Providence offers a future for some.  Others procure a future.  For Napoleon, Emperor of France, it was what he modestly called his destiny.  

    I wonder how a curator acquires the title.  I hardly think it destiny, or providence, I suspect it belongs to that long and aimless list of procured.  And always I suspect, it begins with what must be the thrill of judging others from the secrecy of a jury room.  That realm of being where politics rule the unutterable.

    At school I used to be at war with the prefecture.  Their role of informant irritated me to distraction.  And once, as a challenge, I uttered the "F" word on the stone staircase that took schoolboys up to the dormitory.

    In a world of early mornings and cold baths, punishment was never trivial.  It was designed to instill if not obedience then fear.  We wore starched collars with collar studs and ties, shiny shoes and an array of similar disciplinary awfulness.

    Then, in the grown world to remain a prefect, aspire to warden amongst the creative and then to admit to it on a resume, contains a personality I can only compare to that of moles or potters who wood fire.

    Tragic though it might be, I do think I could judge vegetables, so long as I was permitted to taste them while blindfolded.  And I say this because our snap peas this year are almost perfect.  A quality of another for certain, but one which I of course will call my own.

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