The person who concocted this gate did so out of necessity: keeping dogs in or out, people in or out, whatever, but they made it from what was available; probably from that fly tipping site I noticed just down the road.
If I passed this in the Tate, hung in the main gallery, or in a dare ye to enter gallery near Bond street, I would have admired it as I did this morning, for its colours, its random construction and sheer boldness. Whether it had a price tag of seventy thousand pounds or it was about to be loaded into a skip, it was art either way, to my mind.
I'm writing a book at the moment set in 2090.
Here's an extract set in a shouting-house (auction rooms) after the early 21st century furniture lots have been sold.
I stand for a moment listening to the shouter announcing the next lots.
There's a collective shrug in the room and people start leaving, the tradeable stuff gone. "D'ac," he continues, "let's run through this quickly. From the 2000s, Damian Hurst: two circular paintings - dealing ten bottles good quality red wine."
"Eight, seven?" More people are leaving. "Six, five? Sam, put these back into the Frydy flea sale. Right. next up, Tracy Emin's bed - piece from 1995. Seeking, six bags flour. Anyone, not a bad mattress . . . ?"
"Disgusting ol ting!" Scowls a wrinkly Jamaican woman standing next to me. "Could sell mine. Looks no different."