I love a decorated bin leaning against some substantial concrete by the winter sea.

It’s a kind of assemblage; it moves as we move; it inhabits us. It’s something we can live inside, if we want to; if we shut the lid it keeps off the rain. But it’s dark and smelly in there.

We also have another seaside one, which says "not my king".

Let’s have a photo of that one, if it’s still there. Such a noble, forlorn sentiment. Richard Hawley would be my king.