A Sign

What beastly eyes.

Imagine waking up in the night and finding these looking down at you. You wouldn’t need to use the Lactulose for a while would you?

Is it the face of the Old Hag, as she sits on your chest, cackling her nightmarish cackle?

(Hands up: anyone ever had that dream? I have. I’ll tell you about it one day)

What do you think? Man? Beast? or Pasta?

Tiger, Toad or Tortellini?

 Using Photoshop: that amazingly powerful aid to visual expression/death of creativity (depending on your viewpoint)

Let’s split it in half down the middle.

Lighten it.

Now if I convert it from the black and white back into its original colour.

We’re left with the remnants of some pasta on a spoon, I spotted as I cleared up after tea one day.

And the point of all this? I’m buggered if I know. It’s not even as if I’ve nothing better to do. I suppose I should say that it is a sign, and have it splashed all over the papers. Hey, that’s not a bad idea. Where’s that number for the National Enquirer?