Going Dutch

Going Dutch When they come for me, tell them I'm not here. Say I've moved. Say, if you like, that I live at the Tate (Modern or Britain is immaterial). When pressed, be vague. Say you might have overheard me mutter something about the National. Scandalize them - say I'm sunbathing nude with a bunch of Rubenesque belles, or I'm babysitting for Mary while she whips off down to the market to pick up a new blue robe. Say I've bunked off to Venice for the carnival with Tiepolo. Bore them to death with a lecture on pointillism or chiaroscuro. But whatever you do, don't mention sunflowers, or little yellow chairs or they'll catch me skiing down the sides of wavy cypresses, or whooping it up with a crowd of golden stars! Margaret Clerici with a crowd of golden stars!