In a private club tucked away in central London three gentlemen sat savouring their brandies. The oldest, a plump figure bald, lived-in face, his eyes bird-like darting everywhere.
”The memorial service was pukka, don’t you think?”
His colleagues nodded their agreement. The man with a military bearing leaned forward, glancing around.
”Just thank the lord he did the honourable thing after his traitorous behaviour.”
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How stupid do you have to be to fall down a well? Pretty stupid, I’m sure.
When I was eleven I did the very same thing when collecting water with my brother. Even after my mother, peeling and chopping a pile of potatoes over the sink, apron soaked with water and littered with small potato skins, warned us.
“Careful round that well,” she declared, eyes stuck to the potatoes. “You remember what happened with Dorothy’s poor wee lass.”
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What a great place for a mini break Madrid is, especially the wonderful galleries. I went with a group of friends and we spent hours in the Prado. One thing that continues to bother us is the painting of Sisyphus. We talk about it a lot. I now realise it has bothered people far and wide across time and place. Why, in Greek mythology, did Hades condemn Sisyphus to roll a ridiculously heavy rock up a steep hill, only to have it roll back down and for the process to begin again – for eternity: a curse of mind numbing, excruciating boredom, to say nothing of huge physical effort?
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Lorenzo had booked the local pub, boasting to a few hopefuls that they’d win “oh fifty quid” and have the attention of a hundred people when they performed.
The worst thing that could happen was that they’d be laughed at, although this crowd tended to look away in embarrassment when a no-talent embarrassed themselves.
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