Atop a ladder the other day, working on restoring the finial to the gable of the shed – I mean ‘studio’ – I couldn’t help but notice that the roof was in sore need of a lick of paint. It’s a nice corrugated-iron roof, with a gentle pitch, but it’s definitely seen better days: the red paint is not only faded, but peeling in small patches all over.

But you know, while there’s a lot to be said for the pleasing aesthetics of a smart, freshly painted roof, there’s also something quite appealing (get it? Sometimes I surpass myself) about the unplanned, natural patterns that come with age and usage.

Now bear with me as I invoke the ‘p’ word: the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins touched on this in his lyric ‘Pied Beauty’:

Glory be to God for dappled things –
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough . . .

And so on. OK, so he’s going on about more than patchy paint on a roof, and because it’s against the rules, I’m not endorsing his conclusion that these patterns are evidence of God’s plan — but do you get it? The patterns that come from natural processes can have a kind of beauty all their own.

This is what’s meant by ‘patina’ when it’s used to describe old, well-used things of value in, say, an auction catalogue, or on an eBay listing. Originally, patina was the green oxidation that formed on brass or bronze, but now the term has broadened out to mean your item has signs of usage on it – a spot of wear and tear; a few dings or dints; a couple of scuffs or an attractive spot of rust.

In short, indications of a life well-lived, of stories to tell – even, should we wish to get a bit effusive, of ‘soul’. The implication is that it’s actually better than the same item in mint condition, as if it’s absorbed some mystical mojo as a result of its extended history.

You usually see this description used for things of high value: in my rather limited experience, I can cite guitars and cameras. These days, should you wish to buy a 1954 Fender Stratocaster (think Buddy Holly), or a Gibson Les Paul of the same vintage, you’re not likely to find one in mint condition for less than a very high five-figure sum. Examples like that are now locked up in private collections or in glass cases at your local Hard Rock Café, so next in line would be one of ‘player grade’ – i.e. with the patina bestowed by a good few decades’ use.

The same would go for Leica cameras. These beautifully engineered devices have a passionate following of well-heeled collectors, and as with the guitars, the rare and unspoilt exemplars fetch eye-watering sums. But many a camera buff can be heard muttering a prayer of adoration over the well-used ones – especially where they show ‘brassing’, where the silver or black finish has been rubbed through to the underlying brass chassis through repeated cycles of focus-shoot-wind.

The weird thing about all this is that, with even ‘player grade’ Stratocasters and other elderly rock ‘n roll implements in increasingly short supply, the manufacturers have recognised that worn-in magic outweighs the soulless sheen of the brand-new – and have started artificially ageing them in the factory.

In the case of California guitar purveyors Fender, this is called the ‘relic’ series: these axes are subjected to a meticulous process of being lightly and lovingly dinged and dented to instil a bit of that soulfulness without having to wait seventy-odd years. On the back you’ll find artificial ‘buckle rash’, simulating the result of the player’s belt buckle rubbing on it during countless frenetic gigs; the fingerboard will be carefully worn and dirtied as if repeatedly fingered by generations of players’ sweaty digits; the metal parts will have a spot of oxidation and scuffing to hide their newness.

I’m too crappy a musician to judge whether this makes any difference to the expressive ‘feel’ of the instrument; but come on, is it really worth it to pay top dollar for something not in pristine condition? Or put another way, something very carefully rendered imperfect? I mean, this is the kind of thing old-style ne’er-do-wells would do to create fake antiques, right?

And you can see this trend cropping up in other ways too: jeans with the knees busted out or (remember this?) stone-washed denim, ‘cottage-style’ furniture with freshly weathered paint and/or dinged-up wood. There were those leather jackets in the 80s that had unconvincingly applied scuffs and scrapes – they weren’t even pretending to look authentic but we all wanted to look like David Hasselhoff, didn’t we? Well, you did anyway.

It’s no wonder they call this look ‘distressed’.

Such a paradox – the use of artifice to create less-than-pristine articles. Now, since I’ve taxed you with a late Victorian priest-poet, let me just add that this paradox has been known for many centuries by the practitioners of eastern mystical thinking, who write inscrutably of ‘perfect imperfection’ – the essence of Zen. Which is another way of saying “it is what it is.” And that’s pretty hard to disagree with.

So, contemplating the various surfaces around Corner Cottage that exhibit rust, verdigris, oxidation, pitting, wear; or that lawn with its mystical pattern of weeds – like the studio roof, “it is what it is.”  It has mojo, right?