“Oi, get ere now, where d’ya want him mate?”

A scruffy looking boy came downstairs and stood next to his father.

“Just in front of you and your wife, next to the baby” the photographer smiled a plastic smile.

What an ugly family, he thought. Surely, they could have made an effort, ironed their clothes, washed that awful greasy hair, put a bag on their head, or better still have no head at all, some people are so inconsiderate.

He looked through the viewfinder.

“Could you possibly not pick your nose, just for a minute, and the baby has been sick, if one of you could just clean it or something”

The boy lurched forward as his head came in contact with the back of his dads’ hand.

“Wot did I say, behave or else.”

The mother, hardly out of school herself, rushed round and wiped the babys face with a dirty tea towel.

“There you go Chantelle, all nice and clean again.”

The photographer bent down to his tripod once more.

Good God, is this what I have become, a cheap photographer, taking cheap photos, of cheap people.

“Phoar, our chantelles’ avin a poo, it stinks” the boy shouted, before collapsing on to his father in fits of laughter.

The babys’ face had turned bright red, and looked ready to burst at any moment.

“Do you want to sort her out, while I do the father and son shots.” The photographer said, plastic grin firmly in place.

“Ere mate, d’ya want a lager.” the man asked taking a can from the side of the sofa.

“It’s only ten in the morning, a bit early for me.”

“No mate 24 hour drinking now, they changed the law, not before time if you ask me, you can drink when ever you like.”

“It’s not the legal aspect, it’s the …never mind, if you would stand next to your son.”

He clicked away, ignoring the green snot running from the boys’ nose.

I could have been abroad taking shots of exotic models in exotic places, or in London doing the latest, royal family photo shoot, making millions, if only…his thoughts were interrupted by the return of the mother and baby.

“Right, all done.” she looked at her son, as she placed the baby on his fathers’ knee.

“Oh look at your nose.” she got the same dirty tea towel, and wiped the snot away.

His stomach churned, Oh God, just let me get out of this house.

It was several hours and many interruptions later, before he got his wish. But he was quite pleased with him-self he had managed to maintain his plastic smile throughout, even when the baby was sick again, this time on his foot, and when the father burnt a hole in his back drop with a cig.

Back in his darkroom, his mind wandered, he thought of the enthusiasm he had at Uni, he was going to be the next David Bailey, only better. He learnt everything there was to know about cameras, developing, light and shade, lenses, the world was his studio and he was going to conquer it. Unfortunately, a few hundred other people had the same idea and although he had the knowledge, he didn’t really have the business skills, or the drive to push himself forward. He was soon lagging behind the go-getters, then digital reared its ugly head and every Tom, Dick and Harry had suddenly turned into a photographer. He hung the photos up to dry, and went to bed exhausted and somewhat deflated.

Next morning, he was up early, he had slept well, and somehow life didn’t seem quite as bad as it had the previous day. He took the photos down to inspect them. He was quite excited as he looked at his work.

“These are spot on, I’m really pleased with the colour, especially the red, and I was right, they do look better with no heads, it was so lucky they had that sword hanging over the fire place!”