Being mostly housebound by chronic illness has changed my relationship with the windows in my home, especially the window in my bedroom, where I’ve had to spend most of the last few years. It’s literally my window on the world. Spending most of each day, almost every day of the year, looking out of the same window, means the view is so familiar it might, as the saying goes, breed contempt for it – and yet, it’s the opposite. I see things through that window now that I never noticed when I was well and abled. I see the view constantly changing, from one weather system to the next; from season to season. I see the trees grow their new leaves and blossom; the catkins and berries grow, ripen and get eaten by birds; the leaves change colour and drop. I see the sunset swing round from southwest to northwest and back again. I see the clouds and the light and the way the trees move their limbs in the wind all change; the rain and snow and sun and cloud and haar; stars and planets and the moon travelling around the sky. I see the birds and the squirrels living their lives; the lights of windows and cars flickering on and off as my neighbours live their lives; occasionally – not that often – people and dogs and foxes and cats out in the back greens too.

I started photographing the view from the same viewpoint at my window repeatedly – not at regular time intervals, but when something out there caught my eye particularly, or when I realised it’d been a while since I last photographed it. I’ve been taking this same photograph and collating them for more than 3 years now. Always the same, and always different.