Mr Don Quicksotte, assaying to extricate himself from clasp of Ledwitch, quit the purlieus of Bar Wanque. Now bethinking himself that he might while in the vicinity acquaint himself with the progress of the siege at … er … Squattocrat Towers, to this purpose thither bent his steps. —
Squattocrat Towers, Bar Wanque, Don Quicksotte
A few strides of those immensely long limbs of his brought him unto the siege engines which the bacon were maintaining there. Here he tarried and, by dint of craning his neck, was able to discern St Just in silhouette against the skyline, cavorting among chimney pots, and casting execrations upon the bacon’s mediators, who had been raised aloft on cherry pickers that they might see if they could reason with him face-to-face - Mr Don Quicksotte recognising among the latter the bulky form of Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead. —
Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead, St Just
Mr Don Quicksotte uncraned his neck, and discovered himself to have the honour of the company of Monsieur Gilles de Pantalon-Rouge, whom he remembered from a brief flirtation with personal fitness at Quads & Pex down like fuckin’ Easton, of which establishment M.de Pantalon-Rouge was in the way of being both the manager and a prominent shareholder. Mr Don Quicksotte sympathetically sighed. —
Gilles de Pantalon-Rouge, Easton
“The sophronistae could do nothing with him, I suppose.” —
sophronistae
“Nor the aleiptae neither. The entreaties of their elders hold no sway with headstrong youth, who ever must pursue the path of folly. Still, a fond father does whatever lies within his power.” —
aleiptae
“… oh you mean that parrot,” said M.de Pantalon-Rouge after a momentary puzzlement, “I do sometimes wonder what became of him.” —
Hawksmoor Perroquet
Their conversation was now interrupted, for the cherry-picker full of bacon being lowered to the street, Constable Wifebeating-Cokehead wielding a megaphone stepped off the platform, and approached the worried parent. Who, smiling wanly, said —
megaphone
Bethinking himself that a walk might lower his blood pressure and leaven his mood, he struck a course for his home in Mangotsfield, which took him up onto Montpelier Hill and down through St Werbuggers and across the footbridge over the motorway where it limned the boundary between that suburb and Easton. He had not gone very far through Easton, when he came upon Mr Hawksmoor Perroquet, staggering with raucous companions out of a very tumbledown terraced house in a side street just off the Stapleton Road. —
St Werbuggers, Montpelier, Mangotsfield
This site would like to use cookies to count visits and measure advertising. Nothing is set unless you accept.
