Often, when I am bored, I will start excavating my jacket pockets. Whilst the main pockets might throw up the odd sherbet lemon or discarded tuppenny piece, it is that top outer breast pocket that always seems to provide the most fertile hunting ground. The very fact that it is practically useless for all serious purposes, makes it an ideal repository for life's detritus : and if there is one thing I love, it is life's detritus. I particularly look forward to finding old bar bills from past holidays so that I can temporarily relieve my boredom by conjuring up memories of not just what pleasurable concoction I consumed, but, with luck, where I consumed it.
But it is the odd, tatty, pieces of paper that provide the greatest challenge. As you gaze at the torn corner of a glossy magazine page with some inky numbers scrawled on it, you can try to fathom out what they mean. Was it a telephone number perhaps? Or maybe a mileage calculation. Or could it be the final scientific formula that unites Newtonian physics with quantum mechanics? The dullest of diner parties flash by in a microsecond as you surreptitiously attempt to interpret the paper Rosetta Stone you have been carrying around in your suit jacket for the past two years.
My attention being challenged the other evening, I dipped in my pocket and pulled out a torn piece of paper containing a drawing and a few words : which I have scanned and reproduced above. I have no idea from where it originated and by whose hand it was created. Nor have I any idea of its meaning, As such it is an "objet trouve" of pocket art. I share it with you because there seems few things more important to do on a dull and damp Monday morning in February. And I also share it with you in case there is somebody out there who recognises it and who can interpret its inner meaning.
Personally, I think it is a splendid piece of art and I am seriously considering printing it on fine art paper and framing it. But, there again, that might just be a rumour.