My first book, long ago, I asked the printers to design. These were the same printers who I was push-push-pushing to make every saving. Reasonably, they saved on design, and on paper. We used every square millimetre for words, very thin margins and very small print, 3 000 characters per page. Good for optometrists.

Come Themba's Head, 2009, I'd learned to respect design, even on books that are just plain words. My cousin Kit designs beautiful books, but she was in England. I felt no, I must express local loyalty.

My friend R is local. I give Themba to him. A month later I'm told for the fourth time "I'm getting into it today, Denis, I'll ring you tomorrow."

It's a Wednesday afternoon. I put the phone down and send Themba's Head, first word to last, to Kit, asking for a quote.

I'm about to break for supper when the book comes back, designed. It's super, airy and spacious with 2 000 characters per (same-size) page. Plus Kit has made space for illustrations, 18 little mini-graphics at the start of 18 chapters.

Illustrations? This is going a bit far. But, hey, the spaces are there. I ask Francois Smit to do me 18 good-looking doodles. A bit reluctant, he says I must give him 18 themes, in one line each.

I do. Francois gives me 18 drawings. Each of these is much more than I expect. I'd pictured twirls and swoops. I have specific pictures. I love them.

Except for one, the last one. I'd given him a wrong brief -- "unwinking face, one side grim, one side laughing". What did that mean? I don't know. He did it anyway. It came out ghoulish; would put you off your lunch.

But I'd asked. I didn't want to ask again. I took the stuff to the printers, LAW printers (who have nothing to do with law but are named after Lesley Anne Watson, the daughter, I think, of the owner.) They could have collected. I could have e-mailed. But I like the idea of having a feel for the place where my book is being made.

While my contact-man, Dave, showed me around I had a flash of insight. I didn't want that ghoul.

I phoned Francois. I apologised and asked for a replacement. I quoted him the second-last sentence of the last chapter: "my fulfilment would be to know we're on the path to razor wire as a museum exhibit, to friendship as our default state". I asked him to say when he could do it by, so I could tell Dave how long to postpone. Francois, said "I'll do it now".

Before Dave had finished the tour, Francois's razor wire as a museum exhibit was in the Inbox.

This picture was perfect. To me, razor wire is such a symbol of what's wrong. It's a horrible way to cope with trespass, cutting a person to ribbons, and it speaks of a horrible fear of trespass, which is in keeping with the long litany of atrocities that have been committed in the course of robbery.

Every time I'm away from home, I know that when I come back I'll see new razor wire somewhere between the airport and my gate. It's a macabre game. I keep eyes peeled. I've always been right.

The day I'll know we're on the way to civilisation is the day that somewhere between the airport and my gate I blink, and pinch myself, and look again, and am sure that some razor wire has been taken down.

That's what D2 is about; the path to Haves having enough and Have-nots having enough; to a social contract that needs no razor wire, a society that is content.

Meantime, what I've got out of this is a super-looking book with illustrations of which people say: "when you've read the chapter and you look again at the picture, you not only understand the picture, you understand the chapter better too." That's something to be content with.