Here's an image from Hayling Island, taken last autumn. English front gardens are interesting places: there's a vast range of self-expression contained in them. Near where I live, there's a large topiary cat that's been watching the emergence of a (smaller) topiary elephant in the hedge of the house opposite over the past two years. Then there are the semi-wild gardens, with lots of alium and wild grasses — the winds of the steppe should be howling through them, rather than a light breeze in Queen Elizabeth's Walk. There's also the intriguing front garden of an elderly couple nearby that is stuffed full of small china ornaments — doe-eyed Disney deer, windmills, teddy bears, tiny houses . . . Alongside that, there's the depressing sight of the front garden that's been covered in concrete and turned into a parking lot for the residents of the house, which is like a sort of absence. So the kind of gardener who produces the exhilaration in the photograph here is a joy for me. Sadly I don't possess any kind of garden in London, but I like to think that if I did, I'd be aiming for that sort of exuberance in my gardening.

I found this image in an alleyway recently, near where I live. The artist had pasted it onto an old advertisement hoarding, and some of it has already started peeling away. It's an arresting image, but beginning its process of disappearance. I like the fact that someone has made something, and they've found a way to share it. I enjoy street art's fleeting presence and the freedom it gives the imagery.

A few weeks ago Steve and I were walking along a street near where we live and began finding these little clay figures dotted around, on walls, and placed in nooks and crannies. I liked this affectionate piece particularly, with its romantic addition of a toadstool, along with the old tin used as a plinth. I enjoyed the care that someone had taken to place them in interesting spots. Further up the street we found a tiny man sitting on top of a bollard reading his newspaper, with a little palm tree on a brick by a drainpipe nearby, and a very small woman with very big plaits waving from a ledge. When we walked back down the street in the evening, they had all vanished.

The Great Shed of Mystery

I've just returned from a visit to my aunt Barbara who lives near Liverpool. Her house is the one we visited during summer holidays when I was a child, and the shed in the garden was a source of delight (my aunt and grandfather never threw anything away). This shed was built by my uncles when they were teenagers, using as few nails and screws as they could, after a challenge by my grandfather. One of the first rituals of summer was to examine the contents of the shed. And many things made it into this shed: worn-out saucepans, still life paintings from my mother's days at art school, 1960s high fashion shoes, the moses basket my twin brother and I had slept in as babies, many, many jars and bottles for which there was sure to be a use one day, my grandfather's green Atco lawnmower with its slightly scary blades, old picture frames . . . As you can see from this, it's also the Great Shed of Memory. It had its own smell as well — slightly tarry and woody, and it's a delight still when I visit to step into the shed on a hot day and enjoy that particular scent again.