Lest I seem to be splitting hairs, I should perhaps add that the former instance might well be a case of two amiable widows occasionally meeting in, let’s suppose, a disused pig-pen or similar compound where they desultorily pop a few more rivets into their long lives’ work, a single immense funnel of statuesque and sturdy conception; whereas the latter case might imply a colossal foundry or other such satanic installation which churns out, in their tens of thousands, minute funnels of such a definitively non-industrial calibre that they buckle, or actually wither to dust, under the mere weight of the potential customer’s scrutiny.