Sooo, yeah. If you're anything like me, every day when you pick up your mail at home or work, you think how nice it would be if somebody just decided that day to send you a really nice, big-ticket gift. A couple of days ago, that actually happened to me: a satisfyingly chunky box turned out, upon opening, to contain my dream camera, a Canon EOS 400D. It was a present from my mum to mark her retirement from teaching* and it has totally reawakened my passion for photography. I'm tingling at thought of all the stuff I have to learn, opportunities I can take and accessories I have to know about.

I started looking through my late papa's film SLR bag, and found that although the lenses are the wrong mount system (FD rather than EF; apparently non-optical adapters are available for about £27 on eBay – any experience, folks?) the flash (semi-)works in the hotshoe, so the missus and I had fun taking big washed out stylised portraits. I might get one of the adapters after payday partly because I like the idea of using my papa's stuff from his AE-1, and partly just because one of his lenses is a sweet-looking 200mm telephoto. The 400D means that I'm shooting in RAW really for the first time, and, um, it's quite good, isn't it? I'm loving the flexibility, but hating the disappearing gigabytes. I think the time may be ripe to migrate to Aperture or Lightroom, but I need to talk to people who know more about the two before deciding which one to go for.

So, yeah. I know that this sort of stuff is neither big, clever, nor particularly difficult to achieve, but I'm still really loving it.

A reminder: I have two Flickr accounts. My cameraphone account is out-and-about snaps, while my main account will hold all my 400D shots.

* Yeah, I don't know why her retirement was a reason to buy me a beautiful DSLR, but don't draw attention to this, mmm-kay? Particularly since she very sweetly also bought Jenny a 32GB iPod touch as well. Yay, my mum!

Mrs P is off visiting her folks in the motherland. This is both a good and a bad thing from my point of view.

On the one hand…
Get to watch as much Time Team as any one man can stand
Can configure the bedclothes to suit [1]
Can listen to The Arguing Programme [2]

But on the other…
Nobody – literally – to snuggle up to at night
No impressions of the Polo Confidence ad
No nose wrinkles [3]
If I want to ’member things, I have to do it alone [4]
No insane nocturnal mutterings [5]
No rockin’ out to SingStar [6]

And worst of all, nobody to talk to; nobody to turn to to share a joke; nobody whose politics and world view chime so readily with my own that we can profitably spend half an hour discussing a topic while both violently agreeing with each other. And nobody with whom I can share our odd little system of catchphrases and distorted grammar that makes up the surprisingly rich private language that has sprung up from seven years of living together.

1. Technically, the configuration I favour is 'tuppling' – a sort of self-mummification technique that involves tucking the duvet tight around my body. This does not, contrary to current thinking, take up more than my fair share of the duvet.
2. This isn't any particular programme; it's just any radio show during which the interviewee filibusters frantically while the interviewer doggedly repeats "If I can just ask... If I can just ask... If I can just ask...". The Today Programme – AKA "The John Humphrys Show" in Jenny's mind – is an active proponent of this style of robust debate (as I like to think of it) and it drives Jenny nuts.
3. A few weeks ago, I was stressed and frustrated by technology. Jenny could do nothing to help. Nothing, that is, until she diffused the situation by doing a nose wrinkle for me; nothing is cuter.
4. It's easy to forget, when you're a couple, that stuff you do is weird. Jenny and I 'remember' things, such as "Hey, 'member when you fed a deer?" Nothing too odd there, you might think. But we do it all the time, and often – indeed, usually – immediately after the event we're 'membering, viz "Hey, 'member that good tea?" upon laying down the cutlery.
5. Already recorded on this blog: "It's a shame we have to lean against the hurty pain of the doormat" and "Remember when you kept pretending to be the smallest man in Australia all the time?". I've started collecting these weird noctural rantings and will do a big post of them when I have enough.
6. Mrs P has a phenomenal singing voice. With training and a marketing budget, she could be a credible indy music star. I don't say this because I love her; I love her, in part, because she's so fucking talented. I wish she'd realise this.

Having taken a sneaky day off work, Mrs P and I decided to slope off to Longleat Safari Park; all manner of safari-themed japes and scrapes ensued, and the day was proclaimed a success by all concerned. The highlight of the day (apart from the rhinos, which were fucking cool, by the way – I totally want to come back as a rhino) was a terrified-but-excited Jeff feeding a deer some of the special Longleat deer food. The stoopid deer didn't seem to understand that it was supposed to wait while I put some of the little pellets into my wife's hand before she moved her hand out of the car to feed it, and so kept thrusting its very fuzzy and adorable head inside the car to get at the cup of pellety goodness. Amid much excited shrieking, the task was eventually accomplished: one fed deer, one wife-hand covered in deer-spit. Witness the tongue-lashing she's getting below. More animal magic chez Flickr.

Some people see God's face in crisps, some see the Virgin Mary in slices of tomato. At the moment there's a slightly spooky face formed by clouds and the sun showing on my EarthDesk desktop.

Incredibly short, incredibly compelling TED talk about what Leonardo da Vinci looks like. Healthy scepticism is a good thing, but it's difficult to argue with the conclusion, particularly when it's put across with such understated confidence.