Thomas Sutcliffe: Love, not architecture, makes buildings endure

You only have to ask yourself which one is going to be there in a thousand years time and the answer is obvious," said David Dimbleby on Start the Week yesterday. He was talking about a photograph from his new book on British architecture, in which the Tower of London occupied the foreground and Norman Foster's Gherkin reared up behind it - in Dimbleby's slightly prejudicial words - "like a half-inflated balloon". It was certainly obvious which answer Dimbleby himself would have given.

And he's right ... obviously ... that the Tower of London has a considerable head-start in the treasured antiquity stakes. Forced to choose between the two, most of us would give it better odds of making it to the year 3000. What was less obvious - to me at least - was why any choice was necessary. But it seems that the impermanence of contemporary architecture was specifically part of Dimbleby's point: "We may be the first generation," he continued, "that leaves no architectural trace ... of who we were or what we were."

Rather oddly, Dimbleby's argument seemed to rest partly on a question of materials. "If you're building in glass and steel and concrete," he said, "you don't last as long as building in stone and brick." I have no expertise as a structural engineer, but I can't help wondering about the accuracy of this remark - which in any case surely misses the point about what actually keeps buildings standing through the ages. After all, had it been neglected for the past four hundred years, the Tower of London would be little more than a pile of rubble.

What keeps it upright is the weather-proofing of public regard - a sentiment that may range in nature from nostalgic familiarity to serious historical scholarship. And though the Gherkin has still to survive that most dangerous period for any building - when it has ceased to be novel and not yet become cherishably old - I have a feeling that it stands a good chance of acquiring the patina of cultural affection.

Dimbleby's remark chimed interestingly with the news, earlier yesterday, that the Cutty Sark had been damaged by fire - a story that began as heritage catastrophe but rapidly cooled to narrow escape. And again there was an odd attitude to material continuity revealed by the coverage - with much speculation about what percentage of the original timbers had been lost.

This was understandable, I suppose. There is information in ancient timber, quite apart from the historical charisma of the authentic object. But, at the same time, the first builders of the Cutty Sark would never have assumed that its integrity as a ship rested in any individual plank or timber. Indeed, had it been at sea since 1869 it's likely that most of its components would have been replaced anyway (had anyone thought it worth spending the money) and yet it wouldn't have ceased to be the Cutty Sark because of that.

Ships (and buildings) have accidents or wear out and need repair. For them to receive such attention, we have to care about them more than we do about money or convenience, and I think it's arguable that this intangible quality - what English Heritage sums up as "significance" - is the only critical building block of any durable monument.

Curiously, it's also a quality that can be strengthened by damage. The fire might have scorched some of the Cutty Sark's planks, but it hasn't weakened our regard for the ship itself. In fact, I'm willing to bet we care a lot more about its future today than we did on Sunday night.

US TV at its most pointless

Most British coverage of the Fall Upfronts - at which American networks unveil their new schedules to advertisers - concentrates on spotting the hot shows that might be heading our way. But I find myself more tantalised by the Monkey Tennis no-hopers. I don't suppose we will ever see Fat March, in which obese contestants are challenged to walk 500 miles for a cash prize, and I'll be astonished if Cavemen crosses the Atlantic.

Cavemen, left, is based on a series of adverts for online car insurance, in which resentful Neanderthals deplore their stigmatisation as primitive technophobes. "The idea is to offend everyone but offend no one," said one executive - perfectly capturing the circular pointlessness of the worst American TV.

If you have anxieties about the spread of CCTV, one solution is suggested by a London film-maker, Manu Luksch, who has recently completed a science fiction film starring herself and filmed entirely on CCTV.

Luksch discovered that the Data Protection Act gives us the right to ask for any CCTV footage on which we appear. The law states that this must be supplied within 40 days and that a maximum fee of £10 can be charged for the service. The fact that not many people know this meant that it took Luksch nearly five years to complete her somewhat staccato labour of love. But since the cost of supplying the relevant images must considerably exceed the nominal fee, it's clear that, with a bit of organisation and mischievous will, virtually any camera could be rendered more trouble than it is worth. With most CCTV cameras I don't suppose anybody could be bothered - but I can't help wondering whether congestion charge cameras are exempt from the legislation.

t.sutcliffe@independent.co.uk