I remember when you were first ill: you came and stayed here with me, helped me with building the studio, even though the cold and damp was really tough on you. When was that, '91?, '92? Twenty years ago almost I was scared, terry, scared of what was happening to you, and i didn't understand it. You must have been so much more scared. You wrote your name in the concrete and that's there still. Cooked pork with apple in the old kitchen. Stripping copper wire by the old range from what you collected out of a skip, to make the fish. You are so talented man. The fish is still hanging here, and another hangs in Brixton, the light shining through them every morning.