It was in the foyer of the Serpentine Gallery, sometime early last year when a selection of Damien Hirst's collection was on show. A couple in their late thirties, baby in trendy buggy, talking with French accents about their new London home and how they were desperately trying to get hold of a Banksy. They had been outbidded somewhere in Europe. Now any would do.

A year on, leafing through the FT on a Saturday afternoon, I come across this article about lots of his art coming up for auction:

"So far, Banksy’s appeal has yet to widen out from celebrity Hollywood collectors and into the lucrative New York market but, as long as the current excitement around contemporary art continues, he looks, for all his alleged dislike of the capitalist system, like a solid investment."

Art. Anarchy. Investments subverting subversion. Patterns as recurring as the pixels that spell out this text. Deflating danger through inflated price tags. Or reclaiming once dead. Like the Vatican's recent embrace of Oscar Wilde.

And yet, despite all the hordes of banks that hoard art in dark vaults, or perhaps because of them, this is too easy an argument. Too simplistic a thought.

On Sunday morning, as we walk through the cold halls of Bonhams checking out the Banksys and the D*faces and the Failes and the white-haired woman in a black fur coat it is all rather funny and somewhat right.

A golf sale of creativity in the Tiananmen Square of the modern mind.