I am born. Without norms. I am very large, says the doctor. I am so small, thinks the mother. I am fed, swaddled and weighed. I am cared for and loved.

I learn quickly. When I have a problem, I bawl. And when I cry, two grown-ups come to comfort me, knowing what to do.

I am 30 months old. I don't speak yet. This is considered unusual. Later I notice that one says <hello> and shakes a hand. One says <please> and <thank-you> at the table.

I grow continually. My sleeves become too short. Father measures my height with a ruler. He marks it on the door frame.

I play with my wooden box. The cube must pass through the square hole. The cylinder must pass through the round one. I try outwitting the game. But I can't change the principle.

I go to kindergarten. We draw our home with a pointed roof and Mother and Father in front. The water is blue, the sun has a face. Mother wears a dress, Father wears trousers.

We go to school. We learn numeracy: One plus one is two. We memorise the times tables: Two times two is four.

We practice penmanship. We write on lined paper. The letters follow the lines. When they don't, I have to correct them.

We move on to university. We become acquainted with conventions and laws. We draw buildings with flat roofs. The ruler shows centimetres, the line is black.

We become architects. We build new buildings, we convert existing ones. We design following the norm. The doors open in the direction of the fire escape. The kitchen cupboards are 550 millimetres deep.

<trans24> concerns itself with a subject that lies somewhere between pattern and chaos, mass production and mass customization, totalitarian synchronisation and everybody's wish to stand out against the normed mass.