Mr Don Quicksotte clears away breakfast’s cadaver under the baleful stare of his life’s companion. In his diligence he is nauseating, in his eagerness pathetic. His feeble sallies into jocosity are delivered in the reedy castrato which he has developed over the last few years whenever he has felt under pressure. Eftsoons the bread they broke - luridly, almost lewdly expensive sourdough - and for each of the three a brace of avocado skins; all this, yea, and the remains of the kale and nuts to which Dr Mark Wankstain continues to be partial, and the sundry merry English unhomogenised milks, butters, and cheeses and likewise nuts beloved of Miss Minerva Ledwitch and at which Mr Don Quicksotte may be permitted the odd respective sip or nibble if he has not been too too utterly lacking, in the considered judgement of Miss Minerva Ledwitch, in élan vital: all this by hand of Quicksotte is borne thence unto the larder, and the dishes on which and bowls in which it was served delivered unto the sink, and therein transformed by organic fraud of Fairy into a state of grace, drywiped, and presently redistributed unto those places wherein they reposed antecedently to their late excursion. Having performed these nettoyages not entirely too much to the dissatisfaction of Miss Minerva Ledwitch, the harlequin is permitted to hover mutely without having to bear entirely too much in the way of vituperation. —
Herod, Dr Mark Wankstain, Don Quicksotte
“I only buy my cheeses,” Ms. Ledwitch sees fit to announce for no particular reason, “I only buy my cheeses from reputable orguennic farmers in Stroud, Totnes, and Glastonbury. Well-informed persons - seers and shamen and the like - praise organic dairy for the healthy fructifying effect which it has upon the follicles of the intimate areas, the efflorescence whereof is taken as a sure indication of ripeness and fecundity. My own mound of Venus bathes in a particularly luxuriant growth, as I am sure cannot have escaped the notice of the present company.” —
Totnes, Stroud, Glastonbury
Miss Minerva Ledwitch betakes herself, finally, unto her boudoir with a dignity contrasting starkly with the cringing abjectness with which Mr Don Quicksotte earlier took himself orff to his shed. A quarter of an hour or so elapses, following which there becomes audible the crunch of gravel underfoot, followed vey promptly by the clangs of the ill-assorted windchimes serving in the capacity of that residence’s door-knocker. Dr Mark Wankstain rises from his seat, and ambles through the kitchen and the vestibule to the front door, which being opened discovers, as anticipated, Mr Crass Cheseham, who upon this occasion is clutching a grimy black briefcase. —
Grimy black briefcase
The little people must have their say. Public consultation is one of the pillars of triangulation, that ju-che of postmodern twaddle. Like suffer like the like little like people like to like have like their like say, yeah? Like then like spunk like a like load like on like some like consultants, yeah? Like to like write like it like all like down, yeah? Like cross like the like i’s like and like dot like the like t’s, yeah? And like file like it like all like away, yeah? And like do like what like you like were like going like to like do like in like the like first like place, yeah? Like in like the like final like analysis, yeah? Like it’s like all like about like the like triangulation, yeah? —
Triangulation
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