The washing line on my terrace has been full of cyanotype paper since Saturday, no clothes on it. My neighbour across the way asked, politely, if I had started a laundry for dolls.

The thing is, the winter light here takes forever. A print that takes eight minutes in July took me nearly two hours this morning, and I sat out there with my tea going cold, watching the blue come up slowly through the paper like something waking. I could use the UV lamp. I know I could. But the paper behaves differently under the real sun, even a weak one, and I have convinced myself I can tell the difference. Maybe I can. Maybe I just like having a reason to be outside at eight in the morning with my hands numb.

Anyway the salt in the rinse water has gone cloudy and needs changing and I keep putting it off because the bucket is heavy and cold. That is the actual state of the studio right now. A line of blue paper, one cloudy bucket, and a neighbour who now thinks I am strange.