Recognition

The Hooting Yard Foundation, having finally recognised my Dobsonian research, has awarded me this seasonal mezzotint. There was a time when I would have delighted in the receipt of an original work of art - I might have hung it above one of the hundreds of nooks or niches in one of my many palatial homes. Had I been given this ten years ago, it might have formed an attractive conversation piece in one of my less favoured billiard halls.

Did you know that I once met Dobson? He was a dishevelled old git, unwashed and smelling of vinegar when he addressed the urchins at that bestial orphanage at Pang-Hill. I was one of those wretched children who sat spellbound through that old pamphleteer’s declamation. He gave me a pamphlet on pond-fowl recognition, the very first pamphlet in my collection.

Through thorough application of the principles of Baxterism I became a wealthy man; Long after Dobson was in his grave my plutocratic empire bestrode continents. Alas, I squandered my riches on Dobsonian esoterica. I eschewed my plutocracy and took to grog. Once I festooned myself in finery, now I am dressed in rags.

I now make my home amongst the muck and nettles in this waterlogged ditch not far from the insect-infested bebrambled spinney. I can no more dangle this Mezzotint from the filthy tarpaulin of my hovel than I could hang it from a peg wedged into it's earthern walls.

Tomorrow I will gaze upon Rex Tint’s depiction of “St. Mungo atop Seven Celestial Orbs” for the last time and then pawn it.

I should be able to get enough for a fortnight in a hostelry, some grog to numb my cranium and a poultice to soothe my neurasthenic fits.