Iain Banks

I got duck poo on my hand today.

And I met Iain Banks.

These stories aren't quite as disconnected as they would seem (although I'm not insinuating that Mr Banks smeared duck poo on my hand in some sort of weird practical joke).

I had initially brought my camera into work to do a short photo shoot for a colleague's upcoming show, completely ignorant to the fact that certain literary figures would be strolling through the Byre, signing books. Being so well equipped, then, I had no excuse not to ask Iain Banks for a portrait, to which he amiably obliged.

As for the duck poo, it was later on, whilst out on the other shoot, that a warm puddle of crap welcomed my weary arm on the bridge's hand-rail. I swear the ducks were laughing. Embarrassed, I told the woman whose photos I was taking that it was mud, but we both knew exactly what is was...