Opened by chance.

{One, two, three, four...}

A random photographic quartet that for me is capable of conjuring with quick fingers all kinds of travel memories previously thought lost to fog: a pug in a doorway of a Parisian post office; a love heart masquerading as a leaf or a leaf that wishes it were a heart; the green creep of Oxford; and the stage set in London. A haphazard collection they now form and to me whisper in my ear of where I have been. I recall now the excitement of waiting for the curtain to lift before The Royal Ballet’s performance of Onegin. The night it was a Saturday, the ballet told in three acts, and my forearms prickled from beginning until close. We sat up high, in a theatre familiar to me not from previous experience but from film. My heart a loud drum, I vowed then to read Alexander Pushkin’s classic verse-novel (though I have only now purchased a copy from my local bookstore).

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