In preparation for my trip to England, mother has reviewed my wardrobe and found it lacking. She’s had the servants toss out all of my garments and burn them in the forecourt, apart from a bathing cap I haven’t worn since age twelve. According to mother, English people have something called “style” and “don’t wear horrible things upon which a cat would refrain from vomiting.”
While my three-piece tweed suits were being fitted, I wondered aloud why mother might be so interested in the whereabouts of this elusive man, Robert Denby. After all, he’s even less to me than he is to her, and he was on the cover of my most recent novel. The tailor promptly hushed me by sticking a pin into my left buttock.