The painting of a man dominated the walls, every colour was bold and painted with such precise lines that it almost looked like a mosaic. The map of wrinkles on his face limned the most consequential journey. His eye lines told of half-melancholy and half-hope. His forehead told of worries past and worries present. A wizened face peered out from under a wedge of an iconic black hat, looking right at me through the golden frame.
My imploring eyes looked at every inch of the painting; my mind unable to grasp the face and what has he done to earn a permanent position on the museum wall. “Mom, who is this?” I enquired. “He’s Sir Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister who led Britain to victory in the second world war.” She continued, “The place we are standing in was used by Winston Churchill as an underground command centre throughout the world war. Therefore, it’s known by the name of ‘Churchill War Room’.”