Watching the Watcher

A sunny afternoon. Southport on the Lancashire coast. You park your car on the seafront, you walk along the pier with your family, savouring the salty breeze and then you sit down at Silcocks for a chip barm. It’s lovely. Bikers come here from all over the county. They line their polished machines up for all to see and admire. There’s a kiddies roundabout, the Cocks and Hens. It’s late April and we’re trying to shrug off the winter months. There’s a pause in conversation, a moment of introspection, and I find myself playing the game of spot the security camera.

It doesn’t take me long. I’m getting pretty good at it. Good enough to realise that in any urban setting, no matter where you are you can rest assured, you’re on CCTV.

I’m on this one at the minute. It’s watching me, as I’m taking a photograph of it. It’s the equivalent of two fingers, though I’ll probably come a cropper one day and have some explaining to do. I particularly like the way the Union Jack has wound itself around the pole, rendered itself only half the flag it used to be,…

Still, it’s nice to feel so,… protected.