Obviously, these are not images of mama's home cooking. Anything I land on the kitchen table looks like the aftermath of John Hurt's chest after the alien’s dramatic exit.
These are photos of his cooking. He’s become quite the accomplished chef. Well, if he wants to eat well it's his only option, since he is the son of a mother whose signature dish is œufs à la coque écrasés dans une tasse servis avec du pain grillé Marmite (boiled eggs smashed up in a mug with Marmite toast).
He can bake, too, and rattles out loaves that look, smell and taste like the sort of bread posh folk buy from artisan bakers to make non-Marmite soldiers for kids called Tamsin and Leopold. He takes photos of these, too, and very nice people in San Francisco comment on his crust.
He’s not the only one. You can go online and see what they're having for dinner in Troon, Texas and Turin. It’s not just food. My friend’s very lovely and style-savvy daughter endlessly shares photos of her outfit of the day, and is fast becoming what’s known as an ‘influencer’.
So many other trendy gals watch what she’s wearing and copy her look that some retailers are sending her stuff hoping she’ll drive up sales. Good luck to her, I say. Anyone who can score some free clobber from grasping capitalists is going to go far.
I quite fancy climbing on that influencer bandwagon myself, but first I’d have to change out of the oversized orange sweatshirt and jeans I’ve been wearing since Lockdown Three. My alternate look is a pair of baggy pyjamas, but trust me, the market for that view is highly niche, and reader, I married him.
Time was when you only took photos at weddings and holidays. You had to wait two weeks to see them. Then you invited the neighbours round and influenced them into a coma of boredom by showing them a full spool of Phil in Speedos beside the pool in Benidorm. If they had a slide projector, you stayed well away for weeks after they came back from Malta.
Now everyone takes pictures of everything and shares them with everyone. Recently, I’ve taken to snapping a quick shot of my car when I park. This is so I can find it again. This is handy at Edinburgh Airport, where the car park is the size of a medium-sized Speyside shooting estate and the person who parks (me) is easily distracted by control towers and planes taking off and thus forgets to take careful note of where they parked.
As we all know, a speedy exit from that car park is vital. That time really does mean money. Last time mum flew out, it cost more for the parking space than the seat on the plane. That parking space actually earns more an hour than the girl pulling pints in the airport bar.
These photos don’t go online, but perhaps they should. Fashion influencer is probably not within my reach, but how about “Car Parks of Scotland”? Mind you, I can't imagine what goodies I’d get out of that. Pretty sure it wouldn’t be a freebie hour at Edinburgh Airport.