Jack Vettriano The Birth of a Dream

Jack Vettriano The Birth of a DreamJack Vettriano The Billy BoysJack Vettriano The Big TeaseJack Vettriano The Barmaid's FancyJack Vettriano The Assessors
of nomads with their towels on their heads. All that remained of those great days was the ruinously-expensive palace, a few dusty ruins in the desert and - the pharaoh sighed - the pyramids. Always the pyramids.
His in the river .
He watched two of the servants load Teppic's trunk on to the back of the coach, and for the first time either of them could remember laid a paternal hand on his son's shoulder.
In fact he was at a loss for something to say. We've never really had time to get ancestors had been keen on pyramids. The pharaoh wasn't. Pyramids had bankrupted the country, drained it drier than ever the river did. The only curse they could afford to put on a tomb these days was 'Bugger Off'. The only pyramids he felt comfortable about were the very small ones at the bottom of the garden, built every time one of the cats died. He'd promised the boy's mother. He missed Artela. There'd been a terrible row about taking a wife from outside the Kingdom, and some of her foreign ways had puzzled and fascinated even him. Maybe it was from her he'd got the strange dislike of pyramids; in Djelibeybi that was like disliking breathing. But he'd promised that Pteppic could go to school outside the kingdom. She'd been insistent about that. 'People never learn anything in this place,' she'd said. 'They only remember things.' If only she'd remembered about not swimming