I am listening to Johnny Cash – “In the sky, Lord, in the sky”. Brief distant view of mountains and glaciers. Seals sleeping on the pebble beach. Shards of ice on the softly lapping shore. Penguins porpoise through the shallows. There are grey and guano-red icebergs at the entrance to the harbour. What am I doing here? Was I ever here? If I look up I can see an orb of sculpted glass, triangularly tesselated with only the smallest glimmer of reflected light. It hangs low in the chandelier – just above the clock and against the rear blue wall. It can scarcely be equated to a piece of ice and is not at all like the sun. It reflects and casts only minimal light. It takes me neither to the Antarctic nor to the perils of suburban existence. it is simply a piece of glass. But there is nothing simple about this. I can hear Johnny still singing, this time of a cowpoke chasing the “Devil’s herd” – “Ghost Riders in the Sky”.