Maybe the Roman poet Ovid captured best the painful, hopeless even, quality of the love obsession with his lines:
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I wonder how often they are able to share this passion.
All I can remember as a three-year-old on our visits, is obsessively collecting pins to be found on the carpeted floors, doubtless to my mother's embarrassment, unless of course they went into her sewing repository, to join assorted buttons, tapes and the dirtiest sex things such useful objects of repair or construction in a period of great privation.
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All are meticulously displayed, from clothes-pegs of every conceivable design and colour to tin-openers, from car wheel disks to portable transistor radios.
He has a photograph album devoted to shots of dog turds, taken from a range of vantage points, and portraying a surprising range of shapes, forms and textures.