Lots of other things were happening in the world at that point and while the rest of the world was aiming high, we started by just wanting provide a few alternative perspectives on a story that had barely begun to unfold.

As far as personal goals go, 2011 was my year of doing more and being better. With that project Tom and I had more than doubled our previous output together and we’d started the year with a bang. A year later I’m still hugely proud of that body of work.

“I like that house,” I declare as we stroll along the road one morning.

“It’s a fake house,” he says.

He goes on to profusely deny its potential to be a real house. It must be a facade, it must be uninhabited, the neighbours must have been fed up of people creeping along the alleyway between their houses that they clubbed together and built it. This is preposterous, I argue but it is no use. His mind is made up.

—–

It is dark when I return from work. The winding streets are filled with leaves that don’t so much crunch underfoot as crease unwillingly. Lubricated by the damp fog lingering in the air they are an unruly opponent, taking the streets for themselves. Through the darkness I see a faint light illuminating the fake house from the inside. A body is silhouetted against the window.

“There’s someone in the fake house, it’s real!” I text

“It’s a puppet” comes the response.

—–

From across the street a light is triggered by a motion sensor. A door slams. A man has emerged from the fake house. I make a mental note to tell him that a remarkably life like puppet is wandering freely around North London.

I retrace my steps the following evening and my brain kicks into gear. I call him to regale him of the tale of the wandering puppet but he outright refuses to believe me. A learned scholar of the Monty Python school I know he is trying me but I cannot refuse the bait. I protest vociferously.

A door slams. Another man has emerged from the fake house.

“Just a minute,” I whisper, running across the street without stopping to look for cars, cats or bicycles. Luckily I have no unscheduled meetings with anything of the sort.

“Excuse me,” I yell. “Excuse me.”

The man from the fake house turns, bewildered, to face me.

“Did you just come from the corner house?”

“Yes,” he ventures cautiously.

“My boyfriend thinks it’s a fake house.” I declare accusingly.

The man from the fake house laughs nervously eyeing me up and down.”We get that a lot,” he says eventually. Evidently I have passed his security vetting procedure.

“Yeah he doesn’t believe it’s real. He thinks the neighbours built it to block up a dingy back alley but I said that didn’t make any sense because the building goes back too far and who’d make a building that could be a house and not make it a house? That’s just nonsense because you could earn a fortune from the rent couldn’t you and you’d take that rather than risk burglars wouldn’t you and besides I’ve seen lights on and everything.”

“Er… Yes. It’s real. We do live there. I live on the first floor actually. It’s a bit small at the front but it really widens out at the back and we’ve got an awesome garden – you can’t see that of course but it goes right back. It’s great.”

“Well that’s great,” I say. There isn’t much more to say.

“Thanks,” the man from the fake house says.

“Well done.” I say.

The man from the fake house turns. I watch him walk away before returning my phone to my ear.

“Did you hear that?” I whisper.

“I cannot believe you did that,” is all I hear, amongst the guffaws before his train disappears into a tunnel.

One of my images from last year’s holiday to Jordan has been selected for My Own Wilderness, a collection of international photography curated by Christopher Pacquette the editor of PHOTO/arts Magazine.

Pretty chuffed about this – there are some beautiful images in the collection so it’s great to slot in alongside really stunning work that approaches the theme from very different directions.

Buy/preview the book here.

Making time for me.

The capital ring was on mediocre form today.

The smog early on was replaced by a seemingly endless amble along one road to just turn right back on ourselves and return in the same direction next to fairly bogstandard playing fields.

Pointless zig/zagging for no immediate gain makes the official “stage 3″ although our 6 or 7 rank bottom of the table so far.

Well, sort of.

While I was up in Leeds at Thought Bubble I spent a little time in the Central Library poking around their microfilm collection. I say poking around because really I just opened a drawer on a staircase because it had a sticker on it labelled secret. Turned out it held a collection of bird illustrations by a Reverend and a book on Norwegian natural history. Not exactly what you’d call confidential but two of my favourite ever subjects nonetheless.

Just look at the loon:

So, yes. Somewhere between an icy landscape on the Hurtigruten and the wilderness of the Hebrides comes ‘The Blushing Scot’, a tale about a man, a woman and an ornothological index.

More details to follow soon.

Feeling a little bit like Siku today after a 15-mile walk yesterday.

Walking from sunrise to sunset (the days are short, it’s not that we walk slowly), we covered 3 London boroughs and spotted (amongst other things), a triangular castle, a lake filled with terrapins and walked under the Thames.

Not bad for a Thursday.

The thing I’m enjoying most about the Capital Ring is its variety. Chris warned us various councils had lobbied to have the route pass through their districts, showing off new leisure centre complexes and flagship urban developments. Fine. It’s unremarkable stuff but interesting to see what they’re all intent on displaying, how different areas prioritise services and how much (or rather how little) they’re all used. Walking the Greenway through Newham on a Saturday morning we were alone. In contrast, getting the bus to the station to go home and the high streets are rammed. It’s not even Christmas anymore but no-one else seems to be the slightest bit interested in anything other than spending.

It’s the fluctuation between wild common areas, landscaped public gardens, manicured football pitches, overgrown woods, well kept forest trails, decrepit riverside paths, long-forgotten urban developments left to rot and incredible architecture that is making this journey worthwhile. Few of these bits (triangular castle excused) are outstanding in their own right but the combination is amazing. We’re constantly saying things like “I don’t believe this is London” ; “where the hell are we?” and “are you sure this is the right way?”

Occasionally you’ll emerge for a few hundred yards along a road, nip across some crossroads and be transported somewhere else entirely. Then again you’ll see a sign steering you down some dimly lit back alley between two razor wire fences along a non-existant path that has been replaced by a bog. No, really.

Let’s face it. The media lies.