A testing time

As you might easily guess, I've been devoting a lot of time to my new Panasonic LX100 camera in the last few days. It's vital to find out how it works, and configure it to my own needs.

Getting a new camera is a very important event for me. It's my tool for making lots of pictures - pictures that illustrate what interests me most in life. Photography is my main creative outlet. But I'm stymied unless I rapidly find out how to operate this new device, and discover what it can do well - and what it can't. Hence the concentrated learning process.

Thankfully I've had very few social commitments, and just routine stuff to attend to. This has given me ample learning time. However, the weather has not played ball. It's been frustratingly dull and wet outside - although that's both good and bad.

Good, because I can concentrate on the camera without guilt. I mean, I can't do gardening in heavy rain. Of course I can't. For one thing, my lovely new wellies would get all muddy! Yes, yes, I know: proper gardeners would think nothing of it. But one essential thing you must know about me is that I am not a proper gardener. Only a fair-weather one. And only if I feel so inclined. And I feel stubbornly righteous about that. Why should I be a slave to gardening? What's wrong with cooing over a new toy?

So the lashing rain washes all my guilt away. But the rain is also bad, because I've been itching to get out and around, and see what the Panasonic can do in sunshine. Most of my impressions so far of its performance are based on indoor experiments. Which is only half the story.

Nevertheless, I have taken plenty of  indoor test shots - over 600 in six days. I've set up test scenes and popped the LX100 onto a tripod to take pictures from the same position, but with different adjustments. Much as they do (in a more technical fashion) on any of the main photo review websites. This has involved many hours looking closely at the laptop screen, to determine the precise effect of each adjustment, and to note which ones really do make a difference. I've now arrived at a (provisional) configuration that will suit my style of photography, and the state of my eyesight.

All those careful indoor comparison shots have revealed how to optimise sharpness or tonal range in different lighting conditions. But it's a sterile, artificial procedure. The very best test method - and the one that's most fun - is to get out on a fine day and blast away in public on real scenes. That shows you how easy the camera is to operate out on the street, and what kind of shots are the most successful with it. I've only had two chances to do that so far, neither of them on sunny days.

One chance came today. I needed to go into to Brighton for a fringe trim. That done, I wandered past the Royal Pavilion, and then over to the Museum and Art Gallery. On a bright day, the domes and minarets of the Royal Pavilion would have been worth a shot or two, but the light was flat and uninteresting. I made do with the spotlit interior of the Museum and Art Gallery. Here are some of the pictures I took. All were taken in subdued light, unless a spotlight was actually shining on the subject. Click on them to enlarge them.

 

Here are two shots of the same subject, comparing my old Leica D-Lux 4 from 2009 (top) with the new Panasonic LX100:

I had ramped up the brightness of the Leica's shot on the laptop, so it therefore looks more colourful - at the expense of blown highlights. I've hardly touched the Panasonic's result, but if you look closely, you can see more detail, and subtler colours.

Here's another pair of shots to illustrate the same thing, although this time there's less difference in the level of detail captured. Mind you, the Panasonic was further away than the Leica, and so it's done well to ever-so-slightly turn out the better shot:

It's not surprising that you have to zoom in to see a difference. The LX100 is, after all, no more than an evolution of the D-Lux 4, what it has become with six years' further technical development. So naturally there's an improvement. But the results are still typical of a compact zoom camera. That's OK. It's entirely what I expect. And I know that any SLR will perform significantly better than this. But then, think of the weight and bulk of an SLR - no putting one of those in my red handbag! But the LX100 will go in, and because of that I will never miss a shot.

Next post: something quite different.

New camera

And now the second of yesterday's purchases. I've bought myself a replacement camera. My trusty Leica D-Lux 4 from June 2009 has now taken about 62,800 photos and has earned an honourable retirement. It will become my reserve camera, charged up and on standby in Fiona's boot, just in case the replacement camera ever develops some pox or malady while I'm away. For I absolutely can't be without a substitute picture-taking machine, and I don't rate cameras on phones very highly, lacking as they are in easy-to-use dials, levers and buttons, quite apart from not being the right shape for fast and secure handling.

It was time to upgrade. I'd been delaying it, and I thought I might continue to do so for some time ahead. But then I didn't want to replace laptop, phone and camera all in the same year (2016 or 2017) - that would really be too big a hit in one go. Besides, I wanted to get used to the new camera long before I set off for Shetland in 2017. I needed time to explore what it could do, and to tweak it properly. In any case, with the lovely colours of Autumn just around the corner, it was an exciting prospect to upgrade now. And to clinch the matter, the manufacturer was offering a double-cashback deal that expired on 7 September. I needed to act at once.

So what did I buy? The Panasonic LX100. A digital zoom compact aimed at enthusiasts. Which is exactly what the Leica D-Lux 4 was.

Panasonic's LX series has always corresponded exactly with Leica's D-Lux series. They are simply different versions of the same camera, having exactly the same specifications. There are only cosmetic differences, the Leica version having a more obvious air of quality and distinction. But Panasonic make both versions in the same factory, and both sport the same amazing Leica zoom lens. It boils down to this: if you want a camera with that famous Leica red dot on it, which will catch the eye and make people envy you, then buy the 'luxury' D-Lux version. If you are not into that game, then buy the LX version.

Although I liked the idea of 'owning a Leica', and had happily paid the premium necessary to secure the D-Lux 4, I can't honestly say that the red dot ever got me shots, or won me social respect, that I would have missed using the equivalent Panasonic LX camera. Occasionally some old duffer would say, 'Oh, is that a Leica?' and I'd reply, 'Why yes! But as you know, it's really made by Panasonic, and not by Leica at all.' So what then was the real point of paying for that red dot? Generations of photographers have constantly asked the same question.

At the end of the day, all you want is a device that takes good pictures that reflect your creative intention at the time. The name on the camera, and its heritage, do not matter. Its reliability, durability, ease-of-use, and ability to deliver great shots are the things to pay attention to.  

I decided that I'd save myself £250 and buy the dotless Panasonic instead. Indeed, having bought the Ruark radio recently, this seemed a prudent and thrifty notion! But I really liked the look of the LX100, and had moved on from trying to impress anyone. Except with my shots. And I expected the LX100 to give me results that were clearly better than what the D-Lux 4 had delivered. And those had been pretty good.

I'm not going to present a 'user review'. Let's just look at the new beast and say no more. In the months ahead, my posts will contain many a shot taken with the new camera, and I hope the impact of six years technological development will be obvious!

Here then is the LX100 newly emerged from its packaging, and then in my hand:

If you think it looks a bit big for a compact camera, bear in mind that my hands are not very large. Here it is next to my sunglasses, and a box of matches:

And, of course, it still fits neatly in my red handbag:

It's a little bit bulkier than the old D-Lux 4, and slightly heavier, but neither of these things make a great difference. It can still go everywhere with me. That's its real point. 

You'll have noticed all the SLR-like controls. They really do make it very easy to introduce a degree of manual control, and they encourage you to add some 'craft' to the picture-taking process, although you can set things up to make everything automatic if you want that. I've already found it pays to work in 'aperture-priority' mode, where I set the aperture I want (f/4.0 by default, with good sharpness and depth of field in mind) and let the camera allocate an appropriate shutter speed. The big ring on the lens barrel controls which aperture. But it all depends on the subject and the lighting conditions, and whether you want to throw the background completely out of focus; and things like that. 

I did carry out a quick 'resolution test' this morning, taking the same picture with each camera, using a tripod for steadiness and consistency of camera-to-subject distance:

A page from my 2000 edition of the Michelin Road Atlas of France was the subject. The Leica D-Lux 4 first, then the Panasonic LX100:

And these were the results. Take it from me that the upper shot (taken with the old D-Lux 4) is not as sharp than the lower shot (taken with the new the LX100). 

Here are the various settings for comparison:

Leica D-Lux 4

ISO 400 (I have limited the maximum ISO to 400)

Focal length (so that the top of the atlas page is aligned with the top edge of the frame) 12.8mm = 60mm in '35mm film camera' reckoning

Aperture f/2.8

Shutter speed 1/25 second

File size 1.99MB

Panasonic LX100
ISO 1250 (I have limited the maximum ISO to 1600)
Focal length (so that the top of the atlas page is aligned with the top edge of the frame) 22.7mm = 50mm in '35mm film camera' reckoning
Aperture f/2.7
Shutter speed 1/100 second
File size 2.78MB

Using the tripod nullifies the shutter speed difference. The Panasonic LX100 has a significantly larger sensor, which affects the focal length, and results in a slightly wider-angle view of the atlas page; and consequently the page seems slightly farther away.

So much for tests. What do they prove, anyway? Only what one expects.

The big thing is that I've now got a new camera, and nothing is more likely to get me walking around out of doors and looking around for things to shoot! Yes, it's all part of a Grand Plan to Get More Exercise!

How much, then?

Ah. It was quite a lot. But then I'd have spent the same money - very likely more - in late 2016 or early 2017. I've merely brought the date forward. The camera cost me £594.00, plus £59.99 for a spare battery. There was nothing else to buy. So that's about £654. Yes, ouch. But it would have been 'ouch' further down the line. Better to bite the bullet now.

However, there is good news too. I will be entitled to a cracking £100 cashback after 28 days. I can't claim that before I depart for the West Country (claiming needs the PC at home - I can't do it in the caravan, using just the phone), and the time limit is 19 October. So, immediately I get home, I must make that claim, which will reduce the overall cost to a 'mere' £554. Once Panasonic agree, that is, and pay out. (By Christmas, maybe? Who knows when)

New wellies

I've been shopping again! Two more big purchases. Both yesterday. This post deals with the cheaper buy, a pair of decent wellies.

I am now the proud owner of a pair of wellington boots by Gumleaf, the Norfolk manufacturer. Or at least Norfolk is where their HQ is. The claim is made that these boots were designed there, and 'made in Europe'. Does the location really matter? Personally I don't mind if they were made in Timbuktu, provided they are of high quality, fit for purpose, and fit my feet.

I bought them from Bodle Bros, who have an equestrian shop (I should say 'warehouse', and I could say 'Aladdin's Cave') in the country just north of Burgess Hill. They cost £80, so we are talking middling-expensive wellies here - but you do get a nice-looking, heavy-duty, clearly serious product, which I feel confident will last me for a long time to come. Here's the box they came in:

And here are some shots of the wellies themselves, unpacked at home:

They are not thin! One could wear wellies like this in the worst conditions and not suffer frostbitten toes! But I do anticipate wearing socks with them, and so I bought a size 9 pair of boots, which allows plenty of room to slip a socked foot inside. Gumleaf have named this particular style of boot 'Saxon', presumably because King Alfred the Great liked to wear them when fighting the Danes, or burning cakes.

I also bought this natty thing called a boot jack:

That was another £7.84. But it will save me getting my hands (or gloves) muddy. You put one foot on the black rubber patch, and the other between the forks, pull your foot out of the forked boot, swap leg positions, and repeat with the other boot. In the bottom photo, I should really have placed the right boot on the black patch. But then you wouldn't have seen the boot jack so clearly! I'm sure you get the general idea, regardless of any comments from me. And indeed, for all I know, you have a collection of antique boot jacks at home, and are obsessed with them to the point of monomania. There must be some for whom using a boot jack after a hard morning's mucking-out at the stables is the very spice of life.

So that was nearly £88 blown on wellies and a handy accessory. Can I justify this? Of course! Because my old Joules wellies have just split, rendering them useless. These were the trendy blue ones with the hens on them, purchased for £31.50 in December 2009. They looked like this when new:

Hmm. That may have been my style in late 2009. But since then I have developed different notions of what is down-to-earth and practical. We are talking about boots fit for wet grass and mud, after all. Boots that will get dirty. I no longer consider that boots with pretty hens on them cut the mustard.

Sneering townies might go on to say: how often are you really going to wear your overpriced new wellies, Lucy? Well, the answer is: rather frequently. In fact, every single day when on holiday. 

You simply can't go caravanning without wellies, especially if pitched on grass - as I shall be for much of my next holiday in the West Country, only three and a half weeks away now. Even if it doesn't rain, there is always a heavy dew in the morning, and that's especially true as Summer fades and Autumn begins. And there are always things to be done outside the caravan before or after breakfast, such as fetching water, or getting something from the car. You can't do any of it in slippers, or normal shoes, unless you want to get them soaking wet - instantly. 

And of course you need wellies if walking on a sea shore. Think 'Sussex by the sea'. Think of proverbial sticky, squelching Sussex mud, as found somewhere along every footpath in the county.

I'm pleased to say that these new rubber boots by Gumleaf come higher up my leg than the old Joules boots, which means that this winter I'll be able to walk in deeper snow than hitherto. And more sure-footedly too.

So, an indispensable purchase. Nothing to raise eyebrows about. 

What would I want a man for?

That sounds like a silly or naïve question, doesn't it? But actually, if I amend the title of this post to 'What are older men for, in one's own later life?'. Then the question begins to seem not so daft - nor quite so easy to answer.

For when you are managing the solo life very well indeed, and are not bothered about sex one little bit - what then could having a man around possibly add? Let's analyse this.

Important reasons to have a man around
# Loving companionship, including sex and cuddles, and someone to care for and be proud of.
# Social 'twoness' - most things are geared to couples, rather than single people.
# Social status - single people have a harder time.
# The chance of a family.
# Acquisition of a breadwinner, and therefore a better lifestyle.
# Acquisition of a handyman and fixer, and generally a useful person who can do things for you.
# You won't be alone.

Caveats
# The man may have character flaws, or annoying habits, or hurtful tendencies, that undermine the love.
# It may not be a balanced relationship - he may think he's the more important partner.
# He may be a clumsy or inept father.
# He may be mean with his money - or waste it on expensive hobbies.
# He may be lazy or ineffectual.
# He may ignore you, so that you are even lonelier than when single.

Why I wouldn't want a man around
# I'm done with relationships. I've had enough. Long-lived or short-lived, all my past ones (over a span of forty years) have come to nothing. My track record is 100% failure. I think now that parental and societal pressures pushed me onto the wrong people, with inevitably poor results. A differently-based approach might work better now, but really I have no evidence whatever that a future relationship could succeed.
# I like being on my own. I like the freedom and the control. Psychologically, solitude is right for me and I crave it after a while, whatever the company. I'd suffocate in a relationship. I don't want to 'belong' to anyone. Nor do I want them to 'belong' to me. I firmly believe that being on my own is my natural state, what I'm temperamentally most suited to.
# I'm socially confident, and being single doesn't bother me one bit. It's a distinction I flaunt.
# I don't want a family.
# I have enough money to live pretty well, and another income wouldn't make me happier.
# My neighbours fill the various handyman roles.
# I don't know what loneliness is. I'm lacking that gene.

All that's off the top of my head. It seems easy to draw up pros and cons. But I still don't feel I'm getting to the heart of the matter. Let's try another approach: how do I look to local men?

My public position is this. It's known that I'm on my own, with no ties whatever. I own my own home outright - a valuable asset. I have a comfortable income, enough to live a life of leisure on. I drive a nice car, which hints at money in the bank. I'm obviously in good health. I can afford to dress well, and eat out when I want to. It's clear that I like a pleasant social life. I'm friendly, and have plenty to say if the company is convivial. The only serious thing against me is my obvious age - even if sixty is supposed to be the new forty. And some might consider me too lacking in prettiness, or too tubby. But attractiveness is a mixture of many things, and I believe that the average older man might look at the whole package and think it worth investigating.

Locally I've been an unknown for many years. But that's changing. And as I get seen around more, and become better-known, local men are naturally going to start considering this merry-eyed lady, and whether I ought to be pursued.

I'm not trying to flatter myself. Money will dominate their thoughts. Only pound signs will be in their eyes.

I am quite sure that, given my status as an unattached divorcée of independent means and significant assets (real or supposed), it's inevitable that some speculation over a pint or two at the pub will take place, myself being considered quite dispassionately as a potential business proposition. Some builder, for instance, will regard my house as a place to sell, or to raise a big loan on; in any event, as as a nice fat bit of capital that can be thrown at a profitable development they have in mind. Ways and means to part me from my chief asset may get discussed. And a semi-amorous approach, to sound me out, may then take place.

So I'm on my guard.

I hasten to say that I am not currently getting besieged by speculative builders ringing my doorbell and chatting me up. But I can see that it could gradually start to happen, and I must have my responses ready.

A public disclosure that was never explained

My last post on The Samaritans brought to mind a unique event - the one and only time I've ever heard a record request on a radio show that was made by persons I knew, for someone I knew.

It was a very long time ago, in 1965. That's fifty years ago, when I was only thirteen.

It would have been a Saturday-morning request show on the BBC's Light Programme, which became Radio 2 in 1967. I was absolutely taken by surprise to hear this request read out on air. The presenter spoke clearly and carefully. I could make no mistake. The words he said were on the lines of 'This next song is for Betty [Surname], mother of Christine and Trevor, who are thinking of her, and hope she will be comforted by this record, which will mean a lot to her. It's Help, by the one and only Beatles!'

What, my Auntie Betty? And why this song? For the words were these:

Help, I need somebody.
Help, not just anybody.
Help, you know I need someone...help!

When I was younger, so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down.
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground.
Won't you please, please help me?

And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,
My independence seems to vanish in the haze.
But every now and then I feel so insecure,
I know that I just need you like I've never done before.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being 'round.
Help me get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me?

When I was younger so much younger than today,
I never needed anybody's help in any way.
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured,
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors.

Help me if you can, I'm feeling down,
And I do appreciate you being round
Help me, get my feet back on the ground,
Won't you please, please help me, 
Help me, 
Help me, ooh...

What was going on? I had no idea that Betty (she was an honorary aunt, really a close friend of Mum's) was in difficulties of any kind. What sort of trouble? Nobody had mentioned anything to me. How was it that her daughter and son (still teenagers) had actually managed to get a request played on national radio? And yet why would they wish to broadcast the fact that their mother might need help? It was a lovely idea, of course, dedicating a record to someone - but this wasn't a birthday request. Something bad had happened.

I was actually quite shocked. Plenty of people got their requests read out, but I never, ever thought I would hear one from people I knew. This was bizarre. Or at least it struck the thirteen-year-old me as bizarre, probably because I was already well into my own rather anguished teens, and not much connected at the time with goings-on in the real world. This was a jolt that reminded me that adults had problems I couldn't begin to guess at. Adults were such a puzzle, always hinting at things they knew all about, but which I'd never heard of. I couldn't imagine a time when I'd know as much as any adult did. This type of thinking got me down.

I wondered whether, if Mum had seemed poorly, I would have made a record request to show to her that her that I cared very much. But I knew that it wouldn't have occurred to me. I was curiously detached from my parents at the time. This is how it gets when you have built a shell around yourself. I do remember thinking that Christine and Trevor must be very grown-up, to empathise with their mother so much. The conviction that I was cold-hearted, and lacked the ability to demonstrate love and concern - that I was certainly incapable of putting my arms around my mother, or of accepting her arm around me - was very hard to live with. I despised myself.

I didn't mention to Mum and Dad that I'd heard the record request read out. I kept it a secret. In fact, this post is the first time I've ever mentioned it to anyone else. Funny the things you carry around with you for fifty long years before saying anything.

And I never did find out why Betty needed this kind of support and consolation. I can try a guess, of course. In 1965 she'd be in her mid-forties, and she might have been suffering from bad menopausal symptoms. But I don't know. Mum never said a word to me, although she must surely have been aware of Betty's problems. But that's how it was for that generation: so much was never mentioned, nor could be mentioned.

Betty died a long time ago, some years before my Mum did. I think she might have just made it to eighty.

The Samaritans

A friend from London came down to Brighton for the day. We met up, and over lunch she told me about her experience of becoming a volunteer for The Samaritans - the organisation you can phone up and talk to, when you have reached an emotional brick wall, and feel like giving up. See http://www.samaritans.org/.

My friend had recently retired, felt she had time and aptitude for the work, and contacted them with training in mind. She duly did the training course, but two things stopped her actually becoming a volunteer.

One was a basic gap in the service offered, which did not make sense to her.

The other was the denting of her self-confidence, through overzealous yet inconsistent criticism from a trainer, who (among other things) told her that she 'wasn't showing enough empathy'. And yet empathy was the very thing she felt was her strongest asset. For this friend had experienced quite a lot in her life, including school bullying, family disapproval and exclusion, and professional prejudice. A good deal more than I've experienced. But in any case, she was the patient, caring sort, who wanted very much to help others; and to be told that, despite these attributes, she wasn't demonstrating enough empathy to callers was a discouragement that deterred her from further involvement.

And what was the basic gap in the service? Well, according to my friend, the training drums it into you that you are going to take confidential calls from people with dire personal problems, but your function will be to listen with understanding and empathy, explore the situation with them, but not to offer any advice.

Really? No advice? And yet - supposing that I had some grave problem oppressing me, and I couldn't see any escape from it, and felt at the end of my tether, and was desperate enough to confide in a total stranger over the phone - the very thing I'd want from The Samaritans would be advice! I wouldn't simply want a listening ear. I'd be beyond straight thinking. I've have to be told. What do I need to do? I'd want somebody to explain to me what the best course was, however unpalatable, and to describe all the steps I'd have to take to get myself from this bad place to a good place again. Anything less would seem a waste of time, and at best a palliative to get me through one more night.

But, apparently, volunteers mustn't give advice. You can see why advice-giving needs to be be left to those with expert knowledge. A suggestion made by a volunteer to a caller, although it might be sensible and very well-intentioned, could launch him or her into a tragic sequence of events - with comeback on The Samaritans.

Even so, this insider's view of the training for volunteers was an eye-opener. I still feel I could phone them up and tell them all about my dreadful problem, but I see now that I mustn't expect to be told the solution.

'Oh?' you may say, 'What is your 'dreadful problem' then?'

Well, of course, I haven't got one at the moment. Lucky me! But like everyone else, I've had problems in the past, and no doubt many things will happen in the future to upset my equanimity. It's inevitable. That said, it's difficult to imagine any problem so awful that I'd need to pick up a phone to discuss it. I didn't when my marriage folded. I didn't when under huge pressure at work in the mid-1990s. I didn't when I realised my life was all wrong seven years ago, and I was getting an intense battering from partner and parents for trying to do something about it. I didn't when I was getting slowly crushed by the crippling debt on the Cottage, and was edging towards bankruptcy. What does it take? (And I do realise that you don't actually have to be on the point of suicide, only intensely worried)

It's so hard to see what would make me call The Samaritans. Perhaps it's because I've been insular and self-sufficient all my life. I suspect that, whatever the difficulty, I'd always prefer to work out my own salvation, and would always consider it a cop-out to seek outside advice.

Besides, I've made my present life straightforward, stable and easy to manage. And it's entirely in my own hands, with nobody calling the shots over my head. These are surely important factors that will keep me content. Nor am I fearful of personal tragedies that might come: I have already lost everyone in my life who was close enough to make me cry. There's nobody left to lose, and I can't be hurt that way any more.

Surely, then, I will be all right, now and henceforth, if I can simply avoid things that cause stress - such as relationships, financial entanglements, bad company, jobs and city living, all of which can wear you down, undermine your sense of self-worth, and drive you to despair.

Despair is the thing to keep away from. Hope is the thing to look for.

There you go. My recipe for a happy life. Live simply. Keep control. Avoid stress. Be hopeful.

Do I feel a best-selling book coming on?