Margate Rocks.

Or at the very least tilts gently in the pleasant ocean breeze.

The exhibition that Beck and I traversed the country for opened on Friday. I popped down to join her for then private view in the evening. Any excuse for a free beer.

Although factoring in the cost of the train fare it’s actually quite an expensive beer.

We’d originally planed to spend the night in the campsite just outside the town. A campsite that turned out to be one of the most expensive in the entire country, which coupled with a taxi fare was going to get pricey.

And Beck had just effectively built a little house.

So, yes we slept inside a piece of art on Friday night. Not often you get to say that.

We pitched the inner tent inside for added insulation, unfurl the sleeping bags and nip for a pee in the toilet of the gallery organising the exhibition.

It has, of course, just occurred to me that as we had the key for the gallery we could have just slept there. Then I’d be able to say we spent Friday night in a old pie factory. Ah, the clarity of daylight.

To secure ourselves in we manoeuvred a large sheet of plywood in through the entrance and then drilled it into the frame. Nice and safe.

So far, so much fun.

A few hours later I was awoken by the walls shuddering.

“Don’t kick their little house,” said a squeaky voice.

“There might be something worth nicking inside.”

Thud-thud.

“I reckon we can break this bit off.”

Thud-thud.

“Leave it, mate.”

“Nah, I reckon it’s nearly off.”

Sitting half-naked in my sleeping bag and a little dazed the only defence I can think to muster is to pretend to be Brian Blessed.

“Oi!” I bellow, trying to amplify my voice as much as possible, to make myself sound gigantic.

There’s a pause, then a tiny voice whispers: “Oh, sorry mate.”

Beck, needless to say, slept through the whole thing.