The museum where I work is mounting an exhibition on the subject of Nature, an opportunity for the gift shop to sell greeting cards of etched animals with googly eyes glued on. In the upstairs gallery the preparators are hanging paintings of ants. I have seen them all before, and had enough. I will submit my resignation soon, as soon as I get down the stairs, but my scarf is tangled in the Baroque banister and as I fall it enfolds me in a silk cocoon. At the bottom a gilt-edged mirror reflects the picture window looking out on the park. Something very large is emerging from the hedges, coming darkly into focus. People are running.