It's the middle of the night and I'm writing, sitting under my laptop on the sofa, headphones playing some mp3s and the TV on mute in the background.
There's an episode of 'Upstairs Downstairs' on. In their living room they have a painting on the wall. Well, several, but one of them looks familiar. Really familiar, but I don't know what it is. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman in a white dress, probably early- to mid-19th century (although I am very far from an expert in such things); she sits smiling gently at the artist with her body facing to his left.
It's going to bug me now.
There's an episode of 'Upstairs Downstairs' on. In their living room they have a painting on the wall. Well, several, but one of them looks familiar. Really familiar, but I don't know what it is. It's a portrait of a dark-haired woman in a white dress, probably early- to mid-19th century (although I am very far from an expert in such things); she sits smiling gently at the artist with her body facing to his left.
It's going to bug me now.
There is a pad of paper and a pencil stuck to the fridge. My Better Half put them there when she moved in. When she decides we're low on things she writes them on the pad; I suspect I'm supposed to do the same.
Sure you can. They did for ages: the last days of the Republic are much more interesting than Imperial Rome, in my opinion.
