Purveyor of Bollocks to the Crowned Heads of Europe
Sunday, 24 August 2014
Fry-ups are as perennial as the grass
I saw the grotesque (grotto-esque) caryatid face in the corbel bracket as the light faded the other night. It is easy to see where the inspiration for those carvings came from - the indistinct faces of demi-gods which haunt underground places, trapped in the stone from which they are made.
Like those clever camera apps, we are programmed to see faces in the simple juxtaposition of four separate shapes, which is probably why cyclops are so shocking.
"Make any mark you like with this pencil on this paper," I once said to my brother, "and I will turn it into a fish." There is no mark that cannot be turned into a fish by the addition of one other. Give it a try.
I am shockingly hung-over today. I went to bed at 7.00 am this morning, after a dinner-party to wave goodbye to a friend who goes back home to the USA in a week or so, and it all went tits-up in the pub later.
I can hear the mournful strains of Albinoni's Adagio coming from the kitchen as I write this, and as I wait for H.I. to finish her breakfast so we can go out and have a fried one in a nearby cafe. I really need a fry-up.
Ok, I know Albinoni didn't actually write it, and I wish I didn't. It spoils it for me to know that it is a pastiche of the real thing, albeit a good one.
It's like the Desiderata that used to be pinned to everyone's wall in the late 1960s - 'Go placidly amidst the noise and haste...' etc. Written by a bloody Hippy, albeit well written.
My kingdom for a sausage - but not a Linda McCartney one.