Through the Heat Whispered Trees

It was a mystery tour in a cream and red Bedford OB coach. There were people there who wanted to be characters in my forthcoming novel. The coach driver said he'd received an e-mail saying that I had not paid my fare. He drove off and left me here. I thought, 'It's 1956, how could he have received an e-mail?' When my gaze returned to this avenue of trees there was an elderly man with a beard sitting at an easel with a child's paint box, a tin one, like you got at Christmas in 1956. I told him about the e-mail thing while he used up the last of the raw sienna. He shrugged and replied that he had no experience of industrial processes. 'Do you know,' he said, 'I have asked for another paint box like this for my Christmas present this year. But most unfortunately I shall die before the feast.'
That man was Claude Monet. His calendar was 30 years out. But he couldn't care less.
Note to people of the USA: It is quite illogical to say, 'I could care less', when you mean you don't care at all. Think about it.