The lonely impulse

I had just started on the head when the phone rang.

Bloody typical! I’d been all alone the whole weekend, then Ring-ring, Ring-ring (really loud), just as I was starting to work.

And to make matters worse, it was some twat selling double glazing. Well, you can imagine how I felt. That sort of thing puts me right off my stroke. You need to be relaxed — poised even — before you even consider home decapitation. If you’re not, you’ll make an almighty mess of it, believe me.

I switched off the phone, but the interruption had unsettled me. I just couldn’t concentrate. I threw myself onto the ottoman and lay there for hours, fuming.

— Did the phone ring when Michelangelo was daubing the Sistine Chapel? — No!

— Did Shakespeare have to listen to double glazing salesmen? — No, he did not, and the result speaks for itself!

Modern life is just not conducive to the lonely impulse that is and always has been the wellspring of great art.

I know I’m probably over-sensitive, but I can’t help it.

And stop reading this — you’re making me nervous.



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