Really?’ said Matt. ‘Where?’

‘Outside. I was putting out the bins, and there he or she was. Just by the church.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Matt.

‘I said hello. And the vampire said “Hello” back, in rather a scared voice. I went to wheel out another bin, and it had crossed the road towards me, and it said, “Is that your house?  It’s beautiful.” And I said, “Oh thank you.” ‘

‘I’ve seen vampires in the village,’ said Matt. ‘They are rather fat, and one of them rides a bicycle.’

‘Oh no, this one was thin. Not fat at all. I’m not sure if it was a girl or a boy.’

We are in the studio. It’s late at night, and it’s dark, but inside it’s brightly illuminated. Matt is painting. Rows of coloured shapes, some muted, some bright, fill the room.  The studio windows overlook a graveyard. The gravestones have been re-laid in rows, making it easier to mow the grass. The church is medieval, made from flint and stone. Its tower is buttressed, and mosaics in flint and stone run all the way to the top, but yew trees mask the view.

There is a knock at the studio door. ‘I bet that’s the vampire,’ I say. I can’t see into the darkness.  I struggle with 300-year old locks and bars, and finally open up. The vampire says ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but could you call Westholme for me?’

‘Of course, I say.’

‘I got into difficulty, so I ran away. And they’ll be looking for me.’

‘Come in. Don’t worry. I’ll phone whoever you like. But you’ll have to help me. I don’t know what Westholme is.’

‘It’s a home. I’m a 52-weeker, but I got into difficulty today and ran away. They will be wondering where I am. They might have called the police.’

‘Would you like me to take you back?’

‘We are not allowed to get into cars with strangers. I’m sorry.’

‘Of course. Come in. I’ll phone right away.’

‘I’ll get you a chair’ says Matt.

‘Do you know the number?’ I ask.

‘I’m afraid not’ says the vampire.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll look it up on the Internet. What’s your name?’

‘Ellen’ says the vampire.

‘I’m afraid nobody is answering’ I say.

‘What a beautiful room’ says Ellen.

‘We’re artists. It’s a studio’ Matt says.

‘What happened to make you run away?’ I ask.

Ellen twists and turns in her chair. ‘I got into difficulty.’  She plays with her sleeve. She looks at Matt. She looks at me. ‘I don’t know how to say this.  I’m a self-harmer, you see. I’m sorry.’ She pulls up the plain grey sleeve of her hoodie. Her arm is raw and bloody with columns of slashes.

‘Do you think it might be a good idea to have a wash?’ I say.

‘Yes’ says Ellen.

‘Come with me.’

I walk her through the house to the bathroom. It is a dark labyrinth. I trip over a bucket of water in the hall – settling from some mosaic fixing earlier in the day. I hope she is not afraid. I want to put my arm round her but I think better of it.

‘Wrap this clean towel around your arm. I think I’d better drive you back after all, don’t you?’

‘My Mum and Dad don’t want anything to do with me any more. They’ve given up on me,’ says Ellen in the car.

‘My husband was brought up in a home’ I say.

‘Did it work out for him?’ she asks.

‘I think it did.’

We approach the bars and gates.

‘You are pretty, you know.’ says Ellen.

‘How kind of you to say so’ I reply.

‘I found this when I was making alterations to our house’ said someone in our village recently, showing me a carved wooden sheaf of corn. ‘They used to build them into the walls, as a hidden symbol of fertility and plenty. I thought about selling it, because it’s really old, but I worried that if it left the cottage maybe things would start going wrong.’

He’s been advising us about the studio floor. We’ve made various transformations and the walls are now insulated, although we can’t afford to do the floors yet, and the wind whistles up between the boards. We’re discussing what to do now. ‘Look at these holes here’ he said. ‘They’ve been covered with the bottom of old cans, and secured with a ring of nails. Instead of replacing floorboards with holes in them, we could patch them with decorative circles of copper, to match. What do you think?’

‘Genius’ I said. This was where hats and clothes were made when the house was still a grocer and a drapers shop. Matt and I went up and inspected the floor again later, and found various holes had been covered with hob nails – the kind people used to wear on their boots. I like that technology.

‘What? No! Never!’ I said, as I know when my leg is being pulled.

‘Yeah, really. I’m not kidding! Both the Americans and the Brits use the church as a target for virtual bomb drops. I’ve had it confirmed on numerous occasions’ he said.

‘Yes, he has. Seriously’ said his partner. ‘Except the US bombers target it from a much greater height than the Brits do.’

‘Good Lord. I’ve moved out of London to the most dangerous place in the UK.’

‘Oh you’re wrong there’ he said. ‘It’s the safest. ‘We’re encircled by the military.’

‘Well precisely’ I said. ‘Not only is my house regularly virtually bombed, but the whole area must be at the epicentre of international virtual attacks.’

‘Don’t worry about it. There are all sorts of systems designed to ensure this area’s operational ability. Nowhere in the country could be safer.’

I remembered his words today. I spent the afternoon moving plants around my tiny garden. It was time to go and collect the eryngiums I’d reserved, I thought. Driving home through the lanes I saw dead crows hanging from sticks in fields of barley. They dangled there, wings outstretched — an ominous warning. No aerial bombardment for them anymore.

Photograph: Evelyn Simak [CC-BY-SA-2.0 (www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

‘Yes, I’ve been in the edit. Em’s been in Norfolk on her own.’

‘So what’s it like living in the country?’ another friend politely enquires.

‘Great. Mostly I’ve just been unpacking boxes, but I did find a fantastic church.’

‘Yes Em, tell them about it’ Matt says enthusiastically. ‘It’s pre-Conquest’ he explains.

‘Yes, with a thatched roof and a round tower. It’s on the outskirts of a neighbouring village, with an unusual circular graveyard. Although most of the church dates from 900, part of the tower is from the 700s.’ My friends are glazing over. ‘In fact, the site may have been sacred for thousands of years.’

One of them has entirely disengaged. He is looking at the ceiling.

‘Roman pottery has been found there, but so have fragments of Bronze Age pots — a ceremonial beaker, of one of the Beaker people — and even Stone Age tools, from seven thousand years ago!’ I say triumphantly, but I have lost my audience.

‘How terrible, having to work so hard’ they sympathise with my husband.

‘I have found it hard too, doing everything on my own’ I interject.

‘But you haven’t started work yet’ they reason.

‘I haven’t been able to. I’m having to set up both the studio and the workshop. And it is a kind of work, you know, unpacking and sorting things out. On your own’ I point out.

‘I imagine,’ one of them addresses my husband ‘that moving house is psychically very troubling. It’s not just the work involved, it’s the disruption to a familiar routine. There is the constant challenge of not knowing where things are. Every act you normally make without giving it a second thought, from where your keys are, to what you have done with the tea bags, requires mental effort. It’s very draining. It may well be why you’re getting headaches.’ she posits, insightfully. ‘I know I experienced something similar when we moved. You may not be aware of it, but your unconscious is getting exhausted.’

Or at least that’s what I think she said, as by now, I had drifted off, wondering if the effect of the flints on the church tower might be useful. Perhaps the lively unpredictability of their grey and white would be something I could use in my forthcoming show in Holborn.

‘Yes. How about you?’

‘More than five hours. It’s the most I’ve had for weeks.’

‘Me too.’

‘Do you think the bells are about to start ringing?’

‘Half past six? It might be a bit early. Apparently they always ring them on a Sunday though.’

‘It was funny when Fiona became a flesh-eating zombie last night wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you scared when she said she’d seen a ghost?’

‘Not really, no. I thought it was funny when you said “ Bella?” and she said “That’s not Bella”’

‘Are you frightened of living opposite the graveyard?’

‘No. Beautiful sculptural shapes and subtle colours.’

‘So are we painting this morning?’

‘If we don’t, the paintings won’t dry in time for the show.’

‘Tea?’

‘Coffee.’

We finally moved house this week. Matt has been unable to take part very much.  He has been caught in a vortex of anxious concentration, intensely absorbed by the edit of his forthcoming series. He heads off to London early in the morning, returning late at night. I taxi him carefully through the lanes at dawn, avoiding roe deer and muntjac  (car-destroying encounters with deer are commonplace round here) and attempting to avoid suicidal rabbits in the dark. We were halted near the station by a violent drunken brawl last night – the re-enactment of a eighteenth century engraving warning of the dangers of drink. Twenty people screamed and shoved their way into the high street A man ripped off his clothes in fury. Someone swung a belt around his head. The buckle was about to make contact. The women fought as viciously as the men.

‘Stop, stop, they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Go, go! Quick or they might attack us’ said Matt.

‘Oh, God that was exciting!  I wish we had stayed longer to see what happened next’ he said.

During the day, the roads are choked with combine harvesters moving from field to field. I went to buy supplies for the new studio yesterday. As I left a huge combine rolled in to a nearby field of wheat, and by the time I came back the job was almost done. If only the studio could be made ready as quickly.

Dangerous revolution by Gillray in the 1990s , dangerous drink today.

‘His name’s Goris’ said Toby.

‘Goric?’

‘No. Goris.’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry’ I said.

‘Don’t worry’ said Goris ‘Ive been called all sorts of things – Lawrie, Boris ….’

Goris, like Boris, I thought, I’ll remember that. ‘Well Goris, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘That’d be nice’ he said.

‘So what’s the theme for the festival?’ asked Toby.

‘Magic’ said Goris.

‘Magic?’ asked Ilaria ‘I’ll have to think about that.’

‘There are lots of ways of interpreting it’ said Toby.

‘It’s a great festival’ said Goris. ‘They always do something original. They construct weird spaces. Last time there was a bar underground. I was down there for ages. Only about 25 people could get in.’

‘Have you been to Ginglik in Shepherd’s Bush Green?’ asked Tim.

‘Been where?’ said George. ‘I love Shepherds Bush Green.’

‘Ginglik. In the middle of the Green. It’s a bar, underground. It’s small. In what used to be the old toilets. You should check it out.’

‘Interesting’ I said.

‘What did you do for the Summer Solstice?’ someone asked.

‘I’ve been to Stonehenge a few times’ said Goris ‘but I won’t go there again. There are too many crusties and too many people are off their face. Drugs have spoiled it. I wouldn’t like to be there with children.’

‘Have you got any?’ asked Sam.

‘No’ said Goris, ‘but I wouldn’t be there with them if I had. The best place to be for the Solstice is Latvia.’

‘Latvia? Are you Latvian?’ said George.

‘Yeah, from Riga’ said Goris.

‘My family’s from Latvia’ said George. ‘Or is it Estonia?’

‘Where is Latvia exactly?’ asked Sam.

‘On the Baltic Sea’ said Goris. ‘Finland is only 60 miles away. It’s next to Russia, Estonia, Belarus and Lithuania.’

‘What happens at the Solstice?’ asked Toby.

‘Paganism is still big in Latvia. It continued underground throughout the various occupations. And the whole country celebrates the Solstice. There’s dancing, and bonfires, and folk traditions. It’s called Jani. Everyone called Janis has to wear a special costume. The men wear wreaths made from oak leaves, and the women wear wreaths made of flowers. Even the animals are dressed up. There’s folk singing, music and jumping over the fire. There’s special cheese and beer.’

‘Is there anything apart from beer? I don’t really like beer’ said George.

‘Not really’ said Goris.

‘It sounds incredible’ I said. ‘I’m going next year.’

Image of Jani celebrations from the Turaida Museum Reserve, north of Riga.

We worked all day making mosaics. George, a beautiful English girl, told us about her boyfriend. ‘We met on the plane to LA’ she said. ‘It was amazing. I saw him the day before, in a restaurant with my father. He was so handsome. I caught him looking at me, but I couldn’t introduce myself. And there he was on the plane!’ ‘Amazing’ we all agreed. ‘It must have been fate’ said Ilaria.

‘I’ve been interested in astrology’ said George. ‘ever since I was seven.’ She knew all about it too – air signs and earth signs, the moon in Cancer and this and that rising. ‘You’re a Virgo?’ she said. ‘That’s why you’re organised. But you must have some Pisces in you’ I think it was Pisces. ‘They are the artists.’

‘I’m not sure about that’ said Tim. ‘Isn’t it a bit open? Couldn’t you say any of those things about anyone?’

‘You should get your birth chart done’ said George. ‘You’d be surprised by the things you can learn.’

I cannot be alone in noticing how subjectivity emerges from the work people make. It is commonplace for students to create mosaics that match the clothes they wear, or do portraits of others that resemble themselves.

‘Of course I like the other materials, but my eye immediately went to the gold’ said George. And she made a little panel of the night sky, with glittering stars.

Ilaria told us about how she came to be here. ‘I was a designer in Italy, but I was told I would never make it there. My clothes were too unconventional. Italian design is very straight. So I came to London.’ Ilaria (think of Hilary, she said, when I found it hard to remember her name, which immediately solved the problem) was lovely — dark and striking. Her clothes were decorated, or deconstructed, with textures and trimmings and intense hues that complemented her beautiful colouring. Her mosaic was made from patches of brilliant hues.

Tim sniffed.  ‘I found it hard to get out of bed.’ He said.  ‘I jumped on my bike and raced over here.’

‘You must be a night owl’ I said, looking at his inky black mosaic. ‘You got that right’ he said. ‘Hmm. Sushi, good call, Toby.’

‘Or Bali’ George was saying ‘I go there all the time.’

‘You go to Bali all the time?’ I interjected. ‘There can’t be many people who can say that.’

‘My boyfriend’s a travel writer.’

‘Wow. Lucky you.’ we all said.

At the end of the session we put the materials in a room next to the concierge. ‘They’ll be safe till tomorrow’ said Toby.

‘See you then’ I said, as I went to the tube.

‘She’s not there’ said Goris as we waited for the concierge the next morning. ‘What’s happened to her?’

‘What’s your name again?’ I asked.

‘Goris’ he said.

‘Right.’ I said.

‘I’m not going outside to look for her’ said George. ‘There’s too much wind. I can’t stand it.’

‘I think it’s nice’ I said. ‘Didn’t you enjoy it in the workshop yesterday, listening to the trees?’

‘Air carries positive ions, while water bears negative ones. Negative ions are good for you. Positive ones are not. It’s scientifically proven. That’s why we humans don’t like the wind’ she said.

‘Really?’ I said. ‘I see.’

(Happiness in West London continues tomorrow).

I don’t know what impression I made on the workforce at Milano Mosaics. But they certainly made an impression on me. I remember almost everything they ever told me. I revered them. I lapped up the stories about working with Boris Anrep (Russian artist and mosaicist, and creator of the entrance floors to the National Gallery) and jigging up vitreous mixes for various hotels and subways across London. I was entertained by tales of going to Venice with artist Howard Hodgkin to specify tiles for his swimming pool mural at the Broadgate Leisure Club – and was delighted to buy the left-over supplies. I loved the pride both in high and commercial culture – thank god no one was working the marketing spin at Milano Mosaics. The showroom was hung with dog-eared and slightly out of focus photos of tile-clad walls adjacent to car parks and concrete fencing. What a relief it was to exit promo-land and enter the world of making and manufacturing.

‘Saivo mosaics – lovely colours – have you got any of these?’ I enquired.

‘Oh no, darlin’ – we ‘ad tons of it, but we used it as ballast under the car park.’ This was a typical exchange at Milano Mosaics.

In the old days mosaic was supplied loose in wooden barrels, and they still had those in the warehouse. Then there were sacks – plenty of them – and finally boxes. These days mosaic is supplied in health and safety sized two square metre cardboard cartons, but these boxes were at least twice the size – huge and heavy. Glass mosaic was thicker then, and came sheeted up with a tighter joint. Wider joints, thinner tiles – less material, more profit. When the manufacturers made the changes, I felt ripped off, but these days I suppose we would all be pleased we were using up less of the world’s resources.

Talking of the world’s resources, I heard an interesting fact yesterday. Ten years ago, they had no high-speed rail in China. This year they have more high-speed rail track than all of Europe, and next year they will have more high-speed rail than all of Europe and the rest of the world. Global growth — it’s alarming. It almost makes me glad the tiles are getting thinner.

Whizzy manufacturing.

This photograph has been released into the public domain by its author, Alex Needham at the wikipedia project.

I did enjoy the occasional trip into this unfamiliar world though. Milano’s showroom was a portacabin. The warehouse was a big shed topped by a kidney shaped harlequin mosaic made by ‘Old Man Zanelli’. I never knew Signor Zanelli, but he was a figure of legend, referred to reverentially by the staff.  The company ‘Zanelli’, by this stage, seemed to be the same thing as ‘Milano’, but at one time I think they were two enterprises. There were different numbers in the Yellow Pages, but when you rang, you were greeted by the same gruff tones on both lines.

Milano was run by Otello Cavallo — and an English guy. I can’t remember what the English guy was called. He was nice, and very helpful, but the name Otello Cavallo is somehow more memorable.

Eventually, when Milano closed down, I paid a token sum for the kidney shaped harlequin mosaic and brought it to the workshop. I couldn’t allow it to be thrown away. It was part of a legacy, part of the history of British mosaic. I wanted a place in that history too.  It wasn’t that I liked the harlequin especially, but the object was symbolically important. The staff at Milano liked it very much.

‘Old Man Zanelli thought he might sell it to the Harlequin Centre in Watford’ they told me admiringly ‘but he never did.’ At the time I identified strongly with these mild but thwarted aspirations, and of course I still do.

I confess I understood the reluctance of The Harlequin Centre in Watford — Palace of Thatcherite Consumer Culture, to purchase Mr Zanelli’s running Harlequin, with his brightly-coloured diamond-patterned catsuit, and curious short truncheon. He cut a slightly sinister figure, an impression only enhanced by the anachronistic kidney shaped board on which he was mounted. He was not a slick, shiny symbol of contemporary consumerism. He was a richer, odder, creature from another era.

Historically, Venetian masks, like his Batman’s Robin-style one, were worn to protect the wearer’s identity during decadent pursuits, or transgressive behaviour of questionable morality traversing class boundaries. Furthermore there is a tradition of ‘Hellequin’ – found in French passion plays, in which the harlequin is an emissary of the devil, chasing the damned back to hell.  These were the worlds of Signor Zanelli’s harlequin.

A more appropriate icon for the Palace of Shopping in Watford was the jester in a clown-suit and a buffoon’s belled hat – a symbol that we’d all become fools and children now.

Grown up art at the Harlequin Shopping Centre, Watford.

Photo: Nigel Cox. Permission: Creative Commons Licence 2.0

He drags an item to trash. ‘You must drag the folder to trash’ he says. ‘There you go’ he says, depositing the folder in the virtual waste paper basket.

‘But why is it still there?’ I ask.

‘Oh, that’s strange!’ he says. ‘Let’s do it again.’ He does it again. ‘There!’ he says, triumphantly.

‘But it’s come back again’ I observe, and he begins to look frustrated. ‘Hmm. That’s odd. You may have overstretched the capacity of your memory. Perhaps I had better book you in for an appointment with one of these guys.’ He points at a line of t-shirted geeks. ‘We don’t have one until Thursday, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m sorry’ I say. I am at the edge of an abyss. I believed all would be well. Now I am filled with despair. A black fog engulfs me.

‘You murderess’ he says.

I look at him with surprise.

‘Your e-mail address’ he repeats. I laugh nervously.

I have elected to wait. I am ‘on standby’. There are others on standby in front of me.  ‘It will be at least two hours,’ an assistant confirms.

While I wait, I am backing up onto a hard drive. The computer is on my lap. It is very hot. The hard drive is beside me. It is a whirring radiator. I am melting, but I cannot leave my seat. A foolish phrase thumps through my pulsing head — ‘Horses sweat, men perspire, ladies glow.’ Ladies expire, I think.

It has been two and quarter hours. ‘We do apologise. We have a bit of a log-jam’ says a smiling young woman. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’