221

So, here is where it begins", Carl says, reading from his screen:

"Tina Barlow-Mead lives in a lovely little flat in the heart of Shepherd's Bush.  It isn't exactly cluttered, and she clearly is not a hoarder, but there are shelves and shelves crammed with books, and different drawings and paintings adorning the walls, some sunny abstract themes, some flowers, a couple of portraits, and butterflies.  Lots of very beautifully and expertly rendered paintings of rainbow hued tropical species of butterflies.

"Tina, is this all your own work", I begin.

"Most of it is," she says.  "I seem to jump back and forth a lot between themes and subject matter, but the butterflies are a constant."  

"Have you done any shows?"

"Once a year I exhibit in a small local gallery here.  They have all been, oh, so very kind to me.  Every year I have sold quite a few there."  

"And you have rendered them with such exquisite scientific detail, yet they don't look like dead specimens pinned to a page.  They seem as if they could almost fly off the canvas.  And these are huge butterflies.  What a spectacle that would be!  And you are also an illustrator?"

"Children's books.  I followed in the steps of my mother, but only recently.  Like the paintings."

"Which makes you a late bloomer.  How old would you be now, and I hope you please forgive the impertinence of the question"

"Oh, not in the least.  I am going to be sixty-two this June.  Cancer.  I mean my astrological sign, I fortunately no longer suffer from cancer.  I did have a frightening bought with melanoma seven years ago, but so far it has stayed in remission.  But I am a cancer, born in the year of the rat, if you follow oriental astrology, as I tend to.  Which makes me a chipmunk."

"A chipmunk?"

"It's from Primal Astrology.  Which is a blend of western and oriental astrology, but I also think a lot of it is twaddle.  But still hugely entertaining, I would think."