THE HOME OF SECRETS
THE SHAPES ARE familiar, clearly the work of Touring of Milan, but you don’t usually see them from this angle. The sepia tone of the images triggers a childhood memory of gazing at action unfolding on a tiny screen. The music, a mix of Monty Norman, John Barry, and Vic Flick’s twanging guitar, creates the stimulus response that it always has. Glamour. Danger. Excitement. Good evening, Mr Bond.
Actually, it’s good morning and I’m not in Hell’s Kitchen but at my breakfast table in Belfast; a trip to New York seems as unlikely right now as the raising of . Still, I am immersed, or at least as much as one can be by a 13-inch screen plonked next to my tea mug. Immersed, as I have so often been in my life, in
