Yesterday, I
saw the world’s most confident statue on sale in Garden House Hospice.
Look at him
standing proud amongst the bric-a-brac. It’s like he owns the shelf. He wears the
expression of an ornament that thinks he won’t be without a home for long.
He is the master
of all he surveys; the dead men’s shoes, the non-prescription
glasses, the VHS; everything. He is the King
of Objet D’art. You could buy him, but you’d never, ever own him.
The staff probably didn’t
even put him on display; he scaled that cabinet by himself.
Despite his
obvious bravado, I’m suspicious. Surely he can't be that self-confident. He wound up in a charity shop. He may once have had pride of place on
somebody’s mantelpiece, but he doesn’t anymore.
Perhaps he made a personal bid for freedom. He probably felt infinitely superior to everything in the household.
Arrogant little
tit.