In the past week I've had two lovely occasions spoiled for me by intrusive photographers. First there was an ordination at church, an occasion I quite understand the new priest's proud relatives wanted on record, but couldn't they have waited for a group shot when it was all over? The two photographers were everywhere, ducking and diving and discussing their next angle. Mr F remonstrated with them and they said, basically, 'This is a ceremony. It's got robes and candles and stuff and the pictures are going to look great. So go boil your head, you curmudgeonly old fart.'
They even went into the sanctuary during the Consecration. The most prayerful moment of the service and there are two goons in there with cameras. Well that's one for the album.

And then we went to a little concert where our friend Liesl was singing and our friend Marja was playing the harpsichord. The theme of the evening was the brief professional collaboration between Vivaldi and Goldoni, two of Venice's most famous sons. A quite delightful conceit and beautiful music ruined by a photographer with the loudest shutter action and a flash like a Klieg light. Every picture he took made me jump. And I am not a nervy girlie.

I mean, does the photo now trump the experience itself? I believe it does. Ninety five percent of people who visit Venice look at it solely through their viewfinder. But when they get home I guess they can say, 'I know I was there. I got the picture.'

And now my daughter tells me that on her wedding day the photographer will be arriving at 10am for a 2pm ceremony. So he can snap some nice, informal, Getting Ready pics. Yes, I can see it now. A candid shot of the mother of the bride as she applies a corn plaster to her bunion and invokes a curse upon her hairdresser.