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So, I’m dwaaling in the traffic yesterday. Arm on the door, chin in hand, staring at the mountain, wondering about what to have for dinner as the car idles at the light on the corner of Kromboom.

And the car next to me hoots. I turn. And some gold-capped toothed gansta wannbe in a pimped out polo player, packed full with his Young American mates, snaps my photo with his camera phone.

And now I’m wondering. Where is that photo now? For what nefarious purpose did they take it? Were they just fuckin’ with me? Or are those boys sitting somewhere, with a nicely tapped cream pipe and some buttons, laughing over their collection of startled traffic pics.

How strange, this feeling, that somewhere a stranger has my picture stored in his phone. It’s faintly violating.

But even as I shudder, on the edge of consciousness, if I’m honest, I’m hoping my hair was ok, that I wasn’t squinting into the sun. How odd.

But still, I can’t help thinking. About the secret life of that other me. Who now belongs to someone else. And I remember those stories of tribal people who believed that photos took a part of the soul. Silly. But resonating.