying for the next two weeks had a sign attached to it in Spanish. He didn’t need to understand the language to know what it said. This is why he had to climb the wooden steps, lugging luggage. His body ached with a gravity greater than Earth’s, pulling him physically and emotionally toward the only thing he needed: his bed.

The place was empty when he arrived - unsurprisingly, given it was past midnight and a midweek day. His footsteps and the rhythmic thump of his suitcase, as he dragged it up each step, echoed with a festival hall reverb. He was past caring what anyone heard or thought: a perfect indication of just how tired he was.

The bed was delicious, with a clinically clean feel and thick, white sheets, pillowcases, and the lightest of duvets on a firm mattress. He imagined that, perhaps, this is what heaven might feel like. But instead of the deep, much-needed slumber his body yearned for, the jet lag had other ideas. His sleep was broken; he floated in and out of consciousness, hearing the strange new noises in a building and a city unfamiliar to him. He was certain he had heard footsteps walking up the stairs. Perhaps he wasn’t the last one in the building tonight?

It took him two days to get over the jet lag and feel almost human again. Long days exploring the new city wore him out, but in a deeply satisfying way. He slept like someone who worked 18-hour shifts. Almost. There was a strange anomaly. He woke each night between the hours of one and one-thirty. He would be awake to hear footsteps on the stairs outside his apartment. They were soft, light, but always there in his waking half an hour. He wondered whether they were the reason or whether he was awake, and then heard them. He couldn’t be sure.

On the sixth night, he decided to try and see who was causing the noise. Not directly. He would use the peephole in his front door to check them out. He awoke slightly early and stood guard, waiting, face pressed up against the door. Sure enough, the footsteps came, but he didn’t see the person who made them. Perhaps all that echo was distorting where the noises were coming from - perhaps they were a couple of floors down, or up, which is why he couldn’t see their owner.

The next night, the same thing happened, but this time he opened the door to try to look down and up to see if he could find out who the steps belonged to. Nothing. Well, almost, looking down, he saw footprints, wet as if the person had stepped out of a shower or bath and taken a walk. The footprints were small, feminine - he couldn’t be sure, though.

By the time it came to leave the apartment and head to the next city on his trip, the intrigue had overtaken him. It was all he could think about. Consumed, his vivid imagination had run away with ideas of sleepwalkers, affairs, secret meetings and even ghosts. Who was this woman or person, and how could he find out?

He came up with a plan whilst at an art gallery, where his obsession made him unable to focus on any of the incredible paintings he placed himself before. Velázquez, El Greco and Goya passed before his eyes, barely registered.

That night, his last, he woke early at the allotted time and took the lift to the top floor of the building. Wherever the footsteps were coming from, if he descended to the ground floor, he would have to pass the person generating them. Surely enough, the footsteps started, light at first, then growing louder, he pushed the button to go down to the ground floor - there could be no way he would miss who it was. If he were quick, he could stab the button of the nearest floor, get out, and introduce himself. That they were probably Spanish hadn’t crossed his mind. Which, in the end, didn’t matter. He saw no one.

He resigned himself to the fact that this would be one more story. One more idea to write about when he got back home. Another mystery with no answers - let anyone who read his story make up their minds, have their ideas. He decided to walk back up to his apartment. There were no footprints tonight. And there were no noises now, except for his steps.

He grasped the cold brass of his door handle, turned it, pushed the door open and gasped. There on the parquet in front of him were the damp footprints he’d seen on the steps nights earlier, from the same feet, he just knew. He traced them across the room to his bedroom door. A chill coursed through his body, causing him to physically shudder, his flesh goosed. Whoever it was, they were in his bedroom. Burglars? A hitman? He crossed the room, opened the door to his bedroom and traced the footsteps from the bedroom door to the edge of his bed. They had been in his bed. He pulled back the cover to reveal nothing. Almost casually, his eyes moved up to the pillow. There, right in the centre, were two damp round patches. From the en-suite, he heard a hiccup, or someone catching their breath, no, it wasn’t that at all, what he heard was a gentle, stifled sob.