Crisp, my aged companion, had a thing for old things. She often remarked how much better I looked along-side some ancient church or artifact of indeterminate age.
We were standing in Annie’s Archeological Museum ,and she scoffed at my suggestion the image in front of us, could have been mistaken for a fossilized slice of pizza.
Ignoramus,” she uttered, “read the sign, ‘Neolithic artifacts’.”
“Tools for survival,” I offered as a way of displaying some interest.
“Exactly,” she said with the sound of relief in her voice.
The next display was a stone craving of a woman, large breasts, full hips and with a child at her feet.
“There’s always sex in these places. You’d swear they thought of nothing else,” she said.
“Well, after eating and drinking, what was there for them to do?” I asked.
“Sleeping,” she said and, in a huff moved to the cave paintings.