The Donna Tartt book I told you I had begun is feckin' brilliant...another one to stuff down like a greedy child eating sweets, but then when I've finished it I'll be sad...
Central to the story is a painting of a Goldfinch by Carel Fabritus...1622-1654. He was a pupil of Rembrandt but died young as the result of a huge explosion in October 12 1654 of the Delft Arsenal...it blew up a third of the town by all accounts.
And the European Goldfinch is said to have obtained its scarlet face feathers from trying to remove the Crown of Thorns from Christ's head...
We have dozens of Goldfinches coming to the feeder hanging just outside the sitting room window...totally unfazed by us walking back and forth inches from the glass. My cats have long given up any attempt to catch the birds there...they are big and heavy and probably too fat to make flying leaps into the air...
I did manage to drag myself off the settee this afternoon...didn't go to the Docs after all 'cos I'd forgotten it's his half day today and he closes at twelve...it's taking me forever to just get dressed and rushing is totally out of the question so I'll go back tomorrow afternoon...had a bath, which was pretty grim actually , it's odd how much breath you need to slosh some water about...
But we watched a programme last evening about very fat people...in the category of the morbidly obese...one woman hasn't been out of her room or her bed for four years. She has a team of carers looking after her and it gives you pause for thought you know...here am I grumbling about walking about when it probably only needs stronger anti-biotics to sort it and she can't do anything for herself at all.
And there was a chap who'd had a slight car accident but he was thoroughly trapped inside his vehicle...the firemen had to literally take his entire car to bits to get him out...
I think it's the lack of any personal dignity which would really get to me...imagine having to have fifteen strong men to lift you onto a stretcher and to manoeuvre you into the ambulance...and when it boils down to it, it's because you've always eaten too much of the 'wrong' foods.
My Dad...ex father-in-law...was enormously fat. Absolutely huge...his tummy was too big to fit under the table when we had a meal...and he chain-smoked for good measure. He'd leave his ciggie in his mouth while the ash grew longer and longer until it dropped onto his jacket so the fronts of his suit jackets veered towards grubby grey colour while the rest was black. Mum used to hold up his shirts before she ironed them and sigh...twice round the Gasworks then, she'd say...
But he was actually quite fit despite his size...he didn't have any major health problems and could walk fast enough when it suited him...he had a dreadful sweet tooth though...we always knew when he was rifling about in the biscuit tin because the parrot would suddenly say...Walter...what are you doing! in an exact imitation of Mum's voice. That parrot was too clever by half.
And I read that Dennis Rodman was drunk when he lost the plot in a televised interview...that's alright then. He wasn't just being an eejit...he was a drunken eejit.
I'll put those pictures on in a minute...the Goldfinch painting and European and American Goldfinches.