We spend lots of time walking up and down İstiklal Caddesi (Istiklal Street). It is one of the most vibrant places in Istanbul and one of the rare places you can see people outside the mainstream parading (reasonably) confidently. It's still what I don't see that surprises me, so different from the 'anything goes' vibe of similar streets in London. This is a great place to take teenagers to eat, pose, catch a movie, and maybe a protest. As you pass the Galatasaray  High School you could tell them about the 'Saturday Mothers' who for years stood here bravely every Saturday in vigil for their disappeared relatives. I let my brother stay on this street by himself while I packed for our flight to England a few years ago and he turned up just as we were heading for the taxi.  He was 15, 6 foot, blonde and beautiful (now even more so) and it was the first place in Istanbul he felt completely at ease (I probably shouldn't have sent him to a football match at Beşiktaş' stadium!). In another escapade on this street Ville's Mum broke her leg here before it was pedestrianised. The doctor who came to their hotel room preferred to address Uffi (Ville's Dad) rather than her and the event has a certain ring of comedy though it must have been horrible at the time!

For Anton this is the street of the old-fashioned tram, with a bell that chimes its whole journey to shift people from its path. It is also the street that leads to the Tünel funiculer, that takes us down to the delights of Karaköy. It is also so busy that I prefer him sat in his pushchair so I can at least avoid him being picked up and petted, or carried across the street for a picture, so my photographs of him here are few. Yesterday I spotted these concrete structures that are being buried under the street to hold cables, and decided to get some pictures before they disappear from view. They provided a perfect hideout from which Anton could watch the street. He had a great time.

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When I was staying in Jerusalem, in my late teens, I once walked out of the Central Bus Station onto a scene that made my fingers move spontaneously towards my camera.  A man with only stumps where his legs should have been rested against a wall, while the wooden replacements stood redundant beside him. The man and the legs were of equal height and the scene had the makings of a great picture. Whoever I was with at the time (I can't remember whether it was Gary the photographer, Michael, now a Rabbi, or the bloke I was hanging out with because he told me he lived in Bath's Royal Crescent) noticed the twitch towards my camera and simply said "Don't". Years later I am still grateful for this small exchange. To my teenage self, poverty, disease and madness had a kind of glamour, and I am glad that one of those lovely men sowed the seed of questioning whether I wanted to photograph people who were on their knees (or stumps).

Last summer, while at Fotografiska in Stockholm to see an awe-inspiring exhibition of  portraits by legendary photographer Helmut Newton, we wandered through Håkan Elofsson's "Bombay Boulevard". In a short essay on the wall, before you enter into corridors of prints hung on hessian, Håkan writes of a moment of realisation in a taxi, after which he wondered whether making 'art' of people in utter poverty was really the right thing to do. He did it anyway. Looking at the pictures is completely unsettling, anger seethes from his subjects. They just want him to go away. Of course there is always a place for documentary photography. I especially love the kind that people do about themselves and their own groups. But making a name by creating clever compositions of people's shame is just not nice.

I am still waking up every morning thrilled to live where we do. The energy of all those that come to have fun here, to enjoy a precious day off, pours in through our windows. We have the privilege of living in one of the most popular spots in a vibrant city, and the context for our lives is these streets. I am captivated by the woman who is caught in a stream of bubbles on Istiklal Street. I am utterly moved by the woman, a little further along, who stands for hours selling tissues when she should have had her legs raised on a stool, blanket over her knees, for at least a decade by now. The picture of the boy, probably a year older than Matti, sat on Galata Bridge with his pile of tissues beside him, while all life rushes by, is such an uncomfortable image for me. In the distance, next to the Tower, is our home, where our children are never cold or hungry, and everything is done to make sure their choices will be vast. I can see that one of the things I need to teach my children is not to stop noticing these injustices but to click the shutter deep inside and store, to make these images seeds.

So now that I am being sucked into street photography how do I make it sit right with me? Relative to many of my neighbours I am a queen in her castle. Is it right that I should immortalise their challenges? If I was the subject of a photographer on the street it would be all too easy to capture me wind in my face, carrying too many bags, shouting at Anton and Neve as they pull in opposite directions. I wouldn't appreciate it much. But, a moment later, both kids in my arms, shopping on the floor, in a moment of remembering to slow down and draw them in, I wouldn't mind so much at all. I think if I photograph only what I find beautiful, what I can respect, what moves me (precisely the conditions I would like to be photographed under), this journey can begin. I am so lucky to live in this pot of gold of humanity.

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