hen I was a little child in Invercargill, there was a gorgeous public library in a Gothic stone building, and someone there liked little things. In a glass case was perhaps the most incongruous diorama ever to grace a children’s library: a bare field with a few brooding pine trees in the corners, through which a tiny brass band marched endlessly in rectangular formation. Red coats, tall bearskin hats, legs striding forward. To where? Towards an audience?
