We read through our notebooks, trying to make sense, trying to follow a thread, weave our way. Finding wonders, clues, puzzles, sketches, misspelt and illegible words that once meant something, and the odd dusty, flawed diamond that might be the beginning of a story.

We sort through our gathered gleanings, our dubious treasures. A looking glass, records, feathers from Sleaford, a small model hippo from a charity shop in North Hykeham, a box of dominoes, a purple ribbon found on a road in Stamford, assorted papers and bits of rusty metal.