| Thursday, December 19, 2002 |
 | Hoom. There is stuff on my mind at present, which is no great desire to be dark and mysterious but rather not to implicate or bore people. Also, because others have spoken very well and very movingly about related tpics, and Ihaveno intention of crashing their action. So, instead, let's catch up on Upsideclown.
"Uncle David, what's that on the mantelpiece?"
"That, my dear, is a golden coprolite."
"What's one of those?"
"Let me tell you a story..."
In reverse order of age, Victor has a touching tale involving not a single Werther's Original. Nor, to may disappointment, Gripper Stebson. Here.
"What did your last slave die of?"
I flex my fingers and think, and think some more. Celine? Or Margot? I can't quite remember the names any more. They blur with the round faces of those kept. The sun through the window-panes warms my skin and I tilt my head, hoping that the light will make my cheekbones glow.
She watches me steadily; the man at her elbow puts his pen down. Babette? It comes to me. "Alice! Exhaustion. She'd been was moving Lady Sofia's belongings into the palace. I think she'd been carrying the gold bath, or the gold bidet. Or both. Yes, both, because that's how they found her, with the bathroom stuff packed on top of her."
George, our own aristocrat, is involved once again in negotiations. And Matt is searching out an ancient race. We used to do it with pigeons:
A string of coincidences -- one of my graduate students spotting the same colour sequences in the rugs and the necklaces. An associate recognising another necklace with a pattern similar to ones she'd found in Spain. And, critically, the Neanderthal bead rug that could've languished forever in that basement in Prague if it wasn't for the 2012 floods. Without these, we'd never have started looking for commonalities in what we'd previously disregarded as simple craft.
0 Comments:
| |
