LaFlamme Goes Freelance

In which Tony explains how an encounter with a vacuous celebrity couple became a springboard to self-employment for LaFlamme.

 

As a gifted copywriter, LaFlamme certainly had the means of making reasonable money when needed. But she tended to be too opinionated for mainstream journalism and too honest for advertising, at least in the eyes of her employers.

“I can be dishonest,” she said to the advertising agency. “I can write like a pleb if you want,” she said to the magazine editor.

It was clear that the issue was consistency. On a day-to-day basis her talent was often sabotaged by boredom, which allowed vicious, opinionated writing to creep in and eventually take over.

One memorable piece for Home & Garden began innocuously enough as a review of a middle-aged celebrity couple’s neo-classical home:

‘Charles and Georgina Demille describe the effect that their home has on visitors. “One particular guest compared it to a Hermes handbag,” said Georgina. I nodded in a knowing way, although I had no idea what she was talking about. Why would the guide of the Underworld be designing handbags rather than protecting the way of travellers? I suppose he might have designed the odd handbag in a moment of extreme tedium. In fact I’ve worked out a particularly fine design in my head as I continue to trudge around this dreary abode.

The house is the epitome of neo-classical style, ideal for the particular drones currently inhabiting it as it removes the need for any personal sense of style or taste and replaces it with an overwhelming sense of smugness in its owners. “I like to keep it simple,” says Georgina, and she ought to know as she’s a walking vacuum.

Husband Charles is an ideal match for the hoover woman, and I ask him how it feels not to be burdened with complexity. “I’m an American,” he says. “Less, not more.”

As we enter the dining room, Georgina tells me it was the classic proportions of the space which first drew her and her divot partner to the home they now share with their obnoxious offspring, Charles jnr, aged nine, and Wolfgang Amadeus, six. Together they truly are a gift for those dangerous advocates of compulsory sterilisation and I end my interminable visit by warning them they should probably remain indoors at all times.’

Unfortunately this article was actually published, as no-one in the editorial department ever read the ingratiating puff pieces written as side accompaniments to the glossy photographs. Only after they received a letter from the Demilles was it brought to the editor’s attention:

‘To: Edward Wonderful (Editor)

Dear Mr. Wonderful,

We the Demilles would like to thank you for your excellent puff piece in this month’s H&G. It’s marvellous to see your publication continue to use such quality paper despite these difficult times.

Your reporter was most unorthodox in her methods but was a regular Rosalind Russell in the field. Her jokes about sterilisation may not have been to everyone’s taste, but being supporters of the Conservative party we found them most amusing.

We have since replaced the broken items and replenished the drinks cabinet.

Yours,

Demille x 2’

This was sufficiently unusual to compel Mr. Wonderful to re-read the original article and LaFlamme’s career as a freelancer began in earnest from that point.

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Mr. Boaks, You’re At The Heart Of Everything We Do

In which Tony finds he has secret admirers in the fast-food trade.

 

I love pizza. Not just pizza, but having somebody bring me pizza. I think it’s one of the miracles of the modern age that I can be wrapped up in a box set of ‘Supernatural’ and only have to reach between the remote, the beer and the phone in order to maintain a state of bliss.

But one of the unfortunate side effects of this guilty pleasure is that pizza vendors tend to mistake your obvious gratitude for something akin to a relationship and often make it clear that you owe it to them to pull your weight.

First I received a postcard addressed to ‘T. Boaks or Pizza Eater’. Admittedly this was right on both counts, but it went on to say they were ‘missing me’ and that if only I’d get in touch, everything would be just like it was before. I wanted to tell them that involved me sinking into lard-assed alcoholism and, besides which, I’d come to the end of ‘Supernatural’. But then series two became available.

I didn’t want to be accused of leading the needy vendor on, so when the box set arrived, I called a different delivery service. The transaction went smoothly enough, even though I felt they were a little over-eager, but within a week they too sent me a postcard. It said ‘Mr. Boaks, we put everything into the making of your pizza’. This was a huge exaggeration as I knew for a fact they only put in flour, water and yeast. Already I was suspicious.

Then vendor one stepped up its courtship by sending a full-colour brochure with ‘Mr. Boaks, you’re at the heart of everything we do’ emblazoned on the cover. By now, however, there was a hint of vindictiveness about these communications. They told me exactly how long it had been since I called and they addressed it to a ‘Mr. Boalloks’.

On top of this I began receiving additional direct mail from pizza vendors I’d never even heard of. They said things like ‘You don’t know us, but we want to get to know you’ and ‘Pizza 4 Boaks 4 Ever’. This was just creepy and I decided to give up on box sets altogether.

I thought I might try and get out more instead and arranged to meet The Admiral at The Malt Loaf, his preferred wellspring of vigorous dark ale. However, as soon as I stepped out my front door, various pizza vendors scuttled into the bushes, ten or twelve in all. I knew they were pizza vendors because I smelled potato wedges. Some had cameras and tape recorders, others were taking notes.

It seemed I really was at the heart of everything they do.

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I Dream Of Romney

Tony and LaFlamme have been arrested for a crime they didn’t commit. At least they don’t think they did. One of the prison guards is an American and during the long night this prompts an unusual dream.

 

I had no sooner drifted off than Mitt Romney was asking me to assist him in his presidential campaign. I told him Republican Party races were just about who could oppose abortion and gay marriage most vociferously and that he didn’t need me for that. But Romney insisted.

I knew Romney’s body had been taken over by body-snatchers and that he was a dangerous threat to civilisation. Unfortunately, in my dream this was also the case. He was trying to convince me I paid too much tax, his wide eyes and fixed grin reminding me of a cryogenecised Ted Danson. I told him it wasn’t so much that I paid too much but that he didn’t pay enough and that if he really wanted to give something back to the country he could start by contributing more than the paltry 13% of his ludicrous investment income he did at present.

But it was clear the real Romney had left the building years ago. This Mormon husk was all that remained and you could no more have a conversation with him than an eggplant. Not that that has stopped candidates in the past. There is nothing in the constitution to prevent eggplants taking office, as was demonstrated by the 43rd president.

Romney persisted, telling me that although socialised medicine was considered the red menace, he had an idea for a national health service. Rather than be paid by the government through collected taxes, it involved individuals paying large multinational insurance companies for cover. I said it sounded interesting but was clearly in its early stages.

Before I could ask for more detail, he was handing me a gun, saying: “Welcome to America.” It was at this point my dream became a nightmare. I was greeted by a marching parade as I stepped off a ferry. Somebody presented me with flowers, and a garland was draped around my neck. There were calls for a speech. I panicked.

“This is all happening a bit fast,” I said in a terrified whimper. “I love your movies, but I’m not sure I’m ready to live here. I think you’re probably all quite nice, but whenever I see any of the people you vote for and the insane things they have to say in order to get you to vote for them, I feel frightened.”

The crowd began chanting: “One of us, one of us.” I turned and tried desperately to get back on the boat. Unfortunately Romney had me by the legs and was clinging on for dear life. I was frozen to the spot, probably an extension of the cryogenic process that fixed his grin.

“Are you having a seizure?” said LaFlamme in her caring way, waking me in our cell.

“Oh, thank god I’m in prison,” I said.

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Not So Much A Talking Cat

In which Tony encounters a feline with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’

 

The Admiral had found a particularly fascinating episode of ‘Extreme Trams’ on Youtube and was glued to his monitor. It wasn’t such an unusual state for The Admiral and it was best not to interfere, as this was preferable to his frequent bouts of boisterousness.

“Don’t you have any milk?” I said, trying to find things to combine that might result in a refreshment.

“On the fridge,” he said.

On the fridge? You know milk ought to be stored in the fridge in order to keep it cold.”

“Ordinarily, yes,” he replied. “But I was experimenting and it’s now behaving like a reverse hotplate.” I ran a finger over the fridge’s surface and sure enough a layer of frost had developed. The milk was practically stuck to it.

I heard a scratching at the front door followed by a thin high-pitched voice, as if a ten-year-old had been compressed within a shoebox. I thought it might be Cyndi Lauper.

“Could you put a little milk in that saucer?” said The Admiral, rising and, without removing his gaze from the monitor, stepping to the front door. For a shoebox, it was large and had very long hair. And whilst its skulking demeanour was typical of its species, it had a most unusual cry.

“Noooo,” said the cat, in a plaintive monotone.

“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.

“Noooo,” said the cat.

“Yeeees,” said The Admiral.

“Excuse me,” I said. It’s not that I wasn’t bemused by an apparently talking cat, but I felt if this was the level of debate we were going to have, I might as well watch Scottish Questions. “Since when do you have a cat?”

“It’s not mine,” said The Admiral. “I believe he belongs to that chap around the corner.”

“What kind of person teaches their cat to speak?”

“I think you’ll find,” said The Admiral, “that the results of most experiments with verbal communication in cats have tended to be negative. This is not so much a talking cat as one with an unusual pronunciation of the word ‘meow.’”

“But when you said ‘yes’, he said ‘no.’”

“That’s not really a conversation though, is it? More like a Beatles song. Were I to ask him about Boyle’s Law, he’s unlikely to explain that, assuming temperature remains unchanged, the absolute pressure and volume of a confined gas are inversely proportional.”

“Isn’t that just because he didn’t study thermodynamics?” I said.

“Hmm,” said The Admiral. “Admittedly, he may have spent more time on Kinetic Theory. Why don’t you try talking to him?”

“Ok. What’s his name?”

“I don’t know,” said The Admiral. “Let’s call him Boyle.”

I crouched down to welcome the visitor. “Hello, Boyle,” I said, and immediately felt ridiculous.

“Noooo,” said the cat.

“Would you like some milk?” I poured a little into the saucer.

“Noooo,” said the cat, rushing towards it and eagerly lapping it up.

“You see?” said The Admiral. “His response is not necessarily negative. In fact, we don’t even know if he is speaking English. Were he a native Pole, this would actually mean ‘yes’. Or were he Japanese it would mean ‘of.’

“He’s multilingual?” I said.

“I don’t think you’re quite grasping this,” said The Admiral, doing his best to hear an explanation of electrical conduits whilst continuing our discussion. “He’s just an eccentric verbaliser, a bit like yourself.”

“But he must have been trained to talk like that.”

“Actually,” said The Admiral, “I believe it may be the other way round. The chap around the corner is quite the curmudgeon and I suspect the cat has trained him to take a negative view of life. He may have become so accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’ that it now plays a huge part in his daily discourse. In which case, Boyle has a lot to answer for, don’t you, Boyle?”

“Noooo,” said the cat.

It was a very intelligent cat who could not only speak several languages but had trained his master to behave in such a manner. I began to have some sympathy for the man who had simply been conditioned, and it made me wonder about those whose only notion of positivity is to continually repeat that we are positively screwed.

 

 

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6 Things More Useful Than Trident

This post was originally to be called ‘3 Things More Useful Than Trident’ but when I found out Trident had no point I changed it to ‘100 Things More Useful Than Trident.’ That was going well until I had to buy milk.

This week, when the Westminster government announced an initial £350 million spend on a new generation of nuclear weapons whilst simultaneously telling us we were broke, I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about them. It wasn’t so much the price tag that bothered me, even when I discovered £350m was a fraction of the overall £100bn required. It was more to do with being a stickler for symmetry in the exchange of goods – usually when I’m going to spend £100bn on something, I want to know I’m going to get £100bn of useful stuff back.

However, having conducted some research, I can confirm that the following list of objects are each in their own way more useful than Trident.

1. A Bucket With A Hole In It

Depending on the cargo you mean to transport, a bucket with a hole in it can be put to far greater use than a submarine-launched ballistic missile system. Stones for example, if chosen correctly, can be carried from one end of the garden to another. Bread rolls too can be stacked in such a manner so as to negate the effects of any hole. Once transported, the stones and bread rolls can be employed as missiles in the event of an invasion by ground troops, something that could never be said of Trident. And remember, a bucket with a hole in it can be made even more effective with the addition of a newspaper to line it. I recommend The Scotsman.

2. A Cardboard Sink

New advances in production mean that cardboard sinks can be quite robust. They can withstand several litres of soapy water and, given sufficient interim drying time, can be used many times before becoming ineffective. This is something that could never be said of Trident as just a single use would devastate half the planet, leaving a dusty crater where only the Mars rover might feel at home. Cardboard is also recyclable, unlike Trident which is currently festering on our doorstep without any means of disposal. Additional notes: Trident’s green credentials are negative and are effectively purple; a cardboard sink is unlikely to be deployed accidentally.

3. My Old Socks

They’ve turned a strange charcoal grey, have been breeched in both heels and are quite threadbare. But they’ve been in my life for as long as I can remember and I’ve grown quite fond of them. I think of them as my comfort socks as the elastic has wilted and therefore won’t contribute to any future varicose veins. Trident is similar in that it too has been in my life for as long as I can remember. The idea of it deteriorating so close to home however, does not inspire a similar affection. It’s also more expensive to replace. I plan to get another winter out of my comfort socks and when I buy a new pair I’m hoping they will come in under £100bn.

4. A Betamax Video Recorder

Betamax is much maligned but was actually far superior technologically to VHS. If you happen to have inherited a working Betamax, you’re likely to also have a library of movies taped sometime in the 1980’s, as well as some video store cast-offs such as ‘Microwave Massacre.’ This is a huge source of entertainment and is unlikely to give you leukaemia. A Betamax in good condition can still be used to record your favourite TV moments. Providing you have the strength to press its huge buttons you can watch Michael Gove behaving like a knob whenever you please. Highlights from Philip Hammond’s thrill-packed term as defence secretary alas do not make good television.

5. A Stick

Sticks are incredibly useful. I keep a collection in the garden in case of unforeseen circumstances. Once I had to use a stick to get my keys off the roof. You might wonder what my keys were doing on the roof. I put them there with a stick. Another time, LaFlamme brought me a pot plant. It started to grow and I used a stick to support it. Soon I needed a bigger stick and then a bigger one. I asked LaFlamme what kind of a plant it was and she said ‘oak.’ Soon it took over the flat and began producing little sticks of its own for future generations to get their keys off the roof. This is all in stark contrast to Trident, which is likely to only ever produce universal death.

6. Garbage

One of the main reasons cited for keeping Trident is that it’s a major employer. Aside from the fact that it’s a twisted individual who thinks weapons of mass destruction would make a fine job creation scheme, it turns out only two jobs would be at stake – one guy regularly taps it with a screwdriver and another checks if we’re all still alive. Garbage on the other hand is a major employer. It takes many thousands of people up and down the country to administer and physically deal with the collection and disposal of garbage, as well as to sort through the recycling and figure out what you’re meant to do with Tetrapaks. If we didn’t have garbage, unemployment would soar. Once Trident is dismantled it too will become garbage, creating even more employment opportunities.

Let’s face it, even soldiers don’t have any use for Trident.

 

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The Problem With Work

In which Tony pauses to reflect and concludes that work is a needless distraction.

 

The nocturnal Sir Fred had insisted I stick to the hours of between midnight and 6am to revise his corporate literature. These were my normal working hours so it was no particular hardship. Less palatable was band manager George Lyttleton’s insistence on a 9am start for his ‘Mock Lobster’ CD artwork. Diminutive and lime-suited, I could always guarantee Lyttleton’s presence at the precise hour on account of the alcoholic red-card he’d been served some years back. Denial of alcohol often begets punctuality.

As both these characters were thoroughly disreputable, I had a healthy suspicion regarding any dealings with them. However, the combined hours of graft left little time to discern what conniving lay behind these particular projects or how they might find a way to screw me on the price.

It struck me that this reached the very core of the problem with work – it consumes your time and energy to the extent that you have no idea what’s going on in your life and care even less. Forty years go by in this way if you’re lucky enough to hold down a job so long. Then you wake up a withered old prune and ask ‘did something happen?’ By this time you’re drooling on your shirt and struggling to remember your name, let alone a lifetime of events.

I figured at the very least I would have a journal to remind me of such details in my dotage. I resolved to stop writing such drivel in it.

 

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Thinking Inside A Box (Part 2)

Band manager George Lyttleton asks Tony to ‘think inside a box’ and provides the box.

 

Fully assembled and bound up with parcel tape, the box gave the kitchen table a run for its money in the cumbersome stakes and left very little standing room outside of it. Lyttleton sat within, his eyes just visible over the side wall. He implored me to join him but I was reluctant. It may have been a collossus amongst cardboard boxes but with two grown men inside, I thought I might find it small enough.

After much pleading I agreed, knowing that the client, although certifiable, will nevertheless be funding my own expedition into alcoholic stupor.

We sat at opposite ends of our corrugated thinktank and I surveyed the surroundings. Lyttleton’s corner was already damp but luckily the cardboard had a distinctive smell that was strong enough to distract me from the less agreeable smell of festering lime-suited band manager.

“Where do you want to start?” said Lyttleton finally.

I sat back against my cardboard gable end and sighed. If either of us died at this point, the other would have some serious explaining to do. What if this were my final resting place? What if my legs gave out and from hereon in, food had to be served to me in my box? The district nurse would say it was ironic when handing me a seafood platter and I would curse creatively and throw pieces of scampi. It didn’t bear thinking about. I resigned to playing Lyttleton’s game instead.

“Do we have a name for the album?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he replied. “Any suggestions?”

“How about Zanussi?” I said.

“I think,” said Lyttleton, “the follow-up to Midnight of the Mole People has to be an even bolder statement, as the material is much stronger.”

“You’ve heard it?”

“No.”

If Lyttleton was saying the material was stronger it was because someone else had told him, as Lyttleton had no ear for music. Whilst a deep-freezer salesman might be expected to know something about deep-freezers, it was generally accepted that the same did not apply to band managers. Lyttleton knew more about fridge-freezers than he did about music.

“How about The Mole People Go Out To Buy A Fridge?” I said.

This was ignored and after 30 minutes of thinking inside a box, I realised I had suggested only fridge-related titles and white-goods visual motifs for the album. However, when I mused over the combination of seafood and cardboard and suggested Mock Lobster, Lyttleton was delighted his brainstorming experiment was working and decided to put the title to Campbell Glen.

“I knew this was a good idea,” he said from his now distinctly soggy end of the box. “And I didn’t even have to use this.” He produced a harmonica from his inside pocket and began playing it in a particularly childlike fashion, albeit with a blues-style rhythm.

“What’s that for?” I said, but he couldn’t hear me above the noise, compressed as it was in a deep-freezer-sized space. I stared at the wheezing little man opposite. It only took me a minute to link the harmonica to ‘Blues Guy Thinking.’

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Thinking Inside A Box (Part 1)

In which Tony is urged to brainstorm in a most unusual manner.

 

Self-styled musical impresario George Lyttleton called to inform me of an impending release from one of his stable. I suggested under the circumstances a doctor might be more useful than a graphic designer. He responded with liberal use of the word ‘dolt’ and explained he would need artwork for Campbell Glen’s new CD.

In the 70’s, Lyttleton had a number of high profile bands under his wing, most likely until they realised he was less a manager and more a delusional fantasist in a lime suit. Now he was reduced to a single artiste, eccentric Scottish troubadour Campbell Glen. Described by New Musical Express as ‘a fruitcake extraordinaire,’ Glen was certainly odd. I met him once and told him I designed his last cover. He offered me a sardine.

Lyttleton said he wanted to push the boundaries of visual communication for the new album and that we should ‘think inside a box’ for ideas. He said he had spoken to other managers and they agreed this was the best method for achieving creative breakthroughs.

The trouble began when he arrived carrying the box in question. Even in its collapsed state it was enormous; too big to fit under his elfish arm so he clutched it with both hands slightly above head height. When I answered the door I faced a wall of cardboard and two sets of disembodied fingers. After the initial confusion, he shuffled in sideways, perspiring heavily and bursting out of his tight suit.

“I’ve never seen so much cardboard in one place before,” I said. “Have you been feeding it?”

“New deep-freezer,” he replied, catching his breath. “Top of the line. It traps moisture and transfers it outside so you get a lot less frost.” I thought frost would be a good thing in a freezer but Lyttleton thought otherwise. “40 pounds of seafood in the old one and I couldn’t get near it for frost. Needed an icepick. It was like an Arctic expedition every time I wanted to eat.”

“Couldn’t you just defrost it?”

“I did,” he replied. “Do you want some fish?”

Lyttleton shuffled uneasily and loosened his collar. I imagined he would welcome frost at this particular juncture.

“The point is,” he said, “I’ve got a new one now and it arrived in a big box.”

He rose and began assembling the box in such a manner that he would be inside it when it was complete. There was a certain Lyttleton logic to this as it would spare him the indignity of having to raise his little legs over the steep sides to get in.

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Devil Doll

In which LaFlamme tells the author there is a need for her to have a sidekick.

 

LaFlamme appeared in the middle of ‘Devil Doll.’ It couldn’t have been more apt. I was sitting in the dark with only the black and white glow of the TV set bouncing off the walls. I wasn’t trying to save electricity, I just couldn’t face getting up to switch the light on.

LaFlamme clapped her hands loudly. “Wakey wakey!” she said. “Everybody up.”

“I’m awake,” I replied. “Sort of.”

“Good, because I don’t hang out with zombies.” She stepped across the room.  “What, is there a war on? I demand to be seen and admired.” This finally roused me to throw some light on the situation, something I wasn’t known for being able to do. No wonder it seemed dark to LaFlamme. She was still wearing shades.

“I’m going to need an assistant,” she said, sitting on the desk. “Who do you know?” Clearly LaFlamme’s new career as a self-help guru was taking shape.

“Like a P.A? Or a secretary?” I asked.

“Which one’s most like a stooge?”

“I don’t know. Both seem quite glamorous to a graphic designer.”

“I won’t beat them or anything.”

“Well that’s a plus point, but I don’t think employers generally beat their assistants anymore,” I said. LaFlamme was certainly a stranger to employer/employee relations. The fact is, both of us were pretty much unemployable in any conventional sense, due to us not having any conventional sense.

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A Trifle Bizarre

In which Tony tolerates Sir Fred Godalming and Allen Stanthorpe working in his kitchen.

 

I was watching ‘The Wolfman’ with Lon Chaney Jr. on my little black and white portable. I only ever stayed with it for the part where he changes into a werewolf, as I found the rest of the story implausible. Tonight though, I could hardly let implausibility trouble me as there were members of an underground banking organisation working in the same room.

“Take a letter Stanthorpe,” said Godalming. The Texan took a seat in the new office chair I’d found discarded in the street earlier.

“Don’t you have offices yet?” I asked. It wasn’t that I minded them working in my kitchen but I thought a third party business might conflict with the terms of my household insurance policy, if I’d ever bothered to get one.

“Indeed we do,” said Godalming. “However, our chambers are in a state of unreadiness at this precise point.”

“They’re gettin’ painted,” said Stanthorpe, his excitement at the prospect clearly visible. “Blue!”

“Bernard, comma,” continued Godalming, as Stanthorpe did his best with one finger typing. Unfortunately, as he did so I noticed that the office chair, which I had manhandled to a height that would suit his robust frame, had slowly begun to sink lower. Stanthorpe didn’t seem to notice and continued typing.

“We have received the necessary papers and will now proceed with phase two of the operation, full stop. Arrangements are in place with your captors for your imminent release. I suggest you pack a woolly jumper or two, as the climate here may be a little inclement for your rich blood. The food, too, is a trifle bizarre, so I hope you like trifle.

“Mr. Boaks has been extremely co-operative, malleable even, and I think you will agree has been an excellent choice of patsy. I should mention that The Order are very pleased with the latest developments and that at the next gathering I shall be making a full presentation. Or at least a Powerpoint.”

By this time, the office chair had sunk to its lowest position, very close to the floor, but Stanthorpe soldiered on regardless, his arms raised above shoulder level and his neck stretched so he could just see above the table-top. Now I knew why it had been discarded.

“In conclusion,” said Godalming, “we look forward to scheming and conniving with you soon. Till then, yours, Freddy. Sign and print.”

“Gotcha,” said Stanthorpe.

I suppose I should have felt slighted by some of these comments but the truth is I didn’t much care. I was used to clients taking appalling liberties, making no attempts to disguise their contempt and generally hanging around my kitchen bothering me, so this was nothing new.

After the boys finished their cocoa, Stanthorpe helped Godalming with his cape once again and the duo prepared to leave.

“Can you bring in some milk?” I said. “We’re running low.”

“Certainly,” said Godalming.

“What flavour do you want?” said Stanthorpe.

 

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