Rhys Day wasn’t always a filmmaker. Before he was born, he gestated for a bit, just to get the hang of things. When he felt that he was ready, he hatched from an oaken barrel that had ruptured tumbling over the edge of Niagara Falls, and learnt to swim fairly quickly. He was raised by a tribe of aquatic badgers as he floated downriver, but only for about a mile-long bend until they became extinct. He was compelled to fend for himself, and became excellent with nunchakus.

After the surgery, he threw away his white cane and dark glasses, because his bones felt as good as new and it really wasn’t that bright a day. This led to a short stint as a figurine that drove model steam-trains, where he was both a model and a train driver, and a model-train driver, and, in his conduct and work ethic, a model model-train driver.

When he grew up and couldn’t be an inanimate timber carving anymore, more distant horizons beckoned, and Rhys bought a pair of binoculars to look at these horizons, as the expense of a telescope was prohibitive, and you could only use one of your eyes at a time. The binoculars were snatched out of his hands and smashed by being dropped onto the shell of a tortoise by a particularly stupid eagle, but the vision lingered.

Once he had discovered the camera, and then the other kind of camera, there was soon no stopping him, except maybe with a stop sign while he was driving. He began to move so fast that he often caught up with and overtook himself, with eyesight so acute that he was able to glimpse the back of his own head over the curvature of the earth, which helped with haircuts.

Rhys Day has been making films for some time now, however, because time is a relative and arbitrary construct, we have no way of knowing how much time.