I was thinking the other day about the media and how the various arms leech onto the backs of celebrity lives and feast off the blood of others. What brought this to mind was the coverage of the death of Albertina Sisulu and the weeks-long reiteration of the same “news”, tributes, accolades that we heard over and over.

Before I get shot down in flames, let me state here that I admired Mama Sisulu immensely. She was a wonderful woman, strong, steadfast and worthy of every accolade that was paid to her. But surely then she and her family deserved more than to have hordes of sensation-hungry journalists surrounding her home for days just in case someone noteworthy arrived/left? My mother died a couple of years ago, and although she had also reached a great age, it was very hard to deal with. I cannot imagine what it would have been like to have a microphone thrust into my face each time I entered or left the family home, requiring me to answer the same questions ad infinitum.

Of course we had to pay tribute to this icon. Of course she deserved everything that was said about her. But have some respect, guys; allow a family to mourn in peace once you’ve had your original sound bite?

It's an interesting exercise taking up a new hobby that becomes an addiction, especially when you know that time and budget constraints will never allow you to achieve what you see can be done (unless you win the Lotto, of course). I've always loved photography - my first sophisticated camera came with me on a trip overseas at the age of 19, and a friend gave me a light meter - wow! The height of professionalism.

At a much more advanced age you buy what seems like the ultimate in cameras, with an 18-55 mm lens. Then, after having achieved Camera 101 after about six months, you simply must have a zoom lens, you can't do without a filter, and another polariser to bring out the sky in your shots, all of which you have learnt from (expensive) photography magazines.
Now you need a good photo editing programme, and someone to teach you how to use it. Oh, and you also need a zillion-gig external hard drive to hold all those shots that you just might be able to edit one day.
You join the local photography club, where submissions are reviewed each month by a panel of judges "so that you can learn". Which is great, and you learn a lot - but from folk who have lenses at the cost of a small house, the 4x4 to go with the lenses, and the time to spend weeks in the Kgalagadi Reserve in search of the perfect lion/cheetah/leopard/Bataleur/elephant shot. Which they get, every time.
So you come home feeling great because one of your three images received a gold in your (beginners) category, and desperate because you want more and more - experience, time and cash.
Ah well, I guess the most important thing is to have fun and love what you're doing while you learn to see things through your lens - and realise that Ansel Adams was one of a kind. And at the very least, you'll have a lot of screensavers that really give you pleasure!

PS: Forgot to mention the tripod!

I broke a front tooth a week ago. Not earthshattering, or not worth a tweet, I would have thought. But the broken tooth led to a trip to my dentist in the centre of Cape Town. The trip into the city led to a long wait for a lift home. The long wait led to my taking my camera in with me, and a morning wandering around the city photographing whatever took my fancy.



I had forgotten how I loved the early morning walk from the station to the office, Cape Town waking to its day, stalls being loaded, the shoe-shine man calling for customers while sipping a cup of coffee. This time, completely alone, I had four hours to do what I wanted, when and where I wanted, and I rediscovered the magic of the metropolis. I had recently edited an article on Senegal – so made a new friend in St George’s Mall when a smiling stall-keeper who came from Dakar and I could talk about his home town. Spent time with Jack from Malawi and his bright and lovely artworks, visited the flower sellers and was awed all over again by St George’s Cathedral, to say nothing of the other old and beautiful buildings that pepper this square kilometre of architecture.

St George’s café in the crypt makes the best cappuccino I’ve tasted in ages, very necessary after a couple of hours of looky-looking. No time for the Company Garden, I’m afraid, that will have to wait for next time, and next time will be very soon.

By lunch time my legs would not walk another step. But the feeling had come back to my mouth and to me – mine for this beautiful city that I call home.

I have just been dragged, kicking and screaming, into the age of social media. “I don’t have time!” I yell as someone tells me I must Facebook, Link, Twitter – all of the above. “I don’t know how,” I whimper as I hear that someone is following me, or wants to be my friend. “I don’t want 500 friends, I can’t deal with the five I have,” I moan as yet another invitation plops into my inbox.

And yet, and yet – there is a fascination to all this, and herein lies the problem. It’s so much more tempting to see who’s following you than to get stuck into an edit of an academic exercise on politics in Iceland. It’s so much easier to check your profile than to dredge up ideas for yet another article on sun damage to skin. If you’re a staller, like me, social media will give you any number of excuses why it’s so important just to take five minutes to tweet about your walk on the beach this morning. And so the day goes by and deadlines loom ominously.