Felicity Metson sighed. It was so dreary here; traipsing around the world after darling Ernie was more taxing than it seemed. She hoped that he would drop his plan to buy one of the multimillion-dollar apartments set into the two-thousand-year-old Theater of Marcellus. She really couldn’t care less about the endless monuments of ancient Rome, a playground now for wild poppies and quick little black lizards that darted around like the tongue of Ernie’s new maid. As for the Renaissance churches with their da Vinci sculptures and paintings by Raphael and what have you, Felicity felt uncomfortable in them. Such silly moralizing. Why keep such art treasures out for the plebs to gawk at? Something in her revolted against the idea of Moses by Michelangelo, say, in Santa Maria Maggiore, being kept there so that fat Italian mammas and working men, with their sunburned hands and cheap suits, could gawk at him after mass. How could they possibly appreciate such refinement? Better it go to a museum, or, preferably, be sold off.
What do You think about For All The Wrong Reasons?
