Its a pleasant Sunday afternoon, the middle of winter. The roast is in the oven, the scent of Basil, Rosemary, Sage and Lamb waft from the kitchen.

The adults are talking as they do, the children drawing as they do most Sundays with their crayons and as always Blocky with its Bronze Plaque, the sentinel, watching, keeping gaze over the events of the day. Quiet and unspoken, the discerning eye of the wise old travelled woodblock Blocky looks on.

Today unlike other days Blocky has caught the intrigue of one of the children. Somewhat bored of the conventions and limitations of crayon and colouring books, The child has taken Blocky and placed a piece of paper over it and is drawing on it. Whilst rubbing the crayon over its surface revealing its textures, the years of markings, cuts, chips and slices that define its material form.

Dinner is served and one of the adults collects the children, placing Blocky “the ornament”, in pride of place back on the bookshelf amongst its friends of Economics, Woodworking, James Joyce and the history of World War II.

Hours pass and the dinner comes to a close. The children are called and as always they race to be the one to get Blocky. The reward of which being the honour of sharing the drive home with their favorite friend on their lap.