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Saturday’s prompt at our Writers’ Group was “speaking of idle talk”….


“He did that statue, you know, the nudie one.”

“Which one?

“David. I’ve seen it in the Vatican.”

“Is it big?”

“Well, I’ve seen bigger.”

“I meant the statue.”

“Oh. Er, so did I.”

“What else did he do?”

“He painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.”

“Really, what colour?”


“Like, is it blue? Or white? Or one of those colour-chart made up colours – autumn mist, snowflake white, catsick green.”

“Catsick isn’t green.”

“It is if your cat’s just drunk your bottle of Chartreuse. Trust me on this.”

“Anyway, he didn’t paint it a colour – he wasn’t a painter and decorator. You’ll be asking me next did he wallpaper the Papal balcony.”

“No, I won’t. Why would you wallpaper an outdoor balcony?”


“You’d use Ronseal Five-Year Woodstain.”

“Look, he didn’t do any of that. He painted pictures on the ceiling.”

“Wow, he must have got an awful crick in his neck.”

“Yes, I suppose he must. Unless he did it lying on something, painting upwards.”

“Then he’d have got paint in his eyes.”

“Maybe he wore goggles.”

“Anyway, what pictures did he paint?”

“He painted one of the birth of Adam – “

“Adam as a baby?”

“No, Adam was born fully grown.”

“God, his poor mother.”

“No, he wasn’t born like that. God just created him. The picture has him and God stretching out their fingers towards one another -”

“Like ET?”

“No. Well, yes, sort of. Anyway, it’s God bring Adam to life, by them touching fingers.”

“How come Adam’s able to stretch out his finger to God, if God hasn’t touched Adam’s finger yet?”

“It’s a mystery. One of the mysteries of the rosary.”

“What are the other ones?”

“Um, why is Good Friday called good if it’s the day Jesus died, how are you supposed to only eat fish on a Friday if you live somewhere landlocked like the Czech Republic, why would angels want to dance on the head of a pin, why does a communion dress cost four hundred euro, where can you actually buy rosary beads, and what had St Patrick got that St Brendan & St Bridget hadn’t that made him Ireland’s Patron Saint, especially since he was Welsh.”

“That’s a lot of mysteries.”

“And they’re just the sorrowful ones. There’s also the joyful ones, and the, er, mysterious ones.”

“Like how did he know what David looked like in the nude if David had lived centuries earlier?”

I tore up the notes I’d made, for the speech I’d been running over and over in my head, for the exact way I was going to propose later that evening.

It’s very hard to concentrate in a room where women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo.

  1. March 19, 2013 at 8:41 pm

    Baffling. I saw David in Florence. I like your hardworking idle chitchhat.

  2. March 20, 2013 at 2:38 am

    Still grinning! :)

    It WOULD be hard to concentrate with that kind of conversation going on!!! LoL!!!

    God Bless my friend!


  3. March 20, 2013 at 4:19 am

    TS Eliot!

  4. March 20, 2013 at 12:30 pm

    Too many mysteries!

  5. March 22, 2013 at 2:59 pm

    Poor David, the model was an underdeveloped teenager

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