The studio itself, however, has never hosted such a talk. So why six easels? It’s obvious, you reply. Lots of artists’ studios have more than easels; the artist is clearly one of those who work on several pictures at the same time. As it happens, this is true. But it is only half the story, and it does not begin to explain why the easels are set out as they are. The main reason is the contraption ‘Mad’ Roy Boffin devised for him. It stands to one’s right as one emerges through the hatch. It is an instrument akin to a rake, but bigger and with its teeth, of which there are only six, several feet apart. To each tooth a paintbrush can be attached. When Mr Ó Flaithbheartach uses the device it can be seen that width of the gap between the brushes is exactly the same as the width of the canvases plus that of each of the small gaps between them. Thanks to this ingenious invention, he can produce six pictures at once.

Mr Ó Flaithbheartach reckoned this would help him increase his income substantially. He was right. Moreover, the fact that some of his works are members of a group does not decrease their individual value, as might be the case were they prints. On the contrary, their genesis makes them even more ‘unique’ (if one will forgive the expression) than ‘normal’ paintings (although they look just like ‘normal’ paintings), so people are willing to pay more for them even if they are not necessarily artistically superior. Some obsessive collectors have spent thousands of pounds trying to complete their set, and there have even evolved painting-swapping circles, not that this last development is of any advantage to the artist.

The pictures in these sets are not always totally alike. Sometimes, to all intents and purposes, they are. Mr Ó Flaithbheartach picks one colour in which to dip each of six brushes of uniform specification, and obtains six nigh-on identical results. More often, however, they are not. Sometimes Mr Ó Flaithbheartach begins with matching backgrounds and adds individual details afterwards. For instance, on the back wall of the cricket pavilion, above the kit box, is a series of depictions of cricketing moments: You must be joking, Umpire! I never touched it; I couldn’t help it, the sun was in my eyes. You come and field over here if you’re that great; No, it was my call!; and Come on, Umpire, that was absolutely plumb! Each of these takes place on the same ground (our own, recognisable from the hazel that serves as deep third man when a right-hand batsman is facing a bowler coming in from the road end), before the same sparse crowd, under the same pale blue cirrus-flecked summer sky. The only changes are in the positions of the players, umpires, one or two spectators and a few birds.