Portrait of S.D. Odd
It has been sometime that I’ve kept a small studio on the outskirts of the Marsh’s village square. Many come and go on their daily errands. Some to the fish monger, or to the laundress or for a bit of afternoon mash at The Scoured Egg. Mr. Odo wasn’t from around these parts and that being the case he always intrigued me. A pleasant fellow, not too verbose but with a genteel way about him. One spring morn’ he stopped in with parcels under his stout wing and asked for his portrait.
My brushes happened to be in the shop if you will. Being as the itinerant Milliner like to call it, “Rebrushed.” So I set about on a simple draft. He got up off his stool and shuffled ‘round my back and with a heavy, warm, herring tinged aroma he breathed hot on the back of my neck guzzling and cooing his approval. Then, as quick as a derby fly, he gathered up his belongings, doffed his hat and waddled back out onto the square. I sat dumbfounded for a moment but eventually gathered my wit,
peered out the window after him and then made for the washbasin to scrub the rear of my neck.
My brushes happened to be in the shop if you will. Being as the itinerant Milliner like to call it, “Rebrushed.” So I set about on a simple draft. He got up off his stool and shuffled ‘round my back and with a heavy, warm, herring tinged aroma he breathed hot on the back of my neck guzzling and cooing his approval. Then, as quick as a derby fly, he gathered up his belongings, doffed his hat and waddled back out onto the square. I sat dumbfounded for a moment but eventually gathered my wit,
peered out the window after him and then made for the washbasin to scrub the rear of my neck.
