I wish I could remember why (on this dark, gloomy and wet day, with the least photogenic of lights outside) that I decided that I wanted to take a picture of a candle flame this evening. It may have had something to do with working on my current and final chapter on (oh modest title) "The aesthetics of flash," which has had me thinking a lot about the extremes of dark and light - well, I'm sure it did, I've not done anything else all day apart from working on flash, other than ponder on why Prince made so little a positive impact on me, in England. In other words, this isn't a memorial candle ... I didn't ever get beyond thinking of him as a shameless narcissist (yes, I know, I can see you burning this blog in effigy, even now), ever since (and in my consciousness, there wasn't a before) he drove a pink cadillac onto the stage at Wembley in the Lovesexy tour. I missed out on giving him any credit for musical talent, disruptive sexuality, performance skill, hard work. I'm not sure if this is a genuine case of national difference, and whether there are other English people of my generation who feel the same way, or whether I just wore blinkers - I didn't give him much more attention than thinking of him as some sham glittery imitator of Michael Jackson. So I'm genuinely baffled by my inability to register him as now, it would seem, absolutely the rest of the world seems to have done. And I offer up apologies to any and all who I might hurt by coming clean on this - I'm just puzzled by all I seem to have missed.