I have no particular interest in antiquities or antiques, but I like things to meet a certain aesthetic.

You are what you pretend to be.

If you were born in Britain after World War II, you see a continuous atmosphere of decline, moral and economic and political.

Fashion is primitive in its insistence on exhibitionism, which withers in isolation. The catwalk fashion show with its incandescent hype is its apotheosis. A ritualized gathering of connoiseurs and the spoilt at a spotlit parade of snazzy pulchritude, it is an industrialized version of the pagan festivals of renewal. At the end of each seasonal display, a priesthood is enjoined to carry news of the omens to the masses.

I wouldn't mind someone lobbing hand grenades at me, but having to reset the timer on the video recorder puts me into a blood-spitting frenzy.

While there is a great value in things that are old, it seems that the overwhelming challenge in Britain in the late 20th century is to make every effort to see value in the contemporary and in the future.

That's one of the things about getting older isn't it? You suddenly realise that you are what you set out to be. And there are no role models any more.