My wife steps in and shuts me up, which considering the circumstances and the twenty-five-foot drop behind me, is fair enough.

I have a great fondness for small-town America. That eclectic mix of industry, commerce and residence rarely fails to entrance me. One of my longest-held ambitions is to take a few months out and complete a long-term documentary photography project in a small American town.

This guy was in quite a bad way. He'd lost more than the skin off of one of his knees at some point and was wearing the sort of ground-in dirt you don't get in a few days. He'd been sleeping rough, as we euphemistically call sleeping on the cold, unforgiving ground, for some time.

Randy, strangely enough, was sitting on the kerb in Chelsea (NYC) typing a letter. We had a great chat he explained that he ran a business selling used records outside of a disused shop. Apparently the landlord is gradually trying to close down the businesses on the block so it can be redeveloped, so Randy has set up his stall outside one of the vacant stores selling his records.