18 July 2006

Absinthe Makes The Heart Grow Fonder


Ah, Paris!

It was 1889. Or was it '90? No matter. There I was, figuratively and literally soaking up Paris Café Society, hobnobbing with ex-pat Brits and the occasional well-brought-up American (very occasional, those) when a rather unassuming-looking gentleman asked in halting yet charmingly mangled English, if he could, perhaps, paint my portrait.

As I had not exactly fallen off the turnip truck the previous Saturday, I knew exactly where that sort of proposition could lead: Yours Truly, draped in a couple of metres of diaphanous fabric in a grotty little garrett in le Marais, waiting for the paint to dry and the other shoe to drop, as it were.

But, much to my surprise, Monsieur Degas was all business.

Drat.

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