Let us consider for a moment this sweetly ironic BrizVegas vignette :

Those of you familiar with this city will know the grungy, ethnic, but now largely gentrified microcosm of West End. Recently, I happened to be enjoying a sticky but pleasant evening quenching a thirst with soda and lime, on the vomit-stained terrace of the Rumpus Room. Not even the self-obsessed gaits of the motley collection of wannabe artists (read future arts council employees) passing my field of vision could dampen my spirits.

One particular jaunty dreadlocked hippie veered off towards a large fig tree to embrace his hippie friend, making sure to co-ordinate heart chambers. After a brief and earnestly animated exchange – of the sort only those who have shared life-altering performance pieces at Woodford can – he goes to leave. But before he does, bends down to collect a crisp and glossy white plastic Bed, Bath and Table bag.

What does it contain ?

A bong ?

Perhaps compost or worm castings ?

I honestly wondered what his friend had gifted him. Then, with a shake of his fisherman’s pants, off he ambled, light on his earthy feet towards the nearest community garden (a guess). Though I never found out what his bag contained, I’m hoping it really was new sheets from Bed, Bath and Table. Because I like entertaining the image of his nugget frame resting peacefully on 180 thread count Egyptian cotton inside his rusted kombi.