sniffyjenkins:

How to behave around fog

When you’re just out of bed, standing shivering and half-naked with your coffee at your window, and you see the morning is bundled up in a sea mist so thick you’ll barely be able to see your fingers in front of your face once outside, there are some rules you have to follow: you must squeal with delight; you must spill you coffee; you must forget your breakfast; you must pack all the camera gear you’ve ever owned except your tripod, which is the one thing you really need; you must get off the bus three stops early to walk through the park and its abandoned football pitch; your summer trainers must get soaked in dew; you must drop your favourite lens in the mud; you must wonder why there is no sound; you must whisper to the fog as you shoot it, soft, soft, my love, do not run, for it is a wild beast that will flee if you are not gentle; once you have it tamed, you must be firmer, cajole it, growl at it, for it will be used to your sweet words, will get complacent, lazy, it will forget; you must see the mist as you have never seen it before; you must let it lick your ankles, nuzzle your earlobe, breathe against the nape of your neck; you must tell it yes yes yes; in short, you must fall in love with it; and you must be late, very late, for work because you fell in love and nothing else mattered.

There you go. Them’s the rules, OK?