I went to see another a film on my own last night, Garden State if you're interested, something which I've got back into the habit of doing when I'm in a certain mood. Afterwards I was waiting at the bus stop pondering whether to spam this very list with more inane thoughts on films you probably don't even care about, when an Italian man, around 50, started talking to me. For no particularly good reason, I think, other than that he was bored. We chatted for a while - we were both taking the same bus - and it turned out that he's a political photographer. Before he got off at Roseberry Avenue, heading in the direction of ur-gastropub The Eagle, he gave me his business card. There's an odd fetishism around business cards. Brett Easton-Ellis riffed on it in American Psycho. The Japanese ('meishi' is Nihongo for business card - pretentious, moi?) have elaborate customs for the correctly polite way to receive them. I have stacks. I never use them. Some have "bespoke internet application designer" on them, some say "senior games developer" and some say "just another technical yahoo(!)". My current job, which couldn't be less client facing if I tried, doesn't afford me the opportunity to try find another place to stash another unopened box of the little suckers. In some ways I miss the legitimacy that being given your stash of business cards gives you. It's like a present for passing your probation period, it means you're part of the corporate family and that, through some nebulously and poorly understood process, minions have been dispatched clutching a piece of paper with your name on it and clear instructions to make something for you and you alone. It's pretty nifty when you think about it. But it made me ponder, as I wended my way home via a conveniently located pub, if perhaps it's not cameras that steal your soul but that each business card, uniquely tied to you like the damning DNA in a biometric database, contains just a little bit of your anima, your id, your essence. And everytime you give one out, tossing them round the meeting table like anyone is going to give a shit later, you're giving a little bit of yourself away. It would explain why most salesmen are hollow-eyed shit-corpses, completely bereft of soul and non-faked vitality. Garden State was good, by the way.