Came now to Stokes Croft the tall cranes. Now was the tranquil somnolence of that forsaken place rent by the clattering of jackhammers. Hither and thither scurried gobshites in hard hats and hi-viz vests, issuing orders and venting the foulest imprecations. Huge balls on chains swung and shattered the facade of Penistone House, and great mechanised teeth abstracted from the corpus delicti of that once noble edifice the mangled debris, which wheeled scoops bore thence to sequestered purlieus known only to the pikeys. —
Stokes Croft, Pikeys, Penistone House
Miss Minerva Ledwitch found it all tremendously exciting. Very soon, from the ruins of Penistone House, that den of duns, would rise the effulgent phoenix of an arts ’n’ cultural centre, the citadel of a New Jerusalem. The barbarous sevidges of Stokes Croft and Ashley Road would be brought out of darkness into light, prisoners would be freed, the naked clothed - unless of course they wished to avail themselves of the spa, in which case they might very well be required to remain sky-clad; come to that, the great unwashed would no longer find themselves in want of a bath. Miss Minerva Ledwitch, foreseeing her own role in all of this, allowed her mind to wander. She would be as a sort of lady Prometheus - Promethea, if you will - bringing colonic irrigation to the huddled, ignorant masses. —
Herod
Miss Minerva Ledwitch, today as often in company with Mr Don Quicksotte, took her lunchtime repast in Bar Wanque, an establishment some metres further up Stokes Croft from the Ghastly Hipster, smaller and arguably more intimate, withal catering to a similar clientele of Edwardian beards and ridiculously tight trousers. At the adjacent table anomalously sat four or five booted and luminously-jacketed gentlemen, hard of countenance and rough in their ways, leavening the somewhat overheated and miasmic air of that place with the most unrefined epithets. Miss Minerva Ledwitch shuddered. Mr Don Quicksotte, observing her travails, awaited politely the passing of her spasm, then offered:- —
Bar Wanque, Don Quicksotte
Miss Gamina Dročerpyatova chose this particular moment to sway, all hotpants and exposed midriff, past the window of Bar Wanque, much ribaldry on the part of the horny-handed toilers being by her passage occasioned. Miss Minerva Ledwitch looked sharply at the greasy features treading water on the face of Mr Don Quicksotte, as the booster of wind affected not to follow the progress of those Slavic buttocks. —
Gamina Dročerpyatova-Buggery
Now there appeared before the Bar Wanque window the form, exquisitely-tailored as always, of Dr Mark Wankstain. The Poncemaker-General seemed to be in haste, and did not tarry, but very promptly scurried off in the direction just taken by his charming executive assistant. —
Dr Mark Wankstain
“The very man!” said Miss Minerva Ledwitch, with a sudden access of energy, “I want to speak to him. Do be an angel, Quicksotte, and run after Dr Wankstain for me.” —
Dr Mark Wankstain
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