GOD bless Boots the Chemist in Cornmarket Street. I bought a camera there recently, one of those new breed of digital snappers that claims to be freeze-proof, water-proof, dust-proof and drop-proof, which would be great, of course, if the camera actually took good pictures. Except it didn’t.

Not surprisingly, this upset me, as it was my first camera that could shoot underwater (although as a friend pointed out “it’s not like you actually spend a great deal of time submerged, is it?”).

That however was not the point; it was fun to use in the bath. Anyway, the staff on the photographic counter were saints, sympathetic to my aquatic shortcomings and decent enough to allow me to return said dud digi for a new one (which, incidentally is fantastic, so God bless Nikon too).

Anyway, I love pictures. Or rather, people in pictures.

Or, if I’m totally honest, me in pictures.

But before you scream narcissist, let me explain.

Recently, I went on a trip to Jordan and annoyed the hell out of everyone by asking them to photograph me – in front of the temple at Petra, where John the Baptist baptised Jesus, floating in the Dead Sea... the usual suspects. And I’ll admit, to some extent I could understand their ire. I was irritating.

But at least when I’m old and dribbling (2017), I’ll have something genuinely ‘personal’ to look back on.

They’ll have nothing – just a selection of landscapes they could have cut-out from a guide book or bought in a postcard shop.

Maybe I’m missing the point here, but I can’t understand why anyone would want to travel all the way to the pyramids or the Statue of Liberty or the Great Barrier Reef and NOT position themslves in front of the view finder. And I speak from painful experience.

When I was in my early twenties, I travelled all over the world, yet now all I’ve got to show for it is pictures of people whose names I can’t remember, ex-girlfriends who, sadly, I can, and dramatic vistas of nameless beaches, cliffs and roadside traders.

I know some people say, ‘but you’ve still got the memory’, but who really buys that?

Seeing a picture of the Forbidden City or Mount Rushmore without me in it seems frankly flat and dull.

But add me into the mix and suddenly I feel a warm glow.

Why? Well, because I think, yes, that really is me, I really did go there, I didn’t make it up (a friend of mine has framed pictures on his walls of almost every Wonder of The World, despite the fact he’s never actually ventured beyond Thornhill park and ride).

A fortnight ago I was in Estonia, and due to the shortcomings of my camera, I’m having to settle for whatever the tourist board can provide.

And while they’re pretty and capture the beauty of this destination (if truth be known, probably better than I could have done), the simple fact of the matter is, to me they’re just... pictures. As anonymous to me as those copies of National Geographic in dentists’ waiting rooms.

Now, is that really so vain?