YOU know the routine. It starts with a jumble of shapes, a chaos of coloured, irregular fragments poured across a floor or tabletop. Then begins the process itself: the sorting of the pieces, the patience, the pondering, the narrowly averted coffee spillages, the perseverance. It ends (assuming the dog, baby or vacuum cleaner doesn’t pilfer any vital components) with something true and tangible, a smooth, squared-off tableau to be admired with something approaching awe. Heaven.
‘Your brain starts to work in a way that it