In which my nature is subdued to what it works in

Like a svelte Northern Proust, I am always in of an evening.  What’s the good of a home if you are never in it?  “Home, Sweet Home,” that’s my motto, embroidered on the dusty brocade of my heart. Our dear friend Danny may drop in without ceremony; so may Alan, who lives in Hampstead.  Poor Lulu and I are as pleased to see them as we are to see anyone, which is hardly at all. They pass the time, however.

But Lulu and I can manage to pass our evenings together without friends.  There is always something to be done: a tin-tack here, a Venetian blind to put straight, a fan letter to pin up, the precise particular idiocy of an NME hack to pin down. Lulu is not above scrubbing a boot or two.

Dear friend Danny dropped in, greeting me with a hearty “Wotcher, cock.” Taking this at first for an instruction, I uttered a strangled cry and protected my infernal regions with a rare Billy Fury Parlophone. I was still vibrating with genital alarm when Danny took his leave, citing the terrible pen of paint.

“Pen?” I ventured.

“Pen and ink, mate. It stinks, dunnit?”

And with that he was gone, vanished like a wisp of hope, albeit a beefy one.


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