Today I was invited to take photos of a performance in Hackney Wick, devised as a part of a workshop by the performance artist Alastair MacLennan.

It was raining a lot.  I attached a brolly to my tripod to keep my camera dry but the improvised contraption was not useful-  I had to jump about a lot to get the pictures.

Later I found a shorter, dry person standing underneath it taking pictures.

My main camera got so wet it stopped working.

I carry slung on my hip a compact camera too. But it felt that, being even denser in gimmicks per unit volume than my konked-out DSLR, I might just as well lay it down in one of the puddles and make little waves over it.

So from that point I was able to be a proper spectator and watch the show. It was - and all in a good way - absurd, slow, wet, dribbly, foamy, muttering, messy, dense, untidy.  

I would liken it to opening the fridge door in a long-empty house and finding inside things you don’t recognise and some things that probably normally wouldn’t need to be in there.

But you’re hungry so you keep digging further back for - well, it’s got to be an unopened pack of fish fingers within their sell-by date really - but the fridge goes back an unheimlichly long way. You reach as far back as your arm can go and get hold of something firm. You’ve found a banana wrapped in cling film. And it’s sticking out of someone’s mouth.