For that quarter hour as I waited, I gazed out of the window, which afforded a splendid prospect of the addicts and cider-drinkers cavorting with their hounds upon the grass across the road, against a backdrop of honey-coloured Regency stone. It was very sunny, with the promise of warmth, although the gales of the previous night had yet to abate, and most of the outside tables were unoccupied. Eventually, somebody’s dog bit the raucous gentleman on crutches, and there ensued the predictable commotion. —
The room above Mr. Vagus’s shop
“It’s all put on for the tourists,” he said disgustedly, “reality busking. We pay for it. Was you waitin’ for Mr Vagus?” —
Reality busking, Mr. Vagus
“He couldn’t make it,” said the thin man, “got his bankruptcy petition. County Court in Bristol.” —
The thin man
I followed him through the salon, between the tables at which befuddled Japanese and Germans sat and sipped their tea. We went through the kitchen, where a temperamental hipster with a huge beard appeared to be stuffing the anus of a creature resembling a pangolin with handfuls of coarse red sand. —
The Salon
“It’s the toilet roll you want. Underneath the Cluedo.” —
The toilet roll
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