“They’re Doric columns, I’m telling you, Helena — I just took a class in Greek History.” The Countess Penelope of Arcadia (which is apparently in the area of Athens or perhaps Peloponnesia) proclaimed.
“And I insist they’re Ionic,” I insisted insistently.
(Allow me an indulgence, darlings, as I absolutely adore alliteration).
As we admired the Greek-inspired decor, the Countess and I found ourselves in disagreement.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said demurely to the cashier, who looked remarkably like Alanis Morissette, “but what would you say is the style of these Greek columns?”
“Isn’t it Ionic?” She replied without missing a beat.
This was written some time ago in response to a photo prompt that had Greek columns in it. Give me a picture of something with Greek columns in it, darlings, and this is the joke I’m going to make every time. Every. Single. Time.
This tale is special to me in that it has what may be my favourite, most self-indulgent line ever. I’m sure you’ll be able to pick up on what it might be. In fact, I insist that you will.