The ceiling, a crisscrossed pattern of ornately carved wood in a hideous shade of deep blue with red and gold inserts. Seen from below when looking up, it is a fascinating example of carved woodwork, painstakingly created over, one suspects, many years. Or, alternatively, carved and constructed by a small army of workmen, in concert, all aware of the builder’s intention and put in place in a relatively short space of time. Useless to speculate, really, for nobody now is likely to know or care.
How many hours in total now I have lain on my prison bed, for prison I must call it, and stared at this horrible ceiling? I neither know nor really care. The chamber is not so big that I can vary much my walking round it and, apart from sitting endlessly on the only good chair provided, all I can do
