RUTTING ON T’WOLD HERALD
Horace, brother of our esteemed Mrs Hermione Scheuden-Freud, confides he has dreams of being a famous artist
Actually you know, I don’t; Sophia has ordered I go for it.
Darling girl is a fragile little thing but knows all about Art and stuff, I’m a bit of a duffer. Swithins, who took us for Art in the fifth form, was drunk all the time. Kept muttering he’d been Bacon’s Mews. None of us boys could find it in Perkins’ A to Z. Mysteriously everyone in our year passed Art GCSE, even me and I missed the exam. Cholmondley and I were at Kettner’s Champagne Bar and lost track of the time.
Anyway, Sophia’s ex is Claude Swatchi – you know, art-collector with loads of hair in The Tatler and a fixture in Forbes rich list. Sophes is not impressed: she broke off the engagement due to his rampant dandruff, but told the chap she couldn’t condone his views on cubists. At least, I think that’s what she said. He still dotes on her.
Sophia said a diligent cleaner cleared away one of the exhibits! No-one would have known who it was, but the cleaner asked for a pay-rise afterwards. Said the year’s worth of dirty nappies didn’t bother him or huge farting buttocks – it was the maggots. Man got sacked, but I thought he deserved a knighthood. Sophe agreed with me but said Claude was apoplectic. He’d had an American buyer sniffing round Anus Horribilis, offering 27,000 smackers.
Sophia wants me to produce art for an exhibition at Claude’s, she says it’s easy money. She’d love to do it, but her weak wrists … I’m not sure, one has a busy social life. Brainwave! Sophia could ask Christabel. Sophia said she’d tried, but Christabel is three and a manipulative Diva.
I’ve seen chap’s jaws drop when Sophes comes out with her long words.
The past fortnight has been exhausting: the little woman’s filled my phone with weird sculptures and oil-paintings of stripes. The pictures in which I can recognise things contain strange scenes. What’s wrong with a good old battle, or a retriever holding a dead hare? Masses of those dotted around the parental home. Sophia has dragged me round every damn gallery in London, not to mention ‘installations’.
The only one I understood was ‘Blitz’, where – after health warnings – balloons were popped. The artist looked depressed: he confided he’d had a working cannon, siren and howitzers when he opened, but Health and Safety berks confiscated them. ‘Balloons’ – he savagely jabbed at one bobbing near my ear – ‘just don’t cut it!’
Not sure I can. The little woman’s in Majorca this week-end but has commanded I paint a picture. Keeps checking up on me! The mobile’s shrilling again, despite being stuffed into a ski-boot indoors.
Brainwave! Chas is a dab-hand at water-colours, what’s good enough for HRH is good enough for me. I’ve dug out an ancient easel from the barn and found the school paint-box. The view across fields to the Church is in fine fettle …