'We'd set out on one of our perambulations. Sausage so full of fun as usual, and… and life…' I slide the tissues across the table and help myself to a large one with ice. 'First we saw that fabulous mews in King’s Cross everyone's talking about, the ironic one by Urban Mashup. Lovely. We both thought it very New London, in a post-funky way. Sausage, bless, sat down in the middle of the reclaimed cobbles, cast his eye over the cauterised organic exterior and gave two woofs. That always meant "confident typology, fine detailing". He was right, as always…'
Darcy recounts The Last Journey Of Sausage in some detail, indeed practically in real time. They ended their meandering outside the Archillectual Association as dusk was falling. 'Always a favourite haunt. A perfect twinkly Georgian square, bustling with young architectural talent. Then such a surprise. Right outside Number 36, we came upon The Lovepouch. An experimental pavilion constructed from hundreds and hundreds of elegant concrete panels, all swooping curves and sensuous space.
'Sausage was uneasy. First he went to the lavatory, then eyed The Lovepouch with scepticism. He gave a low growl, as if the pavilion were trying to say something to him… As if he had to communicate this message to me. The strain proved too much I think. He keeled over with a little yelp and lay there lifeless, still staring at the pavilion, with his tongue out. Let this be his epitaph… ' Darcy tightens his face. 'Poor little Sausage. Faithful servant, dear friend. Fatally overcome by Truth and Beauty…' I tell him he'll struggle to get all that on the headstone. 'Maybe just Sausage then. The rest can be inferred.’
TUESDAY. Memo from Home Office. I now have to terror-proof my proposed 'humane' citizenship centre. I add panic rooms and truck-bomb barriers. I specify socially-profiled steel and bouncy jellycrete. I incorporate vigilant cladding and an evil eye over the front door. Sorted.
WEDNESDAY. Sausage's funeral. Lots of Darcy's friends from the world of epic space, many with nervy little dogs in camo jumpsuits and tiny lederhosen. Darcy is kilted up, with a sporran that looks like… oh shit, surely not. Yes, Sausage lives on as a dangling purse. And, according to Darcy's eulogy, as an inspiration for the resistance movement in Tibet.
Darcy's conflicted. He's mourning Sausage but quite excited at the prospect of a completely new companion, who will inevitably require a completely new wardrobe.
THURSDAY. Lunch with Tub Hagendaas, the anti-architect and global brand. He's in London to prep for the 'restoration and renarrativisation' of the Institute for Contemporary Negro Dance in Kensington.
We're at the window table of a poncey restaurant opposite, so he can squint at it, weigh the civic context, admire the forlorn parabolic roof, reflect on the death of God. A waiter is summoned. 'What is the ugliest thing on the menu? Well, look at my face. Do I look as though I am joking? Bring me your ugliest dish – and a less comfortable chair!'
Obviously, he will make the institute cool again. That's what he does. Tub's like some healing prophet. There's certainly something supernatural about the way he's avoided any real criticism over the massive state media building he designed in the middle of Beijing. Well done, mate. There's your symbol of ruthless, delirious power after all, not that posh shoe shop in Tokyo. Tub drivels on about enabling change, and offering to meet the Dalai Lama, but he ends up sounding a bit of a wanker to be honest.
FRIDAY. Darcy excited. 'I'm thinking dachshund now. German. Rational. Extruded. Contemporary lateral emphasis…' Idiot.
SATURDAY. Respect the planet by eschewing carbonated water.
SUNDAY. Rendezvous with Darcy and new dachshund in Bedford Square. At first I think it's wearing some sort of chainmail coat. 'No, darling. Those are hundreds of miniature spun-aluminium discs on a background of Yves Klein blue felt.’ The dog looks a bit diffident as a walking Selfridge's, though it will surely learn. Darcy has named it Bauhau.