An Old Euphemism and a New Lady.

I’ve always thought the term ‘undertaker’ to be a little odd. For those who don’t know, it’s what we in Britain call a funeral parlour, and I realised today where it presumably comes from. I’ve little doubt that it’s a conveniently contracted euphemism for the person whose function in the community is to undertake that essential service about which it is indecorous to speak literally. That’s why we don’t call them body disposers. (We British do so love our euphemisms, don’t you know.) And this brings me to one of several issues engendered by my current preoccupation with mortality, but more on that when the time is right and relevant.

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Meanwhile, I bought a new picture today – £3 from a charity shop. Although I’m a complete ignoramus when it comes to art, I think I’m on safe ground in assuming that it’s a copy of a work by some Renaissance master (probably Dutch or Italian I expect, because I’m reliably informed that the Dutch and Italians were good at that sort of thing. By a strange coincidence they also have a history of producing good football teams, but we British always brewed better beer.)

Description

A portrait of a very handsome lady, probably aged around thirty, wearing a red dress with puffy shoulders and low cut chest over a lace bodice (I think that’s the term) which reveals a throat pendant and a longer gold chain. (Do bear with me; I have no expertise in the matter of describing women’s dress style. I know jeans and short skirts when I see them, but flouncy Renaissance stuff is a bit of a struggle.) Did I say she is very handsome? She is. Oh, and the background is so dark as to be almost black. It is, therefore, a predominantly red and black picture which suits my office perfectly.

But the real reason I bought her was the way she looked at me when I walked into the shop. Her eyes followed me diligently, as they always do in proper paintings. And then she spoke to me, saying in a voice which was mild yet firm and cultured: ‘You have my favour, my lord, so look long and longingly at me. Am I not beautiful? Could you be so heartless as to leave me here festering in this sordid establishment among the cast off bric-a-brac and second hand furniture? Take me where thou wilt and I will be thy lady.’ Sounded good, so I did.

Because that’s how it is with me now, you see. I need to surround myself with beautiful women who are not flesh and blood and therefore unable to run away screaming at the sight of me. Sad, isn’t it? And henceforth she will be known as the Lady Isabella, because Isabella suits her better than Kirsty or Jaiden.

I intend to hang her tomorrow. On the wall, that is.