The Indian Summer of the Tory Party
Cedric found the Marquess of Coole spreadeagled on the Ottoman with the ‘Half Life
Of Snails’ in her bloodless grip & texted Henry so
Henry knew Edward G was heinous culpable and twigged at once he had to go.
After all the yoke was full with blistered aubergines, midget broccoli festooned the architraves, and a hairless Headcase looked perturbed wrapped only in a samphire throw.
At heart the man was a pushy upstart from Central casting; the one they always let through, the dead loss leader, the hollow idol to kill off with strychnine on a wet afternoon
Think of the afterthrill of eating chocolate in the dark and feeling a little moist.
But it was all a charade. The long positions still held firm on cupidity and smarm
Peregrine was out a sea huntin marlin for Veronica. Nailed up and bleeding effluent from
every orifice he was hooked, lined and blinkered
Lesser narwhals would fold under such pressure and morph into glum beauticians sweeping up
in seedy nail bars.
This was not Cedric’s script. He sought delineation.
Things were simply matters to
order and control.
He set off for the bakery.
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