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plasterer surrey Toby, it's the old, blurry line between truth & "the facts." Sometimes, they overlap, but often, they don't.
Twenty-five years ago, I spent six months flat on my back with a dislocated disk, unable to much of anything but nap & read. One day, my once-a-week cleaning woman was dusting my bedroom, and she paused as she picked up a paperback copy of "Bleak House" that was lying near my sickbed. She looked at the cover, which showed a painting of a woman in an somberly decorated 1880s interior, then looked around. "Looks like this place." The room in the painting was much more elegant than mine, but I took her words as a compliment. "That's a really great book" I told her. She turned the book over & looked at the blurb on the back. "Is it true? she asked. "Actually, it's a novel." "I see. So it didn't actually happen?" "Well, no. It's a novel." She made sort of a face. "So it's just made-up storying..." "Well, yes, basically." She put the book back down & wiped her hands on her apron, like they were soiled and looked at me like I was a spoiled child. "Then I wouldn't be interested. I don't read things that aren't true." If she could have sent me to bed for the day, she would have, but I was already there.
plasterer surrey
ReplyDeleteToby, it's the old, blurry line between truth & "the facts." Sometimes, they overlap, but often, they don't.
Twenty-five years ago, I spent six months flat on my back with a dislocated disk, unable to much of anything but nap & read. One day, my once-a-week cleaning woman was dusting my bedroom, and she paused as she picked up a paperback copy of "Bleak House" that was lying near my sickbed. She looked at the cover, which showed a painting of a woman in an somberly decorated 1880s interior, then looked around. "Looks like this place."
The room in the painting was much more elegant than mine, but I took her words as a compliment. "That's a really great book" I told her.
She turned the book over & looked at the blurb on the back. "Is it true? she asked.
"Actually, it's a novel."
"I see. So it didn't actually happen?"
"Well, no. It's a novel."
She made sort of a face. "So it's just made-up storying..."
"Well, yes, basically."
She put the book back down & wiped her hands on her apron, like they were soiled and looked at me like I was a spoiled child. "Then I wouldn't be interested. I don't read things that aren't true." If she could have sent me to bed for the day, she would have, but I was already there.