Last Friday, I had the good fortune to photograph the legendary singer songwriter Howard Jones at a fundraiser at St Mary’s Church in my hometown. The event was in aid of The Jamming Station, a local organisation doing some wonderful work with youth music.
Howard was being painted live by the hugely talented Sherree Valentine-Daines, with the finished painting later going under the hammer alongside some other rather interesting lots, with Martin Roberts.
I had a lovely time, met some lovely people, and got some shots I’m really pleased with. I also managed to give the floor at St Mary’s a fairly thorough workout in the process. Sorry about that!
And, of course, I couldn’t resist a cheeky selfie with Howard Jones. Mrs Bob is a big fan, and as she couldn’t make it along, I thought I’d better return home with some photographic evidence. It’s the least I could do, really.
Stay safe Bc
Sherree Valantine-DainesHoward Jones & S V-DHalf timeHoward JonesHoward JonesMartin Roberts The finished portrait
This week’s Sunday snaps is dedicated to Mrs Bob, my travel companion on this journey. She’s been a rock for me this week, and I can’t thank her enough.
That’s all it took to turn a road into a place my body still remembers.
People asked if I was hurt.
I said no.
Because I could walk. Because nothing was broken. Because the blood belonged to somebody else’s panic and the bruises faded like they had somewhere better to be.
But nobody asks the nervous system what it thinks happened.
Nobody tells your hands that they’re allowed to stop shaking.
Nobody explains to your heart that the car is no longer spinning.
So now—
every sudden brake light is a memory with headlights.
Every tyre screech is a door opening to the same three seconds.
I flinch at roundabouts.
I count cars.
I sit in the passenger seat and press my foot into the floor as if I can find a brake pedal that isn’t there.
Sometimes I hear the crash when the room is completely silent.
And that is the cruelest part.
The world looks at me and sees someone who survived.
I look at the world and see potential impact.
They told me I was lucky.
I know they meant it kindly.
But luck is a strange word when your body survives and your mind becomes the crime scene.
There are no stitches for this.
No plaster cast.
No X-ray that says,
Here. This is where it hurts.
So I learned to carry an invisible injury through visible places.
I laugh.
I go to work.
I answer questions.
I say I’m fine because “I’m remembering the moment I almost died” is not considered (or socially) appropriate small talk.
And sometimes I wonder if healing is supposed to feel like forgetting.
I hope not.
Because I don’t want to forget.
I just want to remember without fucking reliving it.
I want a red light to become just a red light again.
I want the sound of tyres to belong to the road instead of my nightmares.
I want my body to understand what my mind keeps refusing to believe:
The crash is over.
The car stopped.
I survived.
And this time,
when I close my eyes,
I want the darkness to be nothing more than darkness.
And before you start saying, “But Bob, we have GPS…”
Yes.
I have satnav on my phone too.
And it’s bloody brilliant.
Until your phone battery dies.
Or your GPS stops working.
Then suddenly you’re standing in the middle of nowhere with absolutely no idea where you are, or how the hell you’re getting from there to where you need to be.
Map reading is one of those skills the Army taught me that has stayed useful long after I left.
And actually, I’d put basic first aid right alongside it.
Neither skill is particularly glamorous.
Neither is something you think about every day.
But when you need them…
You really, really need them.
So perhaps these are two skills we should all learn.
Because technology is wonderful.
But sometimes knowing how to read a map and patch someone up is worth a hell of a lot more than having 5% battery left.
I think this last week has probably been the pinnacle of my 2026 journey.
But before we get into that, let’s rewind a little.
At the start of the year I spotted an advert on Instagram looking for volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
Now, being me, I thought…
Why not?
So I threw my hat into the ring.
Somehow, they said yes.
And suddenly I found myself being one of the volunteer photographers for Torbay Pride.
My first proper photography gig.
And I bloody loved it.
Something had happened.
That little spark had caught light.
So when my hometown of Narnia announced its own Pride in July, I did what any sensible person would do.
I sent them a cheeky email asking if they needed a photographer.
Apparently, nobody had thought of that.
So, by a mixture of enthusiasm, timing and possibly nobody else putting their hand up, I became the official Pride photographer.
Which brings us to last week.
Totnes Pride.
Another fantastic day. Another camera full of photographs. Another reminder of just how much I love doing this.
And then came the inevitable bit.
The bit where I sat down afterwards and started looking through hundreds of photographs.
Yes, they were in focus.
Yes, they were clear.
But…
Did they have that something?
Probably not.
And when you combine that with a healthy dollop of imposter syndrome and failing to score in a poetry competition, it’s fair to say I was being a little hard on myself.
Then Friday happened.
One of the Pride volunteers contacted me.
She sent me a lovely photograph of me in action with my camera.
Then came the unexpected bit.
She was looking for a volunteer photographer to photograph 80s music legend Howard Jones while he had his portrait painted, followed by an auction raising money for a local youth music charity.
Would I be interested?
Well…
Yes.
Obviously.
I didn’t even need to think about it.
More experience.
More hours behind the camera.
A chance to build my portfolio.
And, quite frankly, an excuse to take photographs.
What’s not to like?
Then, as if the universe was trying to make its point, some of my astrophotography started producing some rather lovely results too.
And suddenly that slump didn’t seem quite so deep.
Perhaps I’d just forgotten something fairly obvious.
I’m still learning.
I’m still finding my eye.
Not every photograph is going to be the photograph.
And that’s okay.
You take the next one.
You learn.
You keep going.
Sometimes you just need to stop judging the last frame long enough to notice that you’re already holding the camera for the next one.
And maybe there’s something to be said for simply being there for that moment, rather than worrying too much about what comes afterwards.
Anyway…
The camera’s charged.
There are more photographs to take.
And apparently, I’ve got a portrait of Howard Jones to go and shoot.
It’s one of those questions that sounds wonderfully simple.
You rub the lamp. The genie appears.
Three seconds later, you’re suddenly faced with the biggest decision of your life.
And I’m guessing most people would go for something fairly obvious.
£100 million in the bank. A mansion. Fame.
Maybe becoming a bestselling author, a world-famous photographer, or whatever else happens to float your particular boat.
And don’t get me wrong, I’d quite happily take the £100 million, but there’s a problem. If I became a successful poet or photographer because some magical blue bloke handed it to me, I’m not sure I’d want it. I want to know that I earned it.
Every poem. Every photograph. Every little bit of progress.
The mistakes. The failures. The hours nobody sees.
That’s where the meaning comes from.
So if the genie stood in front of me today and said: “Bob, you get one wish. Anything you want.” My answer would probably surprise you.
I wouldn’t ask for money. I wouldn’t ask for fame. I wouldn’t even ask for anything for myself. I’d wish for one thing.
I would wish to eliminate child sexual abuse.
Completely. Everywhere. No exceptions. No child ever having to experience it. No teenager carrying a secret they’re terrified to tell anyone.
No adult waking up decades later and realising that something that happened in childhood has somehow followed them through and affected their entire life.
Because I know what it’s like.
I’m a survivor of child sexual abuse.
It happened more than forty years ago.
Forty.
Years.
And yet here I am, all these decades later, still thinking about it. Finally talking about it. Still understanding that something that lasted for a relatively small part of my childhood managed to leave fingerprints all over the man I became.
That’s the thing about abuse.
People sometimes imagine that when the abuse stops, the damage stops too.
It doesn’t necessarily work like that.
The perpetrator might walk away.
The child grows up. Life moves on. People get married. Have children. Build careers. Take photographs. Write books. Stand on beaches. Have therapy.
Laugh. Love… Live.
But sometimes, the past comes along for the ride. It sits quietly in the passenger seat. You might not notice it for years. Then something happens: A smell. A place. A memory.
A conversation.
A particular feeling.
And suddenly that little passenger taps you on the shoulder and reminds you that it’s still there.
That’s why my wish wouldn’t be about making me rich. It wouldn’t even be about erasing my own past. Because if I could magically remove what happened to me, I’d also remove part of the journey that made me who I am today.
And despite everything… I don’t want to erase myself, now.
I want to erase the reason children need to become survivors in the first place.
That’s the difference.
I don’t want a world where we become really good at helping people pick up the pieces.
I want a world where fewer people have pieces to pick up.
I want children to grow up knowing what safety feels like.
I want survivors to know that they will be believed when they find the strength to tell someone what happened, or is happening.
I want them to understand that their bodies belong to them.
That saying no means no.
That adults are supposed to protect children, not exploit them.
And perhaps most importantly…
I want survivors to know that what happened to them wasn’t their fault.
Not then. Not now. Never.
Because shame has a nasty habit of attaching itself to the wrong person: The child carries it. The teenager carries it. The adult carries it. Sometimes, to their grave.
Meanwhile, the person responsible may carry absolutely none of it.
That’s backwards. The shame belongs with the person who caused the harm, not the person who survived it.
So yes, if that genie ever does turn up, lamp in hand, waiting patiently for my answer… I know exactly what I’ll ask for… I’d simply look him in the eye and say:
“Make sure no child ever has to become a survivor of sexual abuse again.”
And if that sounds like an impossible wish… perhaps it is.
But I’ve spent enough of my life being told that some things are impossible. Sometimes impossible just means we haven’t tried hard enough yet.
So until that genie turns up, perhaps the rest of us have a part to play.
Listen. Believe. Protect. Educate.
Speak when silence would make things easier for the wrong person.
And when a survivor finally finds the courage to say those words:
“This happened to me.”
Don’t ask them why they didn’t tell someone sooner. Don’t brush it off with a throwaway comment. Don’t ask what they were wearing. Don’t ask what they did to cause it. Don’t ask why they didn’t fight or scream.
Just listen.
Believe them.
And do remind them of something they may have spent years struggling to believe themselves:
It wasn’t their fault.
Forty years later, I’m still here. Still writing. Still taking photographs. Still telling stories. Still trying to turn some of the darker parts of my life into something that might help somebody else. Perhaps that’s the closest thing I have to magic.Not changing the past, but using what happened to me to try to make somebody else’s future a little safer.
And if I only ever get one wish… That’s the one I’ll choose.
Which relationship has taught you the most about yourself?
Mrs Bob.
There really isn’t anyone else who comes close.
I suppose the obvious answer would be that she’s taught me about love.
And she has.
She’s taught me about patience.
Definitely that.
Although, to be fair, she’s probably had to teach me more about patience than most people would consider reasonable.
But the biggest thing Mrs Bob has taught me is actually about myself.
She’s allowed me to grow.
And, let’s be honest, she’s allowed me to mature into the person I am today.
I wasn’t a finished product when we met.
Far from it.
I was still figuring out who I was, what I wanted, and probably making far more mistakes than I’d care to admit.
Some of those mistakes were mine.
Some were lessons I simply hadn’t learned yet.
And some were things I didn’t even realise I needed to learn.
Mrs Bob never tried to turn me into somebody else.
She just gave me the space to become more myself.
And I think there’s a huge difference between those two things.
She’s the calm to my fire.
Where I can be passionate, impulsive, stubborn and occasionally a complete pain in the arse, she has this remarkable ability to bring me back down to earth.
Not by changing me.
Not by trying to silence me.
Just by being there.
Sometimes that’s all you need.
Someone who knows when to let you burn brightly…
And when to quietly remind you that perhaps setting fire to everything isn’t the best solution.
Over the years, she’s seen the versions of me that I’m proud of.
And the versions I’m not.
She’s seen the good days.
The bad days.
The days where I’ve been convinced I had everything figured out.
And the days where I quite clearly didn’t have a bloody clue.
And somehow, through all of that, she’s still here.
Still beside me.
Still encouraging me to grow.
Still putting up with me.
Which, frankly, deserves some sort of medal.
I often think we underestimate what it means to really know another person.
Not just knowing their favourite food or what makes them laugh.
But knowing their fears.
Their insecurities.
Their strengths.
Their weaknesses.
Knowing what they’re capable of, even when they don’t know themselves.
Mrs Bob has done that for me.
She’s helped me see parts of myself that I couldn’t see.
She’s encouraged me when I doubted myself.
She’s challenged me when I needed challenging.
And she’s given me the freedom to become the person I was supposed to be.
So, which relationship has taught me the most about myself?
That’s easy.
Mrs Bob.
Because I’m not the same man I was when we first met.
I’m calmer.
I’m more comfortable in my own skin.
I’ve learned that vulnerability isn’t weakness.
I’ve learned that asking for help doesn’t make you less of a man.
And I’ve learned that sometimes the person who helps you become yourself isn’t the person who tells you who to be.
It’s the person who stands beside you while you work it out.
I’m the person I am today because of a lot of people, a lot of experiences, a lot of mistakes and a ridiculous number of lessons.
But Mrs Bob?
She’s been there for the whole bloody journey.
And I wouldn’t want to have travelled it with anyone else.
