The Legacy.

I have been invited to the Department of Culture, which is holding a breakfast hearing. The Culture Minister, who has no interest in anything other than her own career, opens with an address.

— Welcome. Today I thought we might discuss how we can move the cultural sector away from grant dependency towards generating revenue.

We are a handful of parasites and a few arts journalists who have dragged ourselves here to be humiliated and receive a free sandwich and a cup of coffee. The Culture Secretary's bracelets rattle as she blithely continues her monologue.

— Culture that isn't commercial and doesn't cover its own costs simply isn't good enough. It's a hobby.

— May I ask something? I say, involuntarily raising my hand like a schoolboy.

— Of course, Anders. That is why we're here, she replies through gritted teeth.

— How do you feel about the fact that you yourself are a cost, and that you moreover run a department which, by your own argument, contributes nothing to the public purse?

The other parasites glance at me approvingly. The Culture Secretary tilts her head slightly and smiles down at me.

— At least I don't sit about playing with clay all day and expect other people to pay for it. I'm an elected official and I contribute to the proper functioning of society.

She is just about to carry on when I raise my hand again. She sighs and nods at me.

— Funny you should mention clay. In every excavation, the anthropologists are obsessively interested in pottery. It's often what reveals how advanced or primitive a people were at the time. The shards of a wine vessel don't merely tell us they could produce a sophisticated drink. They tell us a great deal about their technical skill — the ability to create something to transport and store wine in that remains functional thousands of years later. And we marvel that they also adorned their vessels with images, symbols, figures or stories that mattered deeply to them.

— Where are you going with all this? says the Culture Secretary, glancing wearily at her designer watch.

— What is humanity's legacy if we strip away culture? Does it even exist — if no one finds a vessel, a beautiful ruin, stories, images, tapestries, music, clothing and jewellery? I say, gesturing towards the Culture Secretary's bracelet.

— I'm only against the pointless and unprofitable forms of cultural expression, says the Culture Secretary, keen to wrap up the meeting.

— Van Gogh and Emily Dickinson didn't earn a penny from their art in their lifetimes, and today we rank them as giants.

— So you think we should throw money at the cultural sector and hope that great and immortal art will emerge?

— Precisely. And that is what will become your legacy. No one remembers a tight-fisted, carping Culture Secretary — but everyone remembers a visionary who ushered in a golden age.

The other parasites and I leave the Department for Culture with the hobbyist's familiar sense that the grants probably won't be going up this year either.