We took our way along Lower Cheltenham Place. At the end thereof, Lady Valerie stopped and looked leftwards up the hill. —
Lady Valerie Inhali, Lower Cheltenham Place
“Don’t be such an arse, Snatch. Your great greats fought at Water-fucking-loo, and so did mine, and now you won’t ascend a fucking gradient. Where’s your fucking gumption?” —
Lady Kelly Snatch
“I have it on excellent authority,” said I, “that each one is a veritable palace of easement, featuring ingenious contrivances which are withal based upon the tried and tested drop-toilet model, and that the gentleman of the shed, being of a late morning condignly enthroned, delivers himself of his burden while puffing upon his clay pipe and perusing an authentically proletarian organ of record, in which blessed state he suffers his own stink to rise and meet him, and is on this account sublimely and insufferably content.” —
clay pipe
At the valley’s bottom, the City Farm hove into view: small barns and squalid little paddocks, in which were tethered diverse chimerae, griffins, lithe apes, and fearsome worms which spat noxious venom and breathéd fire (withal, it struck me that there was among this menagerie somewhat of a preponderance of the sons of Silenus). These beasts inchoately vented roars, grunts, gobbles, oinks, moos, quacks and etc etc - each as befitting the signature cries with which Nature hath endowed his or her kind. Towards the back was a sort of grove or bower whence, as we gradually became aware, there emanated the strains of a pastoral threnody, sung by a reedy tenor and falteringly accompanied by a lyre. The words I now endeavour to set down, trusting that my memory adequately serves me in this office. —
lyre, City Farm
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