containing many stuffed
beasts: rabbits, hares, minks, ducks, geese and others arranged in tableaux of
imaginative depravity.
Maxwell,
as a lad, had, as most lads have, pored breathlessly over a many-thumbed copy
of the Karma Sutra. And he might well have lingered long in appreciation
of the taxidermist’s skill at depicting such wonders as a ferret ‘splitting the
bamboo’ of a toad, or an otter ‘taking tea with the parson’ in the company of
not one but three French hens, had it not been for the mind-grinder of a
headache he now possessed and the all-over nature of his aches and pains.
Maxwell
ached in the manner that only one who has recently received a sound trampling
from a Tibetan yak can.
Or
possibly one run over by an articulated lorry.
Or
crushed beneath a fall of dumbbells, which had been carelessly stacked in a
high cupboard, usually reserved for the storage of books such as the Karma
Sutra.
Or even
having been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded by
a sheet-metal worker named Brian and two of his drunken mates, outside a pub in Camden Town at closing-time, because he mistook you for the bloke who had been
splitting his wife’s bamboo while he was on the nightshift.
No,
actually the last one is somewhat different, as the blows rained are aimed
towards a specific area of the body.
Maxwell
groaned and felt about his person. ‘By the Goddess,’ he mumbled, ‘I feel as if
I’ve been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded
by—’
‘A
sheet-metal worker named Brian?’ asked a voice. Maxwell turned his aching head
to view its owner and was impressed by what he saw.
In the
doorway stood a figure of heroic proportion. His broad shoulders almost filling
the entrance span, his head bowed to avoid contact with the lintel. This man
was a veritable giant.
And he
was marvellously dressed.
All in
red. Every inch. His costume was intricate, highly decorated and many layered.
Over a ruffled shirt with four collars, flounced sleeves and gathered cuffs, he
wore a number of sleeveless garments, graduating in length from the innermost,
which reached nearly to the floor, to the outermost, which was little more than
a skimpy bolero.
His
baggy trousers were tucked rakishly into red leather kneeboots with stylish
double toes.
All in
all this outfit created a most singular and dashing appearance, but one
somewhat at odds with his face. This was a bloated affair, big as a pig’s
bladder balloon, all puffs and rolls of flesh. The eyes, black points, were
scarcely visible, the nose was a dab of putty, the hair a red ruff teased into
a thousand hedgehog quills.
Returning
to the nose, which Maxwell had no particular wish to do, but did, none the
less, this nose was pierced through the centre cartilage between the nostrils,
by a huge golden ring which encircled the mouth and reached almost to the first
of several chins. From this ring hung two slender golden chains, one of which
looped up to the left ear lobe, the other to the right.
‘Are
you feeling yourself?’ asked the big red man.
‘No,’
said Maxwell. ‘It’s just the way I’m sitting.’
The big
red man nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is my house,’ said he. ‘And anyone
who engages in cheap double entendre here receives a smack in the gob.
Do I make myself clear?’
‘Certainly,’
said Maxwell. ‘You have no need to press home your point.
‘Good,’
said the big red man. ‘So what do you feel like?’
‘I feel
like shit, as it happens.’
‘Well,
that’s a pity, because I only have cornflakes.’
Maxwell
shook his aching head.
‘Just
my little joke,’ said the big red man.
‘Really?’
said Maxwell.
‘Of
course. I have eggs, bacon, sausage and toast also. Follow me.’
With a great deal of
groaning and creaking and cracking of joints, Maxwell followed his enormous
host from the room of rude animals, across a hallway lined with statuary of
equal rudeness, up an elegant
beasts: rabbits, hares, minks, ducks, geese and others arranged in tableaux of
imaginative depravity.
Maxwell,
as a lad, had, as most lads have, pored breathlessly over a many-thumbed copy
of the Karma Sutra. And he might well have lingered long in appreciation
of the taxidermist’s skill at depicting such wonders as a ferret ‘splitting the
bamboo’ of a toad, or an otter ‘taking tea with the parson’ in the company of
not one but three French hens, had it not been for the mind-grinder of a
headache he now possessed and the all-over nature of his aches and pains.
Maxwell
ached in the manner that only one who has recently received a sound trampling
from a Tibetan yak can.
Or
possibly one run over by an articulated lorry.
Or
crushed beneath a fall of dumbbells, which had been carelessly stacked in a
high cupboard, usually reserved for the storage of books such as the Karma
Sutra.
Or even
having been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded by
a sheet-metal worker named Brian and two of his drunken mates, outside a pub in Camden Town at closing-time, because he mistook you for the bloke who had been
splitting his wife’s bamboo while he was on the nightshift.
No,
actually the last one is somewhat different, as the blows rained are aimed
towards a specific area of the body.
Maxwell
groaned and felt about his person. ‘By the Goddess,’ he mumbled, ‘I feel as if
I’ve been remorselessly beaten with ball-pane plannishing hammers, wielded
by—’
‘A
sheet-metal worker named Brian?’ asked a voice. Maxwell turned his aching head
to view its owner and was impressed by what he saw.
In the
doorway stood a figure of heroic proportion. His broad shoulders almost filling
the entrance span, his head bowed to avoid contact with the lintel. This man
was a veritable giant.
And he
was marvellously dressed.
All in
red. Every inch. His costume was intricate, highly decorated and many layered.
Over a ruffled shirt with four collars, flounced sleeves and gathered cuffs, he
wore a number of sleeveless garments, graduating in length from the innermost,
which reached nearly to the floor, to the outermost, which was little more than
a skimpy bolero.
His
baggy trousers were tucked rakishly into red leather kneeboots with stylish
double toes.
All in
all this outfit created a most singular and dashing appearance, but one
somewhat at odds with his face. This was a bloated affair, big as a pig’s
bladder balloon, all puffs and rolls of flesh. The eyes, black points, were
scarcely visible, the nose was a dab of putty, the hair a red ruff teased into
a thousand hedgehog quills.
Returning
to the nose, which Maxwell had no particular wish to do, but did, none the
less, this nose was pierced through the centre cartilage between the nostrils,
by a huge golden ring which encircled the mouth and reached almost to the first
of several chins. From this ring hung two slender golden chains, one of which
looped up to the left ear lobe, the other to the right.
‘Are
you feeling yourself?’ asked the big red man.
‘No,’
said Maxwell. ‘It’s just the way I’m sitting.’
The big
red man nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is my house,’ said he. ‘And anyone
who engages in cheap double entendre here receives a smack in the gob.
Do I make myself clear?’
‘Certainly,’
said Maxwell. ‘You have no need to press home your point.
‘Good,’
said the big red man. ‘So what do you feel like?’
‘I feel
like shit, as it happens.’
‘Well,
that’s a pity, because I only have cornflakes.’
Maxwell
shook his aching head.
‘Just
my little joke,’ said the big red man.
‘Really?’
said Maxwell.
‘Of
course. I have eggs, bacon, sausage and toast also. Follow me.’
With a great deal of
groaning and creaking and cracking of joints, Maxwell followed his enormous
host from the room of rude animals, across a hallway lined with statuary of
equal rudeness, up an elegant
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