We believed objects shouldn’t arrive along normal pathways. They should bear a freight of difference. They should be the result of some event. If you needed a cup it wasn’t enough to go out and buy one. Artificial flowers in a thin tubular brass vase: injection-moulded plastic stems bulge into crude shiny buds & calyxes, but their silk petals are delicate enough to remind you, in some lights, of cornflowers & small poppies. I kept them in front of my desk on a bookcase, so I could see them whenever I looked up. The bookcase was interesting in itself. Someone had banged it together out of oddments of softwood. It was slathered with shiny tan varnish. Nails stuck out where the corners didn’t meet. Attracted like children to second-hand shops, builders’ skips, piles of stuff at street corners–anything other people had grown out of or away from–we had found it on waste ground in Camden near St Pancras Way, 1970. That was the last time you could be that kind of authenticity-waif. I was glad to leave it behind when the time came. Everything becomes a symbol in the end anyway. There’s no need to work at it. I kept the vase–it’s in need of a polish–but the flowers got lost somewhere.