Viewing had finished for the evening. The monk took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he was about to do.
Year after year he had stood there, guardian of the room in the Milan monastery with the mural of the Last Supper in it, and he thoroughly hated it.
He hated its fame. He hated the fact that, with it in the room no-one noticed that he was there (he had once replaced himself for one hour with a cardboard life-size cut-out of Heidi Klum, and no-one had spotted the difference).
He hated the debate about whether some of the people in it were women or not. Who cared, who thought that was important? No-one seemed to focus on the central question.
Why would thirteen people gather for dinner (sorry, supper) and all sit on the one side of the table? It’s not as if they were posing for the artist, he wasn’t going to be born for another 1400 years.
He had thought about it as the long weary queues shuffled by, as the long weary years shuffled by, and could reach only one conclusion. There was only one reason why everybody in a room sat facing in the one direction.
He took out his paintbrush and approached the picture. He had always wanted to, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
He painted a TV set in the front of the picture.
It’s still there.