The pride of the artist stripped bare by his patroness, even.

As a last resort, Marcel Duchamp rode the subway north, alighting at 66th Street. Fastening the belt of his raincoat tighter, he walked quickly to the Arensbergs’ house (a journey he had made many times before). He knocked on the large oak door, and Louise answered wearing an elegant long white dress, with a blue silk scarf around her neck. She took a moment to survey Marcel on her doorstep in his filthy brown mackintosh, then flatly intoned ‘Marcel, how wonderful to see you. Please come in.’
Marcel followed Louise through the hallway, and into the drawing room where he took a seat close to the fireplace. Louise remained at the doorway: ‘Can I get you a drink? Walter is out of town, I’m afraid. Tea? Un café?’
‘Louise, I need help’
Louise released a small sigh, and then took her place opposite him, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on his face. That Gallic, chiselled countenance that she knew so well: Older than its years, yet handsome enough to charm. For his part, Marcel kept his gaze downcast, studying the intricate patterns of the Indian rug.
‘Marcel we already are helping you. How can we do more?’ She paused, suddenly enjoying the power that she held over him. ‘Perhaps if you were more forthcoming with your work? We haven’t had anything from you for so long. Walter believes that we may never see The Large Glass. I defend you, of course, but I wonder how long this can continue, when I have nothing from you?’
Marcel had not expected this attack. He lifted his head to meet her eyes: ‘But…the sketches. I showed you the sketches.’
‘Oui Marcel, but those were just ideas. If we are to continue this agreement, then we need more from you.’ In the silence that followed, an idea formed in Louise’s mind: ‘Ah! But let us not talk of work. It can be so lonely in this big house, all by myself. It is so good to have some company.’
Like a puppy that has been struck by its owner, Marcel looked uncomprehendingly at Louise.
‘Perhaps there is some way that I could help you,’ she drawled, ‘but of course, you would have to do something for me in return. No? Then I am sorry Marcel. It seems we have reached something of an impasse.’
This time he knew that he must speak, but for the longest time, he did not know what to say.
‘What do you want me to do?’ he asked, in all innocence.
A smile wound its way around Louise’s face. Conspiratorially, she walked over to where Marcel sat, and lowered her face to his: ‘There is a new game of which I am rather fond. In this game, two players must compete to build a tower of wooden bricks – each time taking a brick from the bottom of the tower, and placing it at the top with sufficient care to ensure that the tower does not tumble.’ As she spoke, she retrieved a wooden box from a drawer. ‘The player that fells the tower is deemed the loser of the game. It is really most diverting.’
Marcel could not help a curl of disgust to form around his lips. Though a placid man, he had his limit. Though he was renowned as an artist, he spent most of his time playing chess in the cafés around Greenwich Village. He took chess very seriously, and he played well - the game was the right combination of mathematics and Machiavellian plotting to appeal to Marcel. This new game of bricks and towers was infantile! An insult!
He raised himself to his full height, pushed his patron out of the way, and in so doing cascaded the wooden blocks in a clatter over her floor. ‘I WILL NOT LOWER MYSELF TO THIS! GOOD-BYE.’ He exited the house, slamming the door shut behind him, and marched down the street.
After only fifty paces, he reached inside his trouser pockets to find them empty, and considered for a moment going back to Louise’s front door to ask for a nickel for the train-ride home. It was too late. He pulled his collar up high, and as the rain began to fall, he began the long walk home.

The Insecurity of a sasquatch with above-average intelligence is exposed

Adam Schriver, a sasquatch from the Yukon area of Western Canada was notoriously insecure about his education. Born to a middle-class family of sasquatches, in fairly affluent forest, Adam had a more privileged upbringing than many of his friends and colleagues, and had achieved reasonable exam results. Nevertheless, he often underestimated his own intelligence, and as a result, his ambitions in life were limited.
This was highlighted in Adam's mind one Friday night, when he sat down, as he often did, to watch an episode of QI (a panel show featuring a human named Stephen Fry that Adam greatly admired). During the programme, Adam noticed that Stephen used the word 'one' as a pronoun: He said that 'one could use it as such if one so wished'. Adam reflected that he had never had the confidence to use 'one' in such a way. He felt sorry that this was the case, and resolved to slip it in at the earliest possible occasion, in order to somewhat improve his image as an intellectual ape.
The following day, on a lunch break with the boys, talk turned to the Winter Olympics, which were currently taking place in BC. The rest of the sasquatches present felt that the luge was an event ruled by chance, a sport which required luck more than skill. Adam saw his chance. He had a cousin that had once participated in the sport, and so he felt more qualified than most to comment on their mistaken assumption.
'Actually, a great deal of skill is required to steer the luge. One must use one's calf to exert pressure on the front runners, and one's shoulders on the rear of the seat. A professional luge athlete must maintain a fine balance of shifting their body weight, applying pressure with their feet and rolling their opposite shoulder simultaneously. It is really quite a difficult sport.'
As the words left Adam's mouth, his co-workers stopped eating their sandwiches and stared, open mouthed at Adam. Eugene (the Alpha of the group) waited patiently for eye contact, and then sardonically raised one simian eyebrow.
Adam went on to live for another 42 years in the Yukon area of Western Canada. He never again used the word 'one' in this way.

A List of reasons

There are reasons. I mean, I couldn’t come up with them at the time, but yes – there are reasons to get rid of them. Lots of reasons:
1) Life is short.
2) I work long hours, and so seldom see them anyway.
3) They are ugly.
4) We have to employ babysitters to feed them when we go on holiday.
5) I could do without the extra responsibility.
6) It’s not environmentally sound to keep them (and I think it may be cruel).
7) Their staring eyes taunt me.
8) I don’t think it’s hygienic to be touching their food.
9) When I drink, after you have gone to bed, I place my hand into the tank and look at it magnified through the glass, the fish exploring my outstretched fingers. Sometimes I can be there for thirty to forty minutes. I don’t think that this is healthy.
10) We could scoop the fish up with a net, carry them in a jar to the sea, release them and watch them gratefully swim away. Then we could return to the tank with a lump hammer, smash the glass and watch the water flap in one liquid lump to the floor, then crash and split into bouncing droplets before settling into one large soggy puddle punctuated with shards of glass on our living room carpet, and we could stand over the scene, the two of us, and for the moment before regret and thoughts of cleaning up set in, we would feel like: Yes! This is life! This is living! I am ALIVE!

So anyway… those are my reasons. I’ll let you make the final decision. They’re your fish.

...Like a sore thumb

The scar on your thumb, which you caught on a nail while taking down shelving, is bothering you. Each time you place your hand in your pocket, or slip on a glove (which is often, during this gelid weather) the scab catches, and a small amount of translucent fluid is secreted. You wonder if it is infected. You prod it and squeeze around it, but no – it seems fine. It's just a nuisance.
It could have been so much worse. You don't realise this, but if you hadn't caught your thumb on that nail, there would have been a much worse accident, so really it was lucky for you that the shelves needed removing.
Following the initial rejection, people told you that you took the news well. You were characteristically philosophical about it. 'It's a part of the job,' you declared, 'I'll bounce back.'
In fact, you felt fine in yourself: maybe a little more snappy with the children, perhaps a little quicker to frustration when dealing with phone calls, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Taking the shelves down from the wall should have been a fairly straightforward job. The problem was that the screws were very old, and so it was difficult to get a purchase with your electric screwdriver. After trying a number of different screwdrivers, your patience was wearing thin. Puffing, sweating and shouting expletives you threw down your screwdrivers and reached for the claw hammer. As the shelf finally ripped from the wall (along with the plaster behind it) it hit you on the side of the head, and a nail tore the skin at the side of your thumb (the thumb which has been causing you so much trouble of late).
The episode with the shelving was unpleasant, but it was a release. You can't deny that it shifted that little ball of rage that had been lying dormant within your rib-cage. And if it hadn’t been the shelves, then that fury would have found a way out somehow. Just think: you could have crashed the car, or punched your boss, or got drunk and picked a fight with an old friend. It could have been so much worse. Really. You should thank those shelves.

Levendens Quality Kitchens

From Farmhouse Traditional to Contemporary Urban, the Levendens Kitchen range offers the most elegant solution to your design needs. Featuring solid, beautiful units, eye-catching sinks and taps, and state-of-the-art appliances, Levendens is the number one choice for the ultimate dream kitchen experience.

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Kitchens designed to meet your needs

Our design team can help you to create your dream kitchen – at no fee and no obligation to buy. Choose units and appliances from our extensive collection. Our team can visualise your plans using the latest digital applications, and provide you with a 3D image of your finished kitchen.

Competitively priced Kitchens

We understand that in these credit-crunch times, value for money is of key importance. Money was certainly one of the things that my wife and I always argued about! That’s why we at Levendens are committed to providing the best quality kitchens at affordable prices. The last thing that we would want is for your dream kitchen to come between the two of you. A project like this should bring you together - yet so often, it drives a couple apart.

We knew that things would never be perfect, but…

You reach 30, 31, and your options suddenly seem narrowed, don’t they? I’m not saying that we settled for second best, or anything, but I can’t really say that we were ever blissfully happy. But really… who is? We tried to make things work. God knows I tried. But there are only so many allowances you can make. Only so many differences that you can reconcile. Before you know it, you’re sitting opposite each other, over a cup of tea at your Levendens Composite Granite-Effect breakfast bar having that conversation.

Don’t make the mistakes that we did

You know that expression about a wife being a goddess in the kitchen and a [something else] in the bedroom? It’s just a cliché. And don’t believe that clichés enter popular parlance because they are true – sometimes they just aren’t. Don’t expect that this kitchen will change your life, your marriage. Don’t attach too much importance to anything that you can buy in a store. In the end, what really matters is actual relationships between real people: Heartfelt conversations and physical contact, not chrome taps and ice dispensers.
Honestly – the kitchen is too big for me now. And I wouldn’t have chosen those tiles.

I still love her

I do. Despite everything, I still love her. But there’s no use in looking backwards, only forwards, towards the future. Towards your future: Your bright new future in a Levendens custom-designed, dream kitchen.

All prices quoted below are exclusive of VAT.

*Does not constitute a legal guarantee, but all units and appliances are guaranteed for one year from date of purchase (excl. sale items)

Tango trade

Contributed by Aaron (thanks!)

There was a dirty secret within the Falklander Freddy McWorther. He just wanted to dance tango, but knew he would never.
When, 36 years ago his father and mother moved to the anachronistic archipelago via a UK government initiative to increase the island’s population, he was just a typical Birmingham kid. Slightly long in the face, and with fat red lips, he would never have been given the great opportunities in life, but his shoulders were broad and he stood tall, and gained respect. He was uniformly affable, to the point of jealousness from those around but not close to him.
It all started the year after they arrived, when he was 14. Coastal Argentine and the local UK council offices began an initiative to mix the cultures. It was an under-funded exercise that fizzled out but did result in an Argentinean barbecue on a beach near Stanley that ended in an argument between two fathers whose sons had tried to catch a seal in a fishing net, an uneventful sheep herding competition in Chubut, and a Morris Dance in Santa Fe that went down well with the local Argentineans, but was never repeated.
That year however, the Falkland Islands Community School in Port Stanley successfully exercised a cross cultural exchange between its students and those of the rather catholic Colegio Carmen Arriola de Marín in Buenos Aires.
Freddy's exchange friend was Matías. A kid of cool, a boy out of his body who led others and made girls swoon. Short, dark and slender. He brought three VHS videos and gave them to the family as way of presenting himself. The first was a short film from the Ministry of Culture and Tourism on the way of life in the Pampas, in Spanish, the second a politically-charged comedy feature-length film, in spanish, and the third a documentary about the dance 'Tango'. The family could understand none of them, and soon after Matías left, and Freddy's father denounced all Argentineans as 'Poofs', the videos were pushed into the dark cave of the cupboard where all that shit goes.
Nobody could have known about Freddy's feelings. His younger brother thought it was funny that he would find Freddy watching the Tango video when their parents were out, and he would prance around the living room laughing at Freddy. Freddy instinctively wanted to get up and give him a dead arm, but as he rose he quickly lay back down on his front, scared that his median erection would be revealed.
As the years passed Freddy built his own collection of videos, which he transferred onto DVD in 2002. The death of his father brought no relief as his wife held similar beliefs about their Latin neighbours. So, he built a secret compartment in the shed out of plywood. It was taken up mostly by a large soft chair but when he finally managed to exchange the bulky 21" false wood TV for a flat screen, he could finally add a foot stool to stretch out on. He was thinking about how he could get wireless out that far. The collection of DVDs took up so much space. He usually watched the dance with headphones on, but sometimes he would watch without sound to really concentrate.
How could he practice, how could he learn, how could he find a partner? How how how? He would run through ridiculous scenarios most days, even when people were telling him the dimensions needed for their new kitchen to which they expected him to fit. One oft-imagined scenario would involve him hijacking a fishing boat from the Port, heaving it through the wild southern ocean and arriving on a decked jetty at sunset to find his partner in a long black dress, laterally split up to her waist, waiting for him. It was impossible, surely.
For the reader’s interest, he was committed to the more traditional 'Tango Canyengue' where the couple stand very close indeed.

The Hopes of a crocodile dashed, then sprayed along the Pan-American Highway

In a lake adjacent to the Panama Canal, beneath the vertiginous bridge that carries tourists to the Miraflores Lock to view the great container ships on their way to the Pacific Ocean, on a mud bank, lay a crocodile. Named Ignatius, the crocodile was over ten feet in length, and was considered the alpha-male of his territory: a role he wore with grace and humility, and he was greatly respected by the other animals in the vicinity. Though a proud and successful creature, Ignatius was privately irked following his discovery of an old copy of National Geographic in which he read of the mighty Nile River in Africa. In this river (he read) crocodiles grow up to 20 feet long, weighing in at over 1000 kg, and are the most successful predators throughout history. Their varied diet includes birds, fish, various antelope species, monitor lizards, snakes, and other predators including lions, leopards, hyenas, wild dogs as well as other crocodiles. Feeling suddenly claustrophobic (and quite provincial) in his small lake, Ignatius resolved to travel (by foot) to this paradise, in which he would grow, learn, and dine like a king.
He waddled from the bank into the lush jungle which bordered his lake. Without hesitation, Ignatius pressed on, sure that he was making the right decision. After a difficult hour over treacherous terrain, Ignatius met a porcupine, travelling in the opposite direction. Though they had never previously met, the porcupine knew Ignatius by reputation.
‘Where are you going to, Ignatius? You are far from your swamp here.’
‘I make my way to the mighty River Nile, in Egypt, to begin a new life.’
‘Egypt?! Crocodile, you cannot walk to Egypt! Egypt is many miles away, across oceans and desert. You will die! Return to your territory Ignatius, where you belong, and are loved.’
Ignatius considered the words of advice that this concerned friend had spoken as the prickle of quills scratched the inside of his throat. Though uncomfortable to swallow, the mammal provided some sustenance for his journey, and no small amount of flavour. He continued on his way.
Ignatius’ next obstacle (and regrettably, his last) was the Pan-American Highway. Undeterred by the speeding motorcars (and quite unaccustomed to submitting to any creature) Ignatius continued his forward momentum. His head met with the front wheel of an agricultural vehicle, which sprayed his brains, blood and fragments of skull along the road. The driver of the truck was a poor, but enterprising farmer. With great difficulty, he lifted the carcass of the beast onto the back of his truck and took it back to his family.

Now complete both of the following questions:
1 a) Was Ignatius right to try to reach the Nile? The porcupine would say that it was a foolish ambition, the farmer would assert that he made delicious steaks. Who was right? Give reasons for your answer.
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b) How likely is it that a crocodile could make it onto the Pan-American Highway? Cite previous examples. Show your workings.
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