The holiday snaps or On the 22nd day of Christmas, my true love brought me arse (tits and)

Sitting up in bed, the morning after my beloved came home, I was suddenly surprised by his announcing that he had something under the covers that he thought I’d like to look at, as he thought I might have missed it, and would probably enjoy having a fiddle with it.

Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be my camera that he’d taken to the USA to take pictures!

Oh alright, that wasn’t very good, sorry.

It wasn’t under the covers, either, to be fair, but I didn’t think it would have made as good a euphemism if it sounded like he had to pull his penis out of his suitcase. It would just be a bit disturbing.

I was glad that he’d taken pictures. He’s not a very big picture taker, unlike me, who is an unstoppable picture taker, and here, I had in my hands a visual record of the business trip I wanted to tag along on, but didn’t.

If I had been there, I would have taken many many many pictures. I told him to take pictures, and so was excited to see the camera back. I hoped there were going to be pictures of some of the architectural oddities I would have snapped. I looked forward to seeing neon captured mid-flash in macro. Frozen moments in the lives of fake national landmarks and fat fingers pushing rubbed quarters into slot machine drains.

There were six fabulous pictures of shiny hotels and shinier other things. After that … No, hang on, I tell you what, he happens to be sitting right next to me. My beloved, would you please tell the nice people what followed the six mood-setting pictures of Las Vegas, please?

I’m not very good at taking pictures, you know. The whole thing about getting a camera out and standing there, snapping away, just makes me feel very self conscious and makes you look at everything from one step removed. So I didn’t take many pictures.

But you did take some pictures, didn’t you? Tell the nice people what followed the six nice mood selling pictures of Las Vegas, my beloved.

I saw loads of things in Las Vegas that made me think I should take pictures. You know, hotels, big gaudy signs, men in cowboy hats. And sex. Man, there was a lot of sex. Sex shows pointed out signposts, men handing out business cards for prostitutes on street corners, free semi-porn mags, advertising billboards. It also happened to be the week of the year’s biggest porn convention. So I thought if I *was* going to take some pictures, a series of photos on Vegas’s seedy underbelly would be a good start.

First stop: the local entertainment guide, a free magazine, sitting in the hotel room when I arrived. You know the kind of things; hotel restaurants, magic shows, blah blah. Oh, and lots of nudey girls. Trouble is, after an initial bout of enthusiasm, I stopped taking pictures. Too self-conscious, innit.

Jesus. Never hand the laptop to a journalist with jetlag if you’re only trying to pop out a pint-sized post with a point. I understand your reasoning, my beloved. I understand the project you embarked on and never got very far with, but again: Tell the Nice People What Pictures Followed the Six Nice Mood-Setty Shots.

OK, OK: Ten pictures of nudey girls from a magazine.

*Sigh*.

So, to live vicariously, to travel through my beloved’s eyes on the trip I wished so much to be on, I get six pictures of neon-gosh-ity, a set of 22 taken on a windswept beach in San Francisco the day after I’d emailed asking if he was taking lots of lovely pictures, and – well, let’s just hit rewind for a second –

OK, OK: Ten pictures of nudey girls from a magazine.

Sorry, what was that?

OK, OK: Ten pictures of nudey girls from a magazine.

Excellent. Thanks for that, sweetie. I can’t wait to see what you brought me for a present. Is it Playboy? Is it a hooker?