Some years ago some arty type persuaded the city fathers to let him erect a much larger than life-size, decapitated horse's head, nose down on a bit of grass at the top end of Park Lane, near Marble Arch. Said head has been an eyesore in our capital ever since.
So I was sorry to see that some other arty type has persuaded the owners of Blenheim Palace to suspend a stuffed horse, albeit more or less entire, from the ceiling of one of the state rooms.
And sorry to see that the Guardian saw fit to include a large picture of same in its photographic centrefold, the standard of which is generally high.
Collectively, we seem to have got ourselves into a state in which the only way we feel anything is by filling our world with what might once have been thought of as really gross and shocking images. Perhaps the visual counterpart of our need for complicated and highly flavoured foods. Or very loud music accompanied by lots of flashing lights and other complicated stuff.
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