David McMillan

Imagine some angry kid in McDonald's scrunching up a bunch of drinking straws and throwing them on the ground.

That's what their legs looked like.

So I had a task of trying to explain to my Swedish friend how this wasn't such a bad thing.

So around the little art shop, my office, at lunchtime that day, I said, Stanley, hey, you've got to meet a couple of guys who've just come in.

There's a row there.

But clutzes, they look a bit rough.

I mean, guys didn't like them getting out.

You can imagine iron bars on their legs and all that threw rocks on them.

Hell, it was lucky one could get some water and feed the other or they wouldn't be with us today.

But glossing over that, no, we have a bee plant stand.

We have a place to go.

We have plants.

He just, that was it.

He bailed out of that.

He didn't want to come along.

And it was all different than I expected.

Two clocks come and I'm still working away on one bar.

It might be fine during the day when you can make a bit of noise, but it was like, I don't know what, the single stroke of that tungsten teeth across the ancient bower after midnight when we first started was like some nightmare giant violinist scraping catgut across a raspy surface.

It really resonated in the wrong way.

We had to slow down a bit.