College Green following the late rains luxuriates, even or perhaps especially on this greyest of mid afternoons, in an acid trip vivacity. Mr Jagtar Singh, steering the black Lexus past the greensward on his way down Park Street, looks upon the unseasonal verdure, and at the office workers picknicking, and at the babies with their Slovakian au pairs, and at the thugs disporting with their Jezebels, all under the Argos eyes of the Bristol High Presidium, and finds that even his sternly cynical heart is in some measure gladdened. Withal and, I have to concede, wisely, he refrains from divulging the fruits of his introspections to his passengers. —
Bristol, Mr Jagtar Singh
These being of bipeds two. Whereof Sir Hearty Luncheon, being one, biliously eyes the gorgeousness without, before clearing his throat with a majestic and portentous harrumph! —
Sir Hearty Luncheon
Lady Luncheon is of a sudden vexed, and flings herself backwards onto the naugahyde plush, which is moved to register with a sigh its injured innocence. —
Lady Luncheon
After some minutes, Ms. Amelia De’Ath emerges in company with Ms. Gamina Dročerpyatova, Ms. De’Ath in the habiliments of respectable but à la mode widowhood featuring a great deal of black crepe and even a veil, her companion having chosen to present herself to the world in the vestments of a lady not averse to receiving gentlemen callers, on which account she is to be complimented for the authenticity of her outfit. The two ladies being admitted into the interior of the black Lexus, and the naugahyde plush thereof evincing its profoundest satisfaction with this arrangement, Mr Jagtar Singh for a third time takes the wheel, and the black Lexus glides away to the junction with Cheltenham Road, and within a few minutes is passing underneath the arches on its way up Gloucester Road. —
Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery, Amelia De’Ath
“Schto! Is you want to play hunt baby kotka. You are wary wary naughty sexy England KGB men.” —
England KGB
From a purely sartorial perspective, incarceration has not, it must be said, been entirely kind to Mr Helix Folt. Gone is the immaculately pressed double-breasted suit, gone the polished and buffed black lace-ups, gone the stripy shirt and discreetly polka-dotted tie and cufflinks. Instead, our eponym sports denims, a blue nylon shirt, and is shod in a pair of nameless dark slip-ons. If we were sponsors of the thesis that clothes make the man, it would be incumbent upon us to deduce the man to be much diminished, if not entirely unmade. Let us rather eschew the superficial, for underneath it all, there remains the old dignity of bearing. His barnet’s parting would still meet the approval of Mr Mason and eke of Mr Dixon, and he does not shuffle like the abject wretches who sidle in behind him, but advances with a sure and steady tread, from which the squeaking of his rubber soles on the linoleum detracts vey little. —
Helix Folt
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