Bad Move

The sculpture artist gently caressed the bust of his latest bust.


“It’s still wet,” he said, wiping his hand on his woolen toga. “My dear wife Breastia, we really must move out of this simple flat. We need to get away from the water of the Mediterranean because it’s too humid and too chilly for my paintings and sculptures to dry properly.


“You are my husband, Testicles, and you know that I love you and would do anything to keep you happy. But we talked about this, I really don’t want to move to Pompeii because that’s where my sister, Bitchia, lives with her know-it-all husband Assolio. They and their whiny daughter Moronia give me nothing but headaches and stomach pain.”


“I know dear. I don’t like them either. But our income depends on my being able to sell my work and I can’t sell wet paintings or busts. And if I don’t sell them, we don’t eat. Besides, everyone talks about the great opportunities for artists in Pompeii. Wealthy men there are paying huge amounts of money for beautiful frescoes to impress their guests and rivals, and the nobility. Who knows, I could do well enough for us to have a much more comfortable home.”


“All right my husband. I know you just want the best for us. I’ll start packing things up. Perhaps the warm, dry winds coming off Mount Vesuvius will be good. And after all, Pompeii is such a glorious, growing city I’m sure I’ll learn to love it and be happy there for many, many years.”