They say bad things happen in groups of three. Well, in the past month I've exceeded my fair quota of things breaking down and costing me loads of unexpected dosh.
My ancient car (above) developed a fault that left me stranded and which even the mechanics have as yet failed to fix and which came with almost impeccable timing, coming just after an expensive service and two new tyres.
Then the house boiler came over all weird and sick and needed a new and very expensive circuit board to make it feel better.
Then the shower water pump turned its toes up and died, leaving me covered in soap and forcing another expensive replacement.
But it was the last thing to happen that has really left me feeling strangely bereft. A hot pixel appeared on the Leica camera's sensor for several frames and then vanished. Annoying and easily fixed in post-processing but worrying. It hasn't reappeared but nevertheless it might, so, and as it's still in warranty, I sent it back to the Fatherland for further investigation. Handing over the camera at the shop to be despatched felt like losing a child. I felt oddly lost. "Two weeks, mate." I was told rather unnecessarily brusquely I felt. I left the shop with a heavy heart as well as an empty hand and, naturally, I was immediately confronted by endless photographic opportunities.
And at that point, I did what must have seemed a very good impression of John Cleese shaking his fist at some uncaring all-powerfull deity in the sky.