The surreptitious saga on the comings and goings of Oliver Cromwell’s skull – as over-embellished in my book – to signal those pounding protestant principles.
  In the 1960s when the telly went down, as it often did, they used to show 'interludes' to keep us in our seats: wheat fields in the wind, a potter throwing clay, a Japanese man drawing sumi-e pine cones, boiling mud from Rotorua – my favourite was the bow of an ice-breaker sailing ship cutting through the ice; one time getting stuck and having to reverse… back and forth... in brutal black and white. Everyone complained about them. I was fascinated and have inserted cryptic references of those I can recall into this sly subrealist series.
  For my retrospective sins.