It occurred to me that I always opened a catalogue with the intention of finding one image.

Pass through this catalogue as if it were the Eaton Catalogue a month before Christmas. Understand the gloss of the pages as I do, as an invitation to desire. So much waits and all you need do is point to it. Yet something has gone missing among the Tyco trains which belch real smoke and the Aurora race car sets. My face never appears among the pages of happy children. Where am I?