Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet had during his career in architectural design been the recipient of any number of lavish encomia. Oft had his breast been be-medalled, his brow be-garlanded. Prizes had been bestowed, toasts drunk in his honour. Sir Hearty Luncheon had prevailed upon Lord Handjob to award scholarships, and Lord Handjob had reciprocated by prevailing upon Sir Hearty Luncheon to fund bursaries. There was no denying that Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet had greatly surpassed the expectations placed upon the run-of-the-mill parrot. There being in his bosom a certain quality of amour de soi, Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet could not - nor in fairness did scruple to - deny that he had appreciated this laudatory aspect of things. —
Hawksmoor Perroquet
In such a brown and despondent mood, the Worshipful Parrot betook himself to … er … Squattocrat Towers. The natural leader at that time of the avowedly non-hierarchical mob tenanting that habitation was, by virtue it must be supposed of his elevated birth, Lord Snatch. Lord Snatch’s declension - and eke his decline - has been made the subject of other chronicles, which I do not propose to reiterate here, except insofar as to mention his matchless proficiency in the drainage of dull opiates. —
Lord Snatch, Squattocrat Towers
Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet, purposing thereby to ward off further intimations of cant or the authorship thereof, at the bottom of Stokes Croft dispensed with the mayoral limousine which Sir Hearty had insisted that he take, and made the rest of his way rather disconsolately on foot. Withal his reputation preceded him, the winnits who clung about that social cleft were too cool for school, and so he was roundly ignored save by the alquoholiques who had congregated at their habitual station upon Turbo Island, and who subjected him to their usual witless banter, all of which tended rather to augment his gloom. —
The Mayoral limousine
“Look,” squawked Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet, pecking at them quite savagely, “will you just bugger off, there’s nothing for you here.” —
St Just
“How perfectly enchanting. At least it’s not the Black Spot, although it sounds very much like it. I entreat you to drink tay with us. No doubt St Just will have some hemp seed lying about.” —
St Just
“I quite understand,” said Lord Snatch, who probably did, “time and the affairs of Psittacus Erithacus. Why don’t you open the window just a tad, St Just, so that his Worshipfulness may flutter orff. Only,” he added with mock alarm, “I entreat you to avoid playing Susannah to his Tristram. We are not Hebrews in … er … Squattocrat Towers, I think.” —
Psittacus Erithacus
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