My wife passionately hates this drawing. I hesitantly try to pull the old Picasso quote about taking a lifetime to learn to draw like a child and she says that this is like a drawing of Chesterfield by a child who isn't very good at drawing. I beg to differ. There's something about it that I treasure, something to do with being on a train and suddenly looking up from my book to see we were in Chesterfield then scrabbling in my bag for paper and pencil even as the train was starting to move out and then looking with an intensity the feeling of which I can summon even now and trying to ensure that what I got down on the paper before my eye contact was broken was the really important stuff. I've seen Chesterfield church hundreds of times and I can conjure the strange arc of that bent spire mentally better than most things: nevertheless, this is not that mental image but what it actually looked like on that particular day.