I’ve just found out that a namesake of mine, Louis Dewis, was a Belgian post-impressionist painter. I always knew that I had Flemish ancestors but none so illustrious. Apparently, in between paintings, he hung around in bars, drinking absinthe and contracting syphilis. When the love of his life – a prostitute called Arnold – rejected him, he cut off his nob. See, I knew I was special. �