At dawn, I was restless and I walked on now strange streets on the way to where my father once worked. Forty years have passed, but I think I remember, and perhaps there is an energy in the city’s bricks and walls and mortar that can never be forgotten. A bridge of iron, ready to roll up, ready to crush, and below the slimy mud, eager to swallow alive, for such are the morbid fancies of childhood. The road stretches east, out to the docks, out to the factories where once I peeked through doors at terrifying machines, the air pungent with aerosol fumes. I look around me, lost in memory, the embers of belonging kindling once more. Reckitts and my father are linked in my mind, and so too this road, this bridge….It is true perhaps, as our city’s promotional video begins “all of us we’re all just passing through.” I noticed a corner building, its brick resonating with me, an eerie sense of deja vu. So I decided to paint it; the Witham Tandoori.