A wiser person than I, whose name I have forgotten and can’t be bothered to look up, once described the path of our life as being like that of a bird who, on a freezing winter’s night, flies in through one window into a long banqueting hall crowded with people and warmth and light and then out another window into the dark; a brief fleeting moment of activity and colour and noise between two vast dark empty immensities of night and silence. If so, my art is the tiny poop the bird squeezes out and deposits on the straw-covered floor below as it passes overhead. Of course, were the metaphor entirely accurate, I would be aiming to hit a dignitary’s bald head or, better yet, the slice of cake he’s raising to his lips…