Doesn’t it just figure.
I’m desperately combing garage sales for thirty years in search of a Raphael or a first edition of Ulysses, and some Airforce Lieutenant Colonel in Buffalo, NY gets lucky in his own living room. Turns out the painting came into the family via a German Baroness who gave it as a gift to her lady-in-waiting. Nowadays she’d get Joe Malone hand cream.
Not that I’m killing myself with jealousy. In fact I think I might have learned something useful from this story — and that, dear friends, is the importance of hope.
Last month I found an old paperback copy of Kon Tiki and a chipped Quimper plate at our local fete. And just this morning I fished half an oreo, two broken pencils and seventeen pence out of my daughter’s schoolbag. Which makes me absolutely 100% positive that there’s a tiny Titian lurking somewhere in the house.
Just off to search under the sink.