Buggery Hall

…a finger into the littered liminal tropic where Eastgate gives way to the horrid desert of South Gloucestershire, Buggery Hall is as nasty and comfortless as its neighbours, with the delectable ambience of the sort of slum out of which one stumbles into nasty, slimy grey dawn after a particularly chastening acid trip.

Upon the morrow Mr Roger Buggery, purposing to enjoy a brief respite from the claws of his Grimalkin, was early down to breakfast. As he with a furtive and undignified gusto slurped his bowled congelation of Cheerios, he became aware of a quiddity, the uncompromising physicality whereof was even then imposing itself upon the gluteal portion of his anatomy. Thereupon, breaking off his gustation and hazarding to dip two fingers…

The dutiful spouse of Mr Roger Buggery, hearing front door’s slam and footsteps’ retreat, heaves a sigh of relief, then picks up her telephone and embarks on several hours of profound, illuminating, and simultaneous discourses with, inter alia, Supavadi of Chiang Mai, Svetlana of Tashkent, and also Irina of Novossibirsk, chiefly on the subjects of lipstick and maquillage but also with extensive digressions, much returned to, on the Chewish kvestion,…