Picture the scene:
It's 1390, you and your fellow wealthy merchants have funded the building of a posh new tower for your local church and building is going well.
At about 50 feet, you notice that it's not exactly what you'd call vertical.
When you point this out to the builder he says they all do that and it'll settle down once they get the gargoyles on.
Just to be on the safe side, you wait 70 years to see if he is right, and when you send him a strongly worded pigeon to say it's still leaning like a pissed parrot you find he's run off with the cash and was last heard of talking some Italians into building a tourist attraction in Pisa.
Determined to finish it off, you employ a gang of masons to add the last 60 feet or so, making sure beforehand that someone had invented the spirit level.
The result is a magnificent sight, marred only by the banana shaped tower which looks as if one good shove would see it collapse into the street like a fainting Duchess.
And so it remained, until the Luftwaffe decided it had to go and bombed the living daylights out of it.
However, those medieval mortar monkeys knew a thing or two about construction and the tower survived.
Today the church is an empty shell, the wonky tower home to gentlemen who shout at pigeons and drink things you wouldn't want to get on your clothes.
To them, it probably looks straight.
The churchyard is now a pleasant place for office workers to have their lunch, a green oasis in the city.
Apart from a few conveniently shaped table tombs the grave markers have been discreetly gathered up and leant against the perimeter walls, like wallflowers at a dance.
I felt sorry for all the forgotten souls who had known the church in better times, and were laid beneath it's gardens when their time was up.
It struck me that this was a place of reflection, a quiet haven where, should you wish to, you could sit in the sun and remember those you had loved and lost.
I placed the Grassman there on a mild October morning, a still figure rising out of the grass, pushing up daisies in the time honoured fashion.
I placed a pot of them by his head so that anyone who wished to could place one on his sleeping form in remembrance of the departed.
When you put your ideas out there in the world, you accept that you have no control over what happens next.
It's not uncommon to find that your handiwork has been found a new home in a council skip, a victim of its own impertinence.
However, checking on him a few weeks later I was surprised to find him untouched.
Someone had pinched the pot of daisies and a passing dog had turned art critic and done something unpleasant on his head, but apart from that nothing untoward.
Over the following months, through all four seasons, he prevailed.
A year from his arrival he was still visible, but the passage of time and wind and weather had reduced him to a shadow of his former self.
Nature had reclaimed him, and the earth had gathered him in.
And that's exactly as it should be.