I view that differently: as someone whose name escapes me right now (an ever-growing curse) said, the problem with being a photographer is that pictures haunt you. You can't escape seeing them; as with women: I can't look at one without running an imaginary test shoot. I find I'm not usually a very happy guy.
Yesterday, en route for a coffee and a takeaway York ham 'n' tomato bocadillo, just after shooting the snap above, I passed the town's little square where a festivity had been set up for the kids. I never shoot pics of them, under any circumstances outwith family. But, as I said, on my way for that coffee, a kid in costume came rushing round the corner about five feet ahead of me, followed instantly by its mother, a wonderful-looking woman whom I would love to have photographed, pursued just as rapidly by a gorilla-on-steroids who was, I suppose Papa to the child. It quite depressed me, the unfairness of it all.
So yeah, life in snaps is something else: a great substitute for the real thing.
Rob