I looked at the painting on the wall. First thought was that is was ‘nice’. Second thought was that it looked rather like a van Gogh. Third thought went along the lines that it was a van Gogh.
Yes, I know it was unlikely, seeing as the wall was my wall in the room where I stayed while I did a year at the University of Sussex, many many years ago. I went closer to the painting. It had the textured surface of real oil. But it couldn’t be? Could it?
Didn’t feel it was quite proper to ask my host family, so discussed it with others on my course. They reckoned the way to find out was to steal it and see what happened. I didn’t, and settled for simply enjoying the view of the yellow field opposite my bed. Eventually the subject came up with my hosts, and I was assured it wasn’t real.
I was reminded of this when I caught up with last week’s Doctor Who, featuring the lovely Vincent. Why he was Scottish I don’t know, but it was a fun episode. Relieved to see neither the Doctor nor Amy helped themselves to a genuine van Gogh while they were at it.