YouTube Videos: stories and more

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YouTube Videos

I will start reading my stories on Youtube, combining them with the small hardboard pieces from the Universal Alphabet.

https://www.youtube.com/@Tadeusz598/videos

https://www.youtube.com/@Tadeusz598/shorts

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The lady and the hedgehog

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The lady - as she lowered herself onto the bench

The lady and the hedgehog

Judy and I were lying on the grass, rather idly, I confess. It was her idea, and not a bad one at all, which was to break municipal regulations and take a bottle of bubbly up to the park and, with Doritos and cream cheese, enjoy its crisp flavours.

 It was that park up there in the suburb, where no one seems to go- ornate iron railings, a large grassy triangle, separated from paths by long rows of crimson rose bushes. And a hot sun blessing all.

We`d enjoyed the wine and it was time, I thought, to observe the clouds, doze and be grateful.

Alas, my wish was to be denied.

Judy sat up emitting a thunderous burp.

"Jesus Judy!"

"Oh, get over yourself! When a girl`s gotta burp a burp`s gotta go!"

Then something caught her eye.

"Look!" 

"What?"

"On the bench."

"Oh," I said, "Which bench?" I really wasn't interested. And I was still unhappy about the burp.

"That one. There."

She pointed. I couldn't be bothered rising. That wine haze was just right for staying lying down.

"There's something on it."

"Oh," I said. I wasn`t going to sit up to just to see some random item on a bench.

"Hedgehog," said Judy.

"What?"

"A hedgehog."

"Hedgehog?"

"Hedgehog, for Chrissake."

Finally I sat up. "Oh. How did it get there?"

"Who knows," said Judy. "But it's definitely there. And it’s definitely a hedgehog." 

"Is it sleeping?"

"I don't know. It's gone into a ball."

Judy watched intently.

A lady came alone. Middle aged and very large in a flowery dress.

"Look," Judy said. "A lady."

The lady approached the bench. 

Then the lady began to lower herself onto the seat.

"Oh God," I said.

"Oh Christ," said Judy.

A loud hissing sound, a billowing dress.

"Oh my,"  cried Judy, rising to her feet. "There`s air coming out."

"What the fuck!"

"Oh God, oh God,"  said Judy. "She`s…she`s leaking!"

I stood up. I felt a sudden giddiness from the sun and the wine and the burp and the hedgehog and the lady. "We must do something."

"Yes, do something," shouted Judy. She had become quite frantic.

We rushed across. Already the lady had lost half her girth.

"O Jesus," exclaimed Judy.

The lady, face frozen, stammered, "I think I sat on something."

"You did, you can say that again," Judy replied, (and there was a slightly sarcastic note in her voice, which, between us, I found rather unnecessary). 

 "Hedgehog," I said.

"Oh my God oh God," stuttered the lady. "I’ll just be skin and bones," as the air seeped out steadily from a hole in  her rear. "Oh oh, call someone, will you? I'll need a patch. And a pump."

The lady was becoming very slim and floppy.

We stood there. Judy looked at the lady, then to me. "What…."

In moments the lady, a bag of bones in a summer dress. her expression, frozen.

Judy felt bad. She`d always thought of herself as the sort of person who knew exactly what to do in a crisis. "Can we do something?"

Judy bent down. A long cloth sack albeit with two flopping legs. Her shoes fell onto the ground with a sorry sound. 

"Are you still alive?"

"Patch me and pump me," gasped the lady. "Please." A faint hissing as more air escaped.

"There's a garage up the road. We can take you there," said Judy.

I took the legs and Judy carried the shoulders. 

The garage wasn't far. It was one of those little garages- space for one car and a yard full of discarded parts, the rusting body of an ancient Triumph and a bust up caravan, and an enormous pile of tires. And a man in blue overalls bent, buried in a car engine.

"Hey!" Said Judy.

He extracted himself- a big oil streaked face. He grinned, the saw the lady, her body sagging between us.

"Oh, her again. Put her over there." He gestured to the pile of tires. "I'll deal with it later."

"What?" asked Judy.

"Happens all the time," he said. "Don`t worry. I`ll patch her and pump her up. Come back at the end of the day. If you want. She`ll be good as new."

"Let me give you something," said Judy, fishing some bills from her pocket. "Will this cover it?" She held out a twenty.

"Nah, don't worry. Community service," said the nice mechanic.

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The bouncing shoe: a design prototype

  

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The bouncing shoe: a design prototype

 

 

the bouncing shoe

 

 

Experience the magic of bounce !

Who has not experienced a sense of frustration when walking with how much energy is expended and yet needlessly lost because shoe design fails to completely take advantage of the possibilities of bounce.

 

Finally a solution: the bouncing shoe.

The bouncing shoe allows the walker to fully capitalize on the reflexive results of his own footsteps.

This is the sketch for the prototype of the bouncing shoe. As yet, many details are still under consideration. But the basic concept is this: the user inserts their foot into the shoe which is made of a material spony and highly elastic and then proceeds to walk, only now, instead of the deadening footsteps they are accustomed to, now they experience a full and invigorating bounce, propelling them forward to further and further distances with less effort

A detail still in the research and development stage is how the foot will be received by the bouncing shoe

One solution is that the bouncing shoe is constructed similarly to an inflatable  balloon, with a nozzle for inflation, and an opening for the insertion of a foot. When inflated the ball  would close around the foot, securing it. The disadvantage of this is the issue of puncture.

 

A second idea proposes that the bouncing shoe is made of a more solid material, similar to that used for children`s bouncy balls. If so, the opening for the foot would be stiffer, and it would be necessary for the user to wear a spongy sock, cushioned within the hole ang protect them when walking .

 

Markets

It is believed that the market for the bouncing shoe is predominantly younger people living in urban areas, who are style-conscious and  aware of the need to preserve energy. There may also be a target market among senior walkers, who might appreciate its energy saving capacities.

A further market lies among sports people- most obviously court sports (volleyball, basketball, badminton) and gymnastics, and it is very possible that soccer players will also find this footwear advantageous.

There may also be interest in the contemporary dance and circus performance art communities.

The bouncing shoe should only be used with caution by disabled people.

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In Italy

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In Italy

Perhaps this book was one of several found in Catherine Dawes' house in Suffolk after they had just bought it. There were a few left behind in a box by the previous owner. 

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The book is lovely, belonging to the days just before mass travel, before tourist crowds appeared, to exhaust places, sucking the mystery from them. There’s sweetness in the hand tinted images: mellow olive groves and still sunlit hillsides, silent squares, then fading stucco churches.

The Italy I know isn’t like this at all. It's more complex and, I'd say, much unhappier. Elegance cannot compensate for political mistrust. 

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The last time I was in Italy I went to Rome: recently divorced: alone. 

September: I strolled along the river and through the parks. The smell of the leaves sweetened a damp breeze. Rome is sad in September, but it is sad in a kind way.

I met an American woman like a stick insect who was staying in the same hotel. She knew everything about everything. The proprietor, a very short, pudgy young Coloradan was eager to chat. Funnily, she knew someone from the same tiny, extremely Jewish, Colorado town as he’d grown up, miserably, in. Drinks were surely in order, he declared. 

He took us to a nearby pizzeria. Though married and at least a foot shorter than the American woman he began flirting rather forcefully with her. He tried to exclude me by only responding conversationally to the thin woman and dismissing my contributions. He knew everything about everything and told her that the Sistene was not worth visiting.  We became a little drunk.

Oh the appalling sexual desperation of the male! 

The diminutive hotel proprietor wanted to make further advances with the woman. 

To do this he invited us to his den in the basement of the hotel, where he’d sometimes sleep. Photos of his beaming wife and children in their ideal Orvieto home lined the wall in the corridor outside. The den had a big sofa. We sat on it. Then the proprietor offered us both foot massages. Obviously, this was an attempt to seduce the Californian. Probably, I was expected to refuse. But we both accepted: he knelt before us and massaged first my feet then hers. 

Then we left. 

That was weird, said the Californian woman in the street above. I’ve never had a foot massage since, nor met anyone from Colorado.

The woman wanted to eat a fine Italian meal and the proprietor had recommended somewhere enthusiastically. 

We went the next night. It was a small place: a little group, in the weighty elegance of Romans, was waiting outside waiting for it to open. We felt under-dressed though my companion had managed to find a simple frock and looked quite nice in an understated way. 

When the restaurant opened, the group was welcomed warmly by an Important Manager who wore a shiny jacket and silk tie and costly loafers. 

We, however, were given a tiny table in the back where we were to crouch as an unsmiling waiter quickly served us an enormous single ravioli each: these resembled soft sea shells. The ravioli had egg yolk inside: we could not figure out why. Our conversation waned uneasily. We were given wine.  It didn’t help.  

Soon after, they brought us the bill. It was not low. The Important Manager asked us how the meal was in an efficient way. We paid, painfully. Then we were encouraged to leave. 

We stood for some moments, puzzled, in the wet night. We didn't really know each other.

We walked back up through the city and the wind blew more forcefully across Rome's monstrous baroque buildings. I asked the American woman if she liked Ezra Pound but she hadn't heard of him. She said that this was the difference between having a British or American education.

 The next day we met the hotel proprietor. He asked us how the meal was and we both said it was fine.

The American woman then went to Venice to join some Italian man she had never met before but who maintained he was in love with her. She didn’t find this unlikely.

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The Animals in our homes, Part 2

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The Animals in our homes, Part 2

 

 

Since the publication of my piece The animals in our homes in the Milton and Chittering Gazette, I have received considerable correspondence.

These have come, generally, in the form of email, via the newspaper, but I also received letters through the postal service, which were then forwarded by the Gazette. 

It should not have surprised me that my piece, published online, of course, might have been read by people outside the north Cambridgeshire area which the paper is primarily intended for, especially given that the article mentions incidents in Paris and in London and on the coast. 

However, that over 1000 readers from as far afield as Brazil, Japan and Western Australia should have troubled to respond did strike me as noteworthy. I had clearly touched upon an underreported or unacknowledged  phenomenon.

Among respondents were a few sceptics.

 One was an outraged Evangelical Christian in Alabama who, in dark red ink, accused me of encouraging devil-worship. He enclosed a copy of his self published title  “How I escaped from the Grasping Hands of Satan”. Alas, I have yet to find time to read it.

The second abusive missive arrived all the way from Salvador, Bahia, in North Eastern Brazil. Unusually, it came straight to my home address - all the other pieces of mail came via the newspapers box number, or in the form of emails.

I opened the padded jiffy bag at my desk: mysteriously it was covered in black crosses- at first I assumed these to be administrative annotations from the postal services. Inside, however, was a zip lock plastic bag, and I could make out some feathers inside. I shook the contents out onto my desk - a cockerel's head, severed at the neck, fell, beak open- as if executed at the moment of crowing. In the throat I could see something white.

 I went to the bathroom and found some tweezers. I caught the white thing and prized it out- a tiny  roll of paper…  and unrolling saw the word “Aviso”, on one side; on the reverse was the image of a knight slaying a hideously pustulated devil.

 “Aviso”? I put it in Google translate. "Warning" "Warning": of what? Was I a cockrell that had crowed too loudly? And would that be my fate, to be executed, my head sent as an example to some other morally errant newspaper columnist somewhere ? Or was the cockrell a sacrifice, an invocation to some Bahian demon,  and would I tomorrow awake, my body covered in yellow sores, each the home of spiny worms, burrowing…?

The thought was too unpleasant to contemplate. But the bird's head lay there on my writing desk, eying me. I wondered whether I should call the police. But what would they do? Send an Interpol task force to North Eastern Brazil? More likely, all that I would achieve would be to provide material for the amusement of officers in the police canteen.  It seemed better to ignore the parcel. But how had the sender had got my home address? Disturbing…

Better not to engage. I put the cockerel head, and the slip of paper in the bin.

However, almost all communications were supportive of the general thesis of the piece, and many expressed considerable gratitude to me for writing it, and I wish to thank everyone who took the trouble to respond positively. And I must express my gratitude to “a well wisher” for the card containing a silver crescent, which he urges me to wear at all times.

Curiously, a large white envelope of unusually stiff paper came, on it an embossed seal- that of The White House.  Could my article really have been read, and responded to by as esteemed a figure as the President of the United States of America?

I unfolded the thick paper-

“Deer riter,

 I love yor articol

 God bles animals everywhere (includin dogis and puddys in the USA god bles USA)

 Bles u 2 

yor pressydint  

jO

It did appear to have been written by an unusually backward seven year old, and I am inclined, therefore, to believe it to be genuine.

 It ended with a postscript-

p.s. Camel help jO rite this

The letters sometimes contain a measure of indignation. They come from people who had often been subjected to disbelief, even ridicule by their own family members for their sincere accounts of mysterious incidents involving animals in their homes, incidents involving, among many other creatures, the presence of hare,  gazelle, a small herd of moose, three elephants, at least a dozen sightings of penguins and an invasion of red widow spiders.

Over twenty of these included photographs, probably taken with cell phones and subsequently printed on home printers. Sadly, these are rarely of the highest quality. They have often been taken at night, at moments when the photographer was unprepared. The picture takers are obviously not professionals with the best equipment at hand. 

 But two are of sufficient quality to print in a newspaper, and it is to these I wish to draw your attention. 

The first photo is accompanied by an especially clearly written account:

“Further to your article in the MIlton and Chitering Gazette, it occurred to me that you might be interested to know of some events which have taken place on a regular basis here in my flat in Bury Place, WC1A, London.

The letter was from a woman. She does not disclose her age but one can assume from the contents that  she is in her sixties or early seventies. LIke many letters, it contained details of the writer's life.

It states-

I bought this apartment in an auction about 20 years ago. 

The place was perfect for me- a three bedroom apartment in an old red brick block off Bury Place. It has many original features- black marble fireplaces, plaster ceiling decorations and original oak doors.

 My husband had died unexpectedly and the children had long left home, and our Surrey house had become far too large for one. It was obvious that the time had come to return to London from Surrey. Besides, I had always missed the life of the capital, and when this apartment, near the British Museum, came available I put in an offer immediately.

 It came with some furniture - mainly Victorian from the previous tenant who had died. These are handsome pieces, perhaps somewhat heavy for contemporary taste, of mahogany and teak- they included a large glazed bookcase, a handsome oval dining table and a set of dining chairs.

After I had sorted the apartment- I had the wooden floors polished, redecorated the walls,  redid the bathroom and installed a new kitchen-  I moved in. I kept the pieces of furniture that had come with the flat. They had a definite grandeur, and I liked the way they seemed to tell a story, to bring the past into the present, as it were.

 I had studied Archeology in London and was grateful to be back after the long years out in the suburbs with little there in the way of cultural interest and so few others to really talk to about much except cookery and the gossip around the school and the tennis club. Back in Bloomsbury I reconnected easily with the things I used to love and had so missed- visiting galleries, trying different foods, joining book groups and seeing plays and lectures.

The flat was ideal. From time to time, one of my children would come to visit.  We`d have lunch and see a film or a concert. Or I`d meet one of the old friends from the university days for a coffee, or a glass of wine.

 But I began to notice something quite peculiar. I would hear sounds and wake up in the middle of the night- the sound of soft but heavy footsteps, padding across the hall of the flat, causing a creaking now and again on the wooden floor.  

At first I assumed this was simply the sort of noise that you might hear in any apartment more than 120 years old. Perhaps, it was the sound of an insomniac neighbour, unable to sleep, using some sort of exercise machine? I would lie there wondering. Then, one night I thought, Enough! And I went to investigate, following the corridor down to the dining room - there! In front of the oval table, a giant maned lion, lying with its head up. 

It turned to see me - I froze- , then it yawned, before resting its great head on its immense paws, as if I were of no more importance than the new wallpaper I had so recently hung.

With the lion`s indifference, I became bolder, and when I heard the padding as it did it`s nocturnal rounds I would occasionally follow it in my pyjamas.  It had certain favourite spots and these were always linked to the items which had came with the apartment- the oval table, the dining chairs and the glazed bookcase, 

It strode at ease and never roared, or even growled and I've even become quite charmed by its presence.

I`d worked on a few archeological digs during my field work as a student. I`d spent time in mediaeval castles and on Roman sites across the country- freezing weeks on my knees with a sieve and a trowel in muddy fields in Cumbria, rescuing bit of broken pottery, and the occasional coin from the soil, sustained by hot tea and the fun of being with the others from my course. 

It isn't often mentioned in academic journals how common (indeed, I would say, usual) it is for these sites to be visited by the ghosts of those who once dwelt in them- and most archaeologists have had lengthy conversations with Roman legionnaires, mediaeval abbots, viking tradesmen and countless humble serfs from any epoch, though they rarely mention these incidents to others for feel of ridicule.

However, human ghosts are one thing, and their existence is broadly recognised, at least as a possibility in many cultures.

But, when I came across your piece, I felt immediately that you were describing something else, which might be relevant to my lion situation, a sort of animal spirit, representative of a previous resident in someone's home.

I began to do some research. I could find quite a lot on the records. And the presence of the lion started to make sense.

The flat, it transpires, had been on the market for about a year before being put up for auction. The previous owner and occupant had been someone called Carl Nielsen. He had bought this apartment in 1991 and lived in it thereafter. He was a broker in a small brokerage called NIelsen and Hart, which he`d founded with a former partner in 1988. They`d met at another brokerage called Bernard Stanley in 1985.

 I managed to get hold of James Hart. He was quite old, maybe in his late eighties but he still held a role in Nielsen and Hart, and occasionally appears there to look over things.

He told me about Nielsen. He said that Nielsen was Danish, though he had grown up in Britain. He was a reserved, orderly man. He had been appalled by the management of brokerages and the stock exchanges in the years leading up to the crash of 1987. and that had led him to co-found the brokerage.

It was not just the management he had disliked, with its emphasis on short term gain-  it was also the general culture in the City. Nielsen was a restrained man, a self-contained man. He felt that there was something inherently remiss with the exaggerated bonuses, and the excesses they led to-  the cocaine, the wasting of money in city bars and on oversized Rolex watches and strip clubs and yachts that were never sailed. These made him deeply uncomfortable. 

The Dane that grew up with the austere elegance of Jacobsen chairs and delicate paintings by Købke and Hammershøi or cool, unadorned churches, and plain but wholesome food found himself profoundly ill at ease with the ostentation.

 

  When the brokers went to wine bars on a friday night and competed over which expensive champagne to buy he felt a deep inner discomfort. Hart said Nielsen didn't say anything but would make an excuse to leave these events. 

This feeling led them to co-found the brokerage. Though both were wary of virtue signalling, their brokerage had to be founded on at least some broad ethical principles. These would mean ethics not in a passive acceptance of rules but in an active seeking after investment opportunities which would at least be likely to have some inherently positive outcomes. 

Hart said that Nielsen never married, he did not have “the vocation” - when Hart related this he gave an affectionate smile. No, he wasnt gay, if thats what you are thinking. Actually women were attracted to him, and he to them, but he held back, he did not see himself in the role of husband. 

Hart paused and the way he looked at me when he said again, “he was a very orderly man,”  it almost seemd an accusal, directed to me or my sex! 

Hart then described how Nielsen had devoted his spare time to collecting coins.

 Hart once went to visit him, and he presented his trophies on that big oval table-  they were contained in specially constructed wooden trays lined with red baize. It was an extraordinary array, with gold coins from ancient Greece, from Rome and Byzantium. It became world famous, and Nielsen became instrumental in the London Numismatists Association, and a consultant to Spink and Son. On his death the collection was given to the British Museum.

The letter writer included two photograph: one taken at night clearly shows a lion, head resting on its paws, perhaps napping or perhaps in reflection. The second is of Carl Nielsen- it is from the webpage of the brokerage firm- a handsome man with a strong jaw, a withdrawn expression and a fine head of blonde hair.

The second missive I wish to bring to readers attention to was an email from quite close to Milton- the writer identifies herself simply as Margaret. The letter is long and detailed, and I chose for the sake of concision to summarise some parts of it.

“I came into my drawing room and there was a huge land tortoise on my sofa and at firstI  didn’t know what to think. I thought perhaps it could have escaped from a local zoo. But there is no zoo here nearby, the nearest is in London. I thought it might have wandered over from a neighbor but it seemed unlikely as it would have had to climb over a fence as well as find a way of entering the house, and it does not appear to be very agile !!! (Margarets exclamation marks) 

 “But I came across your article in the Milton and Chittering Gazette, and it opened my eyes. I started to do some research of my own about who lived here before.

“I’ve been living here for some time. In fact, I was born here and my parents bought the house in 1920. My son-in-law helped me do more research. He discovered that the house was built in the 1860s and originally belonged to the church. It was intended for the parish vicar, but then they decided to give him another house which the church had been bequeathed by a parishioner and instead this house was sold to the railway and occupied by one of their employees, a ticket inspector. 

“This man was notoriously sour in character. It seemed to give him considerable pleasure to discover an anomaly in the ticket of any traveller, who would subsequently be forced to pay a hefty fine, or have to go through a complex appeals process. “Only doing my job” he would say, in response to grumbles and complaints, “someone has to, can`t have some pay full fare, others not.”

But other passengers, seeing how he fined a refugee couple escaping violence in the Pale of Settlement, felt outraged.

“Why don’t you give these poor people a break, they can’t pay that fine! And how could they be expected to know the exact terms and conditions of tickets in Liverpool street station?” asked the woman who ran a small grocery shop in the village and happened to be in the carriage. “I’m doing my job for what I'm paid and that's what keeps England’s railway lines going and if he doesn't like it he can write to the company and state his case. Or go back to the continent where they do things in their continental ways.” 

“On hearing this, another passenger put down his newspaper. “Write a letter of appeal! Why, these people can hardly speak English, have a heart.” “You mind your own business,” replied the inspector. “They want to come here, they have the same obligations as everyone. That makes sense and that's the law of the land.”

Or he might say, in a condescending tone, “She may have her rights but I have my duties and I’m honour bound by my contract to give her a fine and it's up to them to pay or contest it in Her Majesty's Courts of  Justice.” He loved such phrases, and he flourished them as he handed out a penalty fare notice to a pregnant woman who had obviously become confused having travelled on the second class carriage instead of the third. 

“There were few locals who had not seen one incident or another, and often the victims were confused, elderly or foreign individuals. He greeted all with a high handedness which sat badly with the residents of what was an unpresumptuous settlement of market gardens and small farms.

 Word gets around quickly in little country communities, and it is rare that a man who has made himself disliked, can ever recover his reputation.

 A letter in an old parish newsletter, which Margaret had uncovered, reflected general sentiment: “Sirs, I wish to draw attention to readers to the iniquitous fines and uncharitable treatment that is being meted out on our local railway line. The inspector in question refuses to be drawn into discussion and in a manner most offensive to our local consensual ways disdains to discuss his rigid and unsympathetic manner which I take the view is most unchristian and inconsistent with the ways of this parish”

And so, when he attended the local parish church, he found himself alone at the pew. Only the parish priest, linked distantly through the common history of the house, and in keeping with his role as a community leader, would make conversation. 

The man who had interjected in favour of the Jewish refugees would not turn and shake the inspector`s hand at the close of the service. The grocer, too, had spread word of the inspector's behaviour to everyone who had entered the shop.

Thus the village rapidly became a friendless place ….and the railway inspector  would return from church on Sundays to eat a roast lunch in silence, bitterly alone. 

Seeing how the inspector was ostracised the vicar made a sermon one week, reading directly from Matthew 7-1-

Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgement ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? 

The congregation seemed unable or unwilling to grasp the relevance of this sermon.  

The vicar tried a month later, this time quoting from Luke 19-1-

Zacchaeus, make haste, and come down; for today I must abide at thy house. And he made haste, and came down, and received him joyfully. And when they saw it, they all murmured, saying, That he was gone to be a guest with a man that is a sinner. And Zacchaeus stood, and said unto the Lord; Behold, Lord, the half of my goods I give to the poor; and if I have taken any thing from any man by false accusation, I restore him fourfold. And Jesus said unto him, This day is salvation come to this house, forsomuch as he also is a son of Abraham.

This too, was to no avail, even though, with obvious symbolism, the vicar invited himself to lunch at the inspector's house.

The villagers had reached their conclusions and the railway inspector continued alone- shunned, embittered, misunderstood.

He held his anger within. Was he not simply doing his job, a job that in it’s humble way ensured that all were treated equally and the railways could raise the revenues necessary to maintain a decent service? Was society so taken with sentimental foolishness that it could not see the sense in maintaining rules and ensuring their strict adherence?

Margaret continued: “so, ever since I lived here I have had this presence, and it has appeared and then as soon as it appeared gone, as if a vision. But I enclose a photograph herewith which I managed to take. Sorry if it is a little blurry as I hope it might be of interest to you and your readers.”

The photograph is in colour. Margaret`s sofa is in a country chintz with yellow and green flowers on a cream background.

 And in the middle, the tortoise, a big dark brown oval, withdrawn.

Illustration- St Jerome in his Study, monotype, c. 2005

 

 

 

 

 

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