I知 going to carve the biggest wooden budgie that man has ever achieved.     First I need to learn how to carve. Then I値l buy a budgie and watch. Learn its frame. Embed the image into my brain. Then I値l learn all about wood. Then I値l save lots of money and travel half the way across the world to find the finest wood.     I値l have to find a mansion big enough to keep the budgie. I値l take a sabbatical from work and tell my wife I need to go away for a year. Night and day I will work on my budgie. I値l buy one set of overalls and lock the door. A radio would be a good idea, and I値l have to buy a fridge and a sofa to sleep on. On my way to my mansion in the middle of nowhere, I値l fill my car with tools, and spare ones for when they wear out. And bandages for my hands, not used to this sort of work. I値l sit on my sofa and wait for the wooden block to arrive listening to the radio. The Block     Ten Indian men will place the block into position and I will thank them for coming all the way out here and give them a gold watch each. The lorry will rumble off into the distance, and then there will be silence. I値l ask my budgie what he thinks of the block. She will agree that this will be a good year.     In the middle of the Tate Modern, my budgie will be placed. Wings spread. Children will be quite frightened and adults will feel like children. 50 years later     The budgie was found in a warehouse a couple of years ago in the middle of nowhere. The creator never found. His carving crude, but countered by its epic scale (as big as a block of flats).     One day a blind man, feeling his way around the Tate, chanced upon a handle on the side of the budgie and a very large door swung open and knocked him flat to the ground. A stairway led into a vast network of tunnels and rooms. Hallways and galleries.     In the master bedroom lay a skeletal overalled frame and cradled in its arms was a tiny bird skeleton.