Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the time is upon us. As a small token of appreciation for the entertainment she has provided for us all, here's a picture of the (already outed) Miss. Young, enjoying an epiphany with, yes, tilleul and a madeleine.

A few weeks ago I decided to visit the V&A's Post-Modernism exhibition with a friend. There was plenty to see: the fetid degradation of utopian architectural ideals, the appropriation and conflation of the artistic tendencies of diverse eras, Grace Jones being weird. Cult films and aggressively decorated tea sets, chairs it seemed would provide an unusual yet not necessarily displeasurable sitting experience. Buried deep in this hoard of gaudy tat, labyrinth of disastrous edifices that could not fail to bewilder (I found myself caught between enchantment, shock and weary disdain) sat with confident poise a vase.

The vase's name was Odette. She was fairly squat as vases go and made of shiny porcelaine covered with blue flowers. Either the ceramicist responsible for Odette never made clear the link between this fairly ordinary and slightly asymmetrical pot and our favourite ouvrière-about-town, or the person in charge of typing up information for the displays was tired from having come up with innumerable original tidbits on tickets to explain the existence of some fairly disturbing furniture. After the usual explanation of the materials and the artist, the short paragraph dedicated to the exhibit ended, "Odette was a character in Proust." (or something to that effect)

I move that this is inappropriate.

Under pressure from the expectant gaze of my gallery buddy I ventured an explanation for this non-explanation - and found myself in the awkward position of trying to ascribe flowery and delightful Proustian qualities to an ugly jug.

Are we meant to make a connection between the catleyas and the flowers on the vase's surface (God knows what they look like)? Does the vase move in aristocratic circles despite being of lesser social standing itself? Has the vase had a checkered sexual history, undermining its transformation into a Lady of majestically high standing and lovely hats with the jarringly blunt "Tapped that" comments of the blokes that see her pass by? Is the vase suspected of wilfully engaging in lesbian shenanigans in the bois de Boulogne and subsequently trying to play them down on interrogation?

The negative response to these questions suggests that, much like the owning of Proustiana will have little ameliorative effect on one's writing style, yanking characters inexplicably from a novel does not make a vase more profound.