Gallery Intro

You can't get away from it, we can't slack for a moment without it, ever constant, even with the sand between your toes and the sun on your back it dawdles with you; fucking money, none of us live free from it.  Its the bucket with holes in it everyone of us are powerlessly enslaved to.  June had me running nervous, the traveller or refugee?? All too conscious of my dwindling bank account, no matter how much I pissed about on the beach, the dark cloak of England and responsibility calling was getting tighter.

Then, there was this single week when, not one, but that trinity of three people, who had each played a remarkable and influential role in my life, died.  It affected me deeply; like loosing links of armour and feeling suddenly vulnerable.  Reality biting; the joys of Tinos dulling amidst the onslaught.  Clambering on a plane back to the Ugly Kingdom was now inevitable...

Six months away, yet not long enough; it hurt hitting the tarmac at Heathrow.  Flying back into the past, no good for anyone's mind...