The Bric-a-brac of my Heart: Walking up Horsforth High Street, how out of breath in the January gales I am. Winded by the steep hill, blown along with last autumn’s skeletons. Our mission to slough through winter mud in search of cake. We pass a fantasy junk shop, every item bid for, collected and arranged in vignettes. Memories of dancehall days and imperial measurements, glamorous film stars in contrasting monochrome, toys of yesterday chosen with hauntology and nostalgia, I can imagine each item in my hand, in my house, in my studio. T hese objects are discards from other peoples lives come and gone, no more than a watch in the night. I turn away reluctant to fill more of my time and eyes with consumables of a bygone era. I fix my sight on something other than stuff. Still working that out. What would the junk shop of my life look like? My bygone fragments are – jobs I’ve left, relationships that slipped away, places I used to live....