Quintessence of tedium outflanked

The tribe of Penguin publicists have tracked me down. Poor Lulu being out cold, I was compelled to deal with Ms Horwin, a pinched disaster with iron-grey hair and teeth and an inaccurate brassiere. She has not forgiven me for my Classic status, when frankly she should apologise for flanking me with the illiterate slop of DH Lawrence and that jawing quintessence of tedium, Baruch Spinoza. Their shameless Foreword claims the alleged philosopher was persecuted for his beliefs. Anyone suffering through the flinty turds of his prose knows better. He was persecuted for his style.

I positively brandish a copy at the Horwin. Reflected light darts from the great man’s footballer perm.

Axiom Seven,” quoth I. “If a thing can be conceived as non-existing, its essence does not involve existence. What pish!”

“Indeed,” she feebly responds. “Now, about this Telegraph interview.”

At this, I hurl my Spinoza out the window. A crunching squawk tells me I have scored an accidental bull’s-eye on the bird-table.

“Where is his existence now?” I loom over her, all jubilation. Only the pink overspill of her embonpoint can keep me from jabbing her in the chest.

“I would check the garden,” she responds. My snort is telling. Routed, she emits a crushed sigh and retreats to the comfort of her Filofax.

I tune her out. Let the Telegraph interview Spinoza.

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