Annabel And The Artist Annabel had been a Social Worker for a good many years. She’d seen it all, or so she’d thought. And then she met the artist. Neighbours had reported concerns, but were somewhat vague about the problems. She called round anyway. Annabel was like that. She was old school, didn’t work to rule. The artist’s house was large and a bit crumbly, dirty and decrepit, rather like the artist herself, Annabel thought and she didn’t chance the cup of tea, when offered. There were paintings stacked up everywhere and, in the corner of one room, a large whitish sculpture. It towered upwards almost up to the ceiling. Annabel walked round it pondering it’s strange shape and texture. The artist laughed, saying, “That’s not a sculpture! Years ago I had a dog and never got round to house-training it. That’s dog shit! I piled it up. It went dry, then solid, then whitish over the years! And here it still is.” Back at the office Annabel reported, there was no cause for concern. Tim...