The camera never forgets
You know those sayings "dance like no-one is watching" or "sing like no-one is listening"?
The idea is to set yourself free, hurl your inhibitions against a brick wall, stick two fingers up at convention and just go wild.
It makes sense, right?
Pity, however, there is not a saying "pose for photos like no-one will ever see them".
When it comes to standing in front of a lens, there is always the possibility incriminating photos will get into the wrong hands. Just ask any C-list celebrity, or New York congressman Anthony Weiner.
There is no fridge magnet that reads "pose like no-one is watching" and there never will be, because I have proof that someone will always see.
Recently, one of my best mates, Hayley, and I had our 40th party. Our birthdays are a month and a day apart, so we held a joint birthday, an 80th if you will.
It felt good. She was already 40 for the party. I was still spring chickeny at 39 (that sentence is irrelevant, but I just want it in black and white while I still have the chance).
Anyway, Hayley is the more anally retentive (sorry, organised) of the pair of us so she dealt with all the geeky stuff like organising the venue and invites, but I dealt with the cool stuff like vodka jellies and arranging a photobooth.
While Hayley was neck- deep in the logistics of party pies and recycle bins, I mentioned I'd ordered a photobooth. I might as well have told her television was now being broadcast in colour. There was no reaction.
Yeah, well who is laughing now? The photobooth arrived around 10.30pm. You've heard of footie fever? Photo fever is just as virulent a strain. Small groups of people filed in and out of the photobooth. As they emerged, a couple of picture strips were spat out of the machine. The partygoers took them and went about their merry business.
But wait! There's more! I was given the master files. Let's just say the hangover hurt, but not as much as my cheeks when I looked at the photos.
I swear I am either going into the extortion business, or I will ensure that Hayley's kids get straight As in school, because there were plenty of incriminating pictures from her school lot. You know who you are.
I mean, do you really want to see five topless husbands in a photobooth built for two? I saw motorboating, kissing, tongues out, vacant looks and uninhibited posturing, but the only truly unpublishable photo was probably one of me and Hayley.
We were, after all, the birthday girls. The booth was covered by a black curtain and we thought we might try to show a bit of 40-year-old cleavage (although I must remind you, mine was still 39).
Anyway, I was trussed up neck-to-knee in skin- coloured body wrap underwear to keep the lumps and bumps in check. She wore some squeezy black under-dress which she had to dislocate her shoulder just to climb into.
Hayley tried to pull the neck of her dress down and drag her cleavage towards the camera lens. I tried to hitch my dress up, obviously assuming my boobs were closer to my hemline than my neckline. Either way, the end result was not pretty. The pair of us, who I swear looked great on the night, look like we each have an excruciating bowel blockage.
And to make matters worse, when we exited the booth, I was reminded the curtain only hung down as low as our waists, so anyone standing nearby was treated to my late-life beige grundies.
As expected, Hayley and I enter our fourth decade with precisely as much dignity as we came into this world. Love you mate!