It was on this account left to other rogues to exploit the confidences reposed in them by the divested parrot. The chronicles of the time record that Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet staggered, lonely and bereft, down the Gloucester Road and underneath the Arches and past the Polish church, until he came to … er … Squattocrat Towers. Here, he did not deign to undertake any of that door-knocking or welcome-mat-scraping so beloved of bourgeois, mainstream sheeple chained to the social conventions, but straightaway took wing and flapped upwards - rather unsteadily, it must be said - to the chimneys, and there did battle with the resident pewlies and smashed their eggs, before dropping down the chimney and landing once again in the dirty fireplace. —
Squattocrat Towers, Hawksmoor Perroquet
Lord and Lady Snatch and their faithful retainer St Just were to be found downstairs, in the dark and dingy front parlour with the dingy fustian stuff draped over the windows which shut out the clamour and wan light of the dingy road without. The room was in nearly all respects just the same as ever, save for the presence of several bags of saline and other stuff up on hooks, with several tubes running thence into the several cicatricial limbs of Lady Snatch. Her Ladyship, reposing under dirty blankets on the divan, looked plumper and altogether more content than of late. She kept her counsel, appearing very somnolent, and Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet apprehended that at least one of the bags on hooks was delivering into her veins a most satisfactory dose of diamorphine - which arrangement, alas, engendered a certain amount of jealousy on the part of her spouse. He, thinner and yellower than ever, and clad as always when at home in his filthy kimono, appeared to be and probably was the subject of the attentions of ants or fleas or lice; for he could not take his ease, but ever must spring up from where he crouched in his spavined fauteuil beside her Ladyship, and engage in a species of St Vitus’s dance about the parlour, scratching his thin and dirty yellow limbs and his thin and dirty yellow hair, pausing to deliver a savage kick or two to the rotting elephant’s foot in the corner; and, finding in these actions no respite from little biters biting him, must once more assume his wonted seat in the aforementioned fauteuil; whence, while scratching hard enough to wear his flesh through to the bone, he heaped upon his companions the poshest but most exceedingly foul execrations; before springing up again and resuming his cycle of itchy yellow suffering. For his part St Just, clad in the apron and chef’s hat affected by that helot when manufacturing crystal methamphetamine upstairs, but presently on a break from that pyrotechnic business, lounged in the corner creating exotic cheroots with the hemp which he liked to smoque, and passed his time scowling at Lord and Lady Snatch. —
Diamorphine, bags of saline, St Just, Lady Kelly Snatch
Lord Snatch, espying Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet as that disgraced consul stumbled into the domestic idyll, drew back those very thin lips exposing those very rotten dental stumps. —
Lord Snatch
“Letters, yes,” said Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet, “that is to say, correspondence. There has been a certain correspondence between myself and a particular lady dove. Not to put too fine a point on things, the lady dove in question is now betrothed to Mr Ian Corby, who has lately replaced me as Mayor. I was wondering whether you might oblige me by returning to Miss Bianca Columbina the correspondence between us. I would not wish to undertake this task myself. It would not be very nice.” —
Bianca Columbina, Ian Corby
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