Tonight I looked back at the photos I’ve taken over the past six weeks. I take photos whenever I can. I always have. Funny, odd, sometimes irritating and sometimes inappropriate I’m sure, from the perspective of other people, but that’s what I do.

It felt largely ok to look at the photos. Of the night of the do, out in the garden. Busker John playing the guitar by candlelight. Photos I took earlier that day. Early morning when I couldn’t bear to be in the house any longer and wandered around the park, along the London Road, retracing various paths. The path to diagnosis via the GP surgery to the JR Hospital. Photos of the kids and their mates the day LB died. Hanging out, grieving, laughing and just being together.

I went back past the photo of the Relatives Room at the JR and came across pics I don’t remember seeing before or taking.  Photos taken at Gloucester Green market. The morning LB died. I have no recollection of taking a detour through the market that morning. None whatsoever. I can remember getting a text from Fran while I was on the bus to work, asking if we were planning to take LB to the school ball the following evening.

“Ooh, not thought about it, will ask him later. xxxx”, I replied.

I must have got off the bus, walked to the office through the market and taken the photos. Less than ten minutes later, I received the call from the unit psychiatrist on my mobile. Just after switching on my computer and putting my lunch in the fridge.

Ordinariness colliding with the unthinkable. Captured, in part, on film.

Still can’t make any sense of it.