And as for Norbury; she could hardly even think of her once beloved Colonel without her breath catching in a rapidly constricting throat. To think that she had almost fallen for his roguish charms. In truth, she felt bereft of the ability to not think of Norbury, and without at least a trilogy of strong drinks supporting her of a morning, her restless mind would positively teem with an endless tumult of memories of his wooings; the delicate brush of his luxuriant eyebrows on her cheeks, his intrepidly roaming fingers and ever roving eye, his indescribable breath. Feeling quite stricken, she had taken to carrying a small reviving pouch of smelling salts in her voluminous purse at all times. Sitting with a distinct list, third cocktail of the day in hand, lost in one such fanciful reverie, Constance was busy whiling away a little more of her over-abundant leisure time. Time she would previously have spent engaged in somewhat healthier pursuits, such as walking, red squirrel shooting, goose taxidermy and of course photography.
A dull slap echoed from the hallway, distracting her from her idle ruminations, as the latest offering from The Manifold Spectator- the local bi-weekly scandal sheet and tabloid society rag- finally slid from it's precarious position midway through the letterbox, where it had hung in limbo, imperfectly balanced since the five a.m. post run.
Thrusting her Gremlin's Furball- green liquorice liqueur, a healthy slug of sloe gin, a dash of vermouth and an olive- down on the occasional table, she tottered slightly unsteadily to the drawing room door, peering cautiously round the door jam. In the eternal gloom of the oppressively dingy corridor, she spied the delinquent literature and adeptly hooked it up from the mat using only her buttocks; a neat little trick she had had scant opportunity to put to use since she had learned it at preparatory school.
Returning, paper now in hand, Constance plomped unceremoniously back into her favourite leather armchair, dexterously retrieving her glass with the other. The ensuing gush of fusty air hastily escaping from the tan seat cushions erupted in an uncannily flatulent manner, intruding inappropriately on the former tranquillity and gravity of the east retiring rooms, causing Constance to erupt with uncontrollable bouts of giggling for several minutes. Gradually, her near hysterical laughter turned to sobs, wild and dejected, as her subconscious mind brought her full circle, associating the innocent episode with the seemingly ubiquitous Norbury.
Unbeknownst to Constance, her despised Aunt Monika had been stood, observing yet unobserved, for quite some time behind the open door. The Marquise felt an incongruous empathy with Constance's plight. After all, she had suffered similarly in her youth, at the hands of her former beau brigadier Leslie Ampersand Bunt-Bunting, a horrendous mendacitor who shared more than a few of the less than desirable personality traits of Colonel Thrust-Munch.
Enough was enough, though. Marquise Nomenclature stepped swiftly from her concealment, only to loom in an intimidating manner over Bintwrangler, whose eyes bulged alarmingly with surprise and naked trepidation.
The Marquise, in her own inimitable way, attempted to explain that it was high time Constance took matters firmly by the horns, put the cocktails aside, and got herself out of the house and back in the saddle.
'Satan’s fun bags, Constance! The Good Lord knows, I myself have staged many a dirty protest in my time, but never did it come to this’! Exploded the Marquise.
‘Don't you remember that feckless frequenter of the bear-garden, Sir Reginald Aftermath? The one who ran the taxidermist on the high street? Going about in broad daylight with that slack-faced losack Octavia Thrapple-Splayed from the Temperance Bar next door?! They were never even married!!!’ she ranted on, her voice growing hoarse with mounting disgust.
'Or how about large Larry Anne? Remember her? Insisted on pissing her life away in the Haughty Crab, after that no good fiancé of hers Benedict Taint proved himself a complete twollock, eloping off with that untempered hussy Flounce Quango and her questionable talents? Found quite dead, she was! Face down in an extra large jug of Wazzock's Extra Mature Stout, she was. Pickled! You should have seen the look on her father's face! Mortified, he was! Didn't even dare show his face at the funeral!!'
Constance did indeed remember attending large Larry Anne's funeral. Bribe, Bribe and Frisk's had worked wonders with her sorry remains, but her irreparably pruney face had the unsettling look of an unwrapped mummy. Quite why they chose an open casket was anyone's guess; the eternally puckered, tawny skin was still visible under its heavily pancaked layer of rose foundation powder.
This was an epoch closing moment for Constance; Nomenclature's words had acted like a rejuvenating tonic, and the accompanying sharp slap to her slack, damp cheek, palpably augmented the Marquise's admonishment. In an attempt to pull herself together, Constance voided her nose most unprettily on her handkerchief, daubing at errant tears with one lacy corner.
And so, as her Aunt left her to her thoughts and her tears finally dried up, Constance retrieved the neglected Manifold Spectator, and, sitting a little more carefully this time, began to thumb through it's gossipy pages. The seed of a deplorable hangover had already begun pulsing wickedly in her left temple. Perhaps she would call in at Doctor Paunchbulb's surgery and have him administer a little of that excellent remedial cure-all he was so fond of prescribing. She didn't know what was in it, but it certainly was potent, especially where her 'Gremlin’s Laments' were concerned.
A brief scan through the birth, marriage and death notices revealed a few intersting snippets. Mr and Mrs Alabaster Scringe were proud to announce the safe delivery of a healthy baby boy, whom they had seen fit to name Jonty. A certain Lady Anne Hoarder was to marry Wellington Minge III, a ripe banana and no mistake, at Vexing-on-the-Glands near Farcy. But, of utmost interest to Constance, was the sad demise and subsequent burial of Mrs Theodora Thrust-Munch, cause of death as yet undisclosed. Funeral service to be held at St. Murgatroyd-in-the-ditch Church, Lower Snatch Snot, donations gratefully received.
'Perhaps I have been a little hasty, what with my wholesale dismissal of Norbury, after all.' thought Constance out loud.
Turning the page thoughtfully, as she warily eyed the entertainments section, her attention was caught by a posting from the Apuskidu Squid & Fish Museum. A full page advertisement boasted their latest endeavor; a book launch spectacular;
‘Living The Bream Dream’ she read out loud. 'A book like no other, this is an exhaustive study of one man's passion for fish. Delving intimately into the author's personal experiences, this exposition encompasses a three-fold presentation: -
The Fecundity Of The Sea: An Appreciation
An extensive and exhaustive display of all things aquatic and piscary, to be followed by…
Krill Crayolas
A profusion of wax pastels bearing the author's unmistakably rude artistic talents, and culminating with…
Bream and Beyond
An invigorating talk and chance to meet the author, who refers to himself modestly yet mysteriously as 'The Nautilus'.’
This was just the opportunity she needed to make a triumphant return to the public eye.
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