With apologies to V.N.
I have to tread carefully. I have to speak in a whisper...Had I been a painter, had the management of the Grain Exchange lost its mind one summer day and commissioned me to redecorate their foyer with murals of my own making, this is what I might have thought up, let me list some fragments:
There would have been a field. There would have been a gravel path. There would have been studies in mythology - the Morrigan threatening war for those who dare cross her, while Roman goddess Juno watches bemusedly. There would have been a linguist, his face expressing great agony (belied, as it were, by his molding caress), helping a callypygean pencil-pusher to search for a rubber-band ball that had rolled under his desk. There would have been all kinds of agricultural trappings, Cows, Corn, Canola fields in the midday sun. There would have been bananas, apples, plums. There would have a last dab of colour, a final dying note of some old song by Maurice Chevalier.
There would have been a field. There would have been a gravel path. There would have been studies in mythology - the Morrigan threatening war for those who dare cross her, while Roman goddess Juno watches bemusedly. There would have been a linguist, his face expressing great agony (belied, as it were, by his molding caress), helping a callypygean pencil-pusher to search for a rubber-band ball that had rolled under his desk. There would have been all kinds of agricultural trappings, Cows, Corn, Canola fields in the midday sun. There would have been bananas, apples, plums. There would have a last dab of colour, a final dying note of some old song by Maurice Chevalier.