Working in the archive on Saturday, my son and I fit in a bit of ersatz-golf in the Field, having discovered a half-chewed golf-ball in the woods, and then drive up Church Lane through what looks like a crowd of pilgirms (but not the Father kind), and wait with open window discussing events with a local couple walking their dog while an immense fairground lorry tries to make a very tight turn out of the gates to Toddington Manor. Apparently Damien Hirst puts on an Event for the children and people who work for him each year, and this is the third of three huge trucks departing in convoy. They take the turn towards Cheltenham. Puts me in mind of the disparaging remarks which C.R. Ashbee made about the fair put on for his people by Lord Gainsborough on his estate in Chipping Campden, back at the beginning of the 20th century; to which Harry Osborne, writing as a former child who actually attended that fair and enjoyed the heck out of it, responded with unascerbic point back in the 1980s, his memories, an ordinary person, a useful counter to the better-known memories of a famous man. Perhaps that's the meaning of the shark in the formaldehyde.