45-46 Years Old

Oh Fronde. Grandson.

Look at the state of you. Walking around and around my hotel bedroom. Constantly listing ways to seduce the maid:

Yodelling. Nonchalant without towel. Using two of the shiny black pebbles from the desk as a pair of comedy eyes. Clever invitation to dinner.

Nothing works. You never go anywhere. It drives your mother insane.
‘What kind of a holiday is this?’ she shouts in the corridor.

Finally the maid comes in and you toss something into the air like: ‘Christ! I could eat shit I’m so hungry!’ and she feels offended and leaves shaking her head. She’s beautiful.

There is the sound of screaming in the car park. It’s the porter. The porter is complex and people think he’s insane for screaming without any reason. But he does have a reason. He has been plagiarised by an artist.

He once had a brilliant idea:
‘I think I’ll paint a picture of everything upside down.’ he thought.

Then a year later, there’s a picture of something upside down in the town art gallery. It could be a coincidence of course, but the porter is sure the artist stole his idea. The reason he is so sure is because the artist clearly also copied his other really brilliant idea of hanging the upside down painting itself upside down, so the picture looked the right way up.

‘The first thing I’ll do’ he said ‘is punch that bastard until he admits he painted it upside down.’

You see, the artist claims the picture has been the right way up all along.

TRICKY!

Also he knows he won’t get a full confession because the porter isn’t actually able to paint at all. He’s completely without talent.

He's waiting. His anger will vanish as soon as he has another brilliant idea.

You’re in the room again now with your mother. She looks more alive and insane than ever. Neither of you have mentioned that you’re trying to find me. The porter knocks on the door, excited. He says:
‘Would you pay money to see a painting of someone’s daughter, who isn’t really their daughter? Who in fact never really existed?’

You both say ‘Probably not.’