Desmond collected irises. He had all sorts, in all sorts of different colours. His favourite were the blue ones – “All irises should be blue,” he would say. His least favourite were the muddy brown ones. There were some yellow and one even verged on grey. But each colour was outdone by the blue. There were so many shades of blue; such subtle differences.
As happens with most collectors of things, he ran out of room. He had to refine what he collected. He would stick to blue and that would be it. He still had far too many. His wife was starting to get driven up the wall. “Can’t you collect something else?” But no, he couldn’t, or rather wouldn’t.
“I regard my collection of irises to be a crucial part of my profession.”
“Don’t be silly,” said his wife. “No other eye specialist has such a collection stored in bottles of formaldehyde.”


