KEVIN Beresford is struggling to cope with his success.
Forget the Bridges of Madison County, it's the benches of Redditch that have touched a chord with people.
He took the photographs in one day in his native Redditch. His is a celebration of the ordinary... the dull, the meh.
Now he's got hundreds of orders and his flat has turned into a calendar factory, as the Guardian reported last week.
As a meanie, I usually wait until mid January to buy my calendars half price - yes, you can take the woman out of Ballymena but you can't take the Ballymena out of the woman.
Ye olde Ballymena has that customer service vibe.
It is not unusual for those I know well who, when contemplating a large purchase in our home town, ask the shopkeeper: "What'll you take for cash?" or, indeed: "Is that the best you can do?"
Then, those I know well look at me, shrinking in the corner, mortified, and ask: "Well why not?"
Kevin of Redditch is a retired man who used to run a small printing business and now finds himself busier than ever.
His first calendar, published in 2003 was called the Roundabouts of Redditch.
It was, he said, an effort to drum up interest in the town which, at that time had three prisons and no cinema, so it didn't exactly have a lot going for it.
A roadkill calendar didn't really float people's boats but one calendar, The Car Parks of Britain and another, The Wonderful World of Jack Grealish's Calves, were big hits.
Calves can be very interesting.
I have always been intrigued that men who are constantly in trousers have bald calves where the cloth rubs them down the years, whereas I'm a hairy Molly.
Jack Grealish has a great name and, probably, a great set of legs, but I haven't seen the calendar and wonder how you would go from January to December with pictures of one set of lower limbs? Maybe they are tattooed.
"I like to focus on the mundane, artists have always focused on the mundane," Kevin Beresford told the Guardian.
"You've got Tracy Emin's bed, Andy Warhol did a can of soup."
One artist's messed up bed or Cream of Tomato is another artist's roundabouts of Redditch.
Kevin is also a member of the Dull Men's Club and has won anorak of the year.
The benches he photographs include council ones with butts underneath them.
In Belfast's Ormeau Park last week, I came upon a new favourite bench. The trees are golden and russet and beautiful, the leaves crunch under foot and the grey squirrels are pirouetting about with no notion of hibernation.
There's a bench there that says: "Say hello to Brigid. She loved to walk in the park."
So I said hello and walked away enchanted.
In the Dull Men's Club are people who like to collect sick bags and beer cans and traffic cones.
Long ago, when you could jump on a plane without spending hours on paperwork and poking a stick up your nose - in the days when lateral flow sounded like a style of yoga - I used to collect tickets.
A bus ticket from Warsaw where an inspector tried to pull a fast one and charge us; a tram ticket from Berlin and a ticket for the ferry from Brindisi to Corfu.
On long boring winter days in Belfast, I'd open my box and sniff the tickets. With all the power of Proust's madeleine, I'd be whisked back to another age when the Berlin tram was punctual to the second; the world of Corfu and a glorious sunrise that will stay with me forever... Mine's a White Russian and a dance to Tainted Love.
Other people would say I collect pens, but that's more of a subconscious stealing thing.
There are those who consider that I have a Mary Poppins bag and you could haul out an über-cheery Dick van Dyke and his chimney sweep's brush. I have a collection of prescription medicines - the chemist wouldn't take them back.
I have dinky bottles of shampoo and shower gel from long ago hotel stays.
I used to collect foreign beer mats. I'd carefully peel off one side, write a message to a friend, stick a stamp on and wait to see if it was delivered. It always arrived.
Move over Kevin, there's a Dull Women's Club out there that has a seat for an anorak like me.
