Where have I been?

Unloading a Picasso, is the quick answer. Following my sudden elevation to the ranks of the filthy rich some 18 months ago, I was let in on a sure-fire brilliant deal. The latest of a long line of aristos was eager for some ready cash and he had a couple of 1920s Picassos, which his father had treasured but which he had never rated. After seeing them, I didn’t blame him.
    Naturally, my first thought after the approach was that maybe someone was setting me up to be ripped off, that I was about to be sold the equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge or the Eiffel Tower. After appropriate checking, I decided to take a punt on the “least worst” of them, but I actually ended up buying both of them.
   To my surprise, I was approached at the end of last year by an American museum, which was desperate to acquire what I consider to the more horrible of the pair of Picassos. And I’ve spent the last couple of weeks looking over my expert’s shoulder while the buyer’s experts checked my provenance. The deal is supposed to go off at the weekend. More after that.