Long, long ago in Ireland it seemed there was no shortage of gold. Wolves roamed the countryside cunningly disguised as property developers and we less sophisticated beings were amazed at the feats they achieved as green fields became home to shopping centres. Simple skills – like cooking – were lost and we learned how to dine out in style. It was a golden age and charmed those of us who had survived  the grey mists of the 80s – that decade when we were poor but didn’t realise it — when  we were still drinking tea and had we seen a skinny latte would have wondered what ailed it –  a time when the height of sophistication was a tent in Lisdoonvarna and Chris de Burgh had us singing along to Spanish Train. Many of us, of course, were subsequently to be seduced by a Spanish train headed for a different destination in the sun, but that is a story for another blog post.

First, let us wheel back beyond the 90s – another decade – or to be honest – maybe two – and picture the scene:  a quiet country nursing home, on a starry, starry night just before Christmas and safe from the eyes of the world, and who should we come across here  but a 3-year-old Izzy, suited and booted and accompanied by her dad on a visit for the first time to her new baby sister – a sister arrived just ahead of Santa and very nearly called Noelle, but not.

My lasting memory of that place is not of the baby, nor of the stars, nor even of Christmas. No, it’s of Darth Vader in the form of a nun, clad head to toe in black garb – a nun, whose appearance I found startling enough to lift the end of her skirts and check whether she had legs underneath. She did.

I had all but forgotten this episode until a few months ago I came across a post on the blog of the artist, tweeter and poet @thepainterflynn. He too had an early encounter with Darth Vader and had written an entertaining account that caught my eye and sparked the memory. So I posted a comment on his blog and, by so doing, entered a competition. To my astonishment, I won! And, within a couple of weeks had met the artist and fallen in love with the painting known at that time as the Unfinished Pavarotti (Click here for a contemporaneous account).

While the Unfinished Pavarotti was being transformed into the Finished, Unfinished Pavarotti I had some time to think about where it would hang and had selected my longest wall from which the Maestro would gaze down on my dining table. All dinners from this time forward would be dinners with Pavarotti. All menus would be Italian washed down by a good Chianti and all guests would be regaled with the tale of the Finished Unfinished Pavarotti until everything changed on the day I collected the painting. I brought it home, propped it against the chosen wall and somehow, something was not quite right. I tried different heights and positions but I couldn’t lose the sense that Mr Pavarotti was not at home.

Flummoxed, I brought the painting into the living room and – whoosh – before I had even got through the door let alone left the painting out of my hands, certainty struck. Mr Pavarotti had staked an unexpected claim. How exactly this happened, I don’t quite understand. My living room is small – the walls are small – and I had not contemplated  hanging anything new in the room. But, for the next couple of weeks Mr Pavarotti and I sat side by side each night watching the TV or tweeting companionably until, at last, I began to see what Mr Pavarotti had seen all along – he wanted the wall that faces East to the sea. It’s the best view in the house. I can understand why he likes it – I do too. So it seems that he and I will be spending a lot of time together over the coming years. But first, he has two short trips to make. Tomorrow he goes to stay with my uncle – a skilled gentleman now in his 80s from whose hands are crafted many treasured possessions and who is making the frame – the second frame he has made for me in recent years. And, after that, Mr Pavarotti returns to his maker for a little final glaze. Once these matters have been completed an unveiling will take place. Perhaps we will persuade @thepainterflynn to join us. It may, or may not involve dinner, it may or may not involve Chianti, what is certain – because Mr Pavarotti will have his own way in the matter and because he himself had so many memorable evenings with friends, such as the wonderful Zucchero and Sting amongst others, is that it will be An Evening with the Finished, Unfinished Pavarotti. Watch this space for details.