I thought it was a masterpiece. I spent ages in the garden with my easel, canvas, brushes and paints. Admittedly I ended up with more paint on me than on the canvas, but it was worth getting in a mess for.
I was so proud of my painting. I titled it The Rose Garden and gave it pride of place on my living room wall, the first thing you saw when entering the room.
To my astonishment, when my friend Keith came to see me he walked through the door, stopped dead and physically shuddered.
I explained that it wasn’t an impressionist painting of a crime scene, and the blood splatters were actually rose petals.
Anyway, I have now renamed it Bloodbath and relegated it to the spare room.