The wooden train courses round the sketchy streets in supplementary neighbourhoods where most of the buildings are still young and growing. The carpenters’ strokes are sure and steady. They tell of long hours lent to learning the patience of whittling and splicing. The finishing may sometimes even be fairly flawless. But the material models arrive too ginormous and in droll patterns – equine, leonine or Dalmatian coats or some un-tellable, textural, textile torture. It is an open orchestra without a master conductor; cunning craft craving art.