Barnaby Buttercup, a renowned (in his own mind) art critic, burst into Mrs. Periwinkle’s gallery, a whirlwind of tweed and excited pronouncements. “Mrs. Periwinkle! My dear woman! I’ve seen your new collection, and I have news! Paintings? Good news, bad news…” he gasped, dramatically clutching his chest.
Mrs. Periwinkle, a tiny woman who looked suspiciously like a particularly plump budgie, adjusted her spectacles. “Oh, Barnaby! Do tell! Is it the critics? Did they finally appreciate my use of… uh… ‘expressive splodges’?” she asked, wringing her hands.
Barnaby took a deep breath. “The good news, Mrs. Periwinkle, is that your paintings are… unique. Truly, remarkably unique. I’ve never seen anything quite like them!” He paused for dramatic effect, puffing out his chest.
Mrs. Periwinkle beamed. “Oh, thank you, Barnaby! I put so much of myself into those splodges!”
Barnaby cleared his throat. “Now, the bad news…” He leaned in conspiratorially. “The cat appears to have… contributed… quite significantly. In fact, I’d say at least seventy-five percent of your ‘expressive splodges’ are, in reality, rather… *expressive cat vomit*.”
Mrs. Periwinkle stared blankly at him for a moment, before letting out a yelp of laughter. “Oh, Barnaby! That dreadful Mittens! I suspected something was amiss when I found him asleep in the… *ahem*… crimson abstraction!” She winked. “But at least it’s… authentically ‘expressive’!”
