As a child I had a neighbour called Fred Pocket. He was an old man who used to deliver the newspapers and four year old me would watch him. One day I asked my mum, "what does he have in his pockets?".

When  he died, in 2016, I saw these two doors outside his house, ready to be thrown in the skip. I saved them and adorned each with a pocket. Out of one tumbles gardening string knitted together holding a bag of sweets, keys and a lighter, banal things that were probably in his tweed pockets. The other is an idea of what, as a 4 year old child, I imagined could have been inside.