A mayor, his unhappily married secretary, a bearded saint, a brooding artist and a misunderstanding of the word COL OUR FUL. This is a love story with a difference. Quirky, unpredictable and absurd with a touch of magic realism and lyricism. The end result is a portrait of art and life in a small town and a narrative that, as the author explains, becomes a story that is in the telling rather than the plot.
Human beings have an almost limitless capacity to delude themselves- a tenacious ability to deny the blindingly obvious, a heart-breakingly lovely talent for believing in something rather nicer than whatever it is that is staring them, baldly, in the face, right the way up to the clanging doors of the shower block. And what a great blessing that is. It’s what makes us sing songs and paint pictures and build cathedrals. It’s the reason that Doric columns exist when a tree trunk would do the job just as well. It is a glorious, beautiful, agonising gift and it makes us human.