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Story so far: Naked still of princess Victoria has been sent to her father King Henry IX. The King and his man-servant Brendan - nicknamed 'Bugger' - is pursuing the blackmailers while strategising how to counter-act the coming scandal.
* * * * *
In the royal Rolls the King, with a showily dexterous flick of the wrist, activated the television and sat back with a contented grunt to watch the snooker for the rest of the drive. 'Oh, perfect weight . . . They make it so . . . Now. Has he got the angle on the yellow?'
After about an hour Brendan started to think logically, or at least consecutively. If one used one's imagination (he told himself), Victoria's reaction could probably be readily explained. What do we do in bathrooms? Nothing we're very proud of. A bodily function, perhaps. The use of a tampon, conceivably. Or something rather more intimate. Which woman friend had informed him that young girls referred to the hand-held shower as 'Rain Man'? And she was fifteen. Remember that: the outlandish disproportion of being fifteen, when you were waiting to find out who you were.
'Shot. Now he'll come down for the blue . . . Oh no, he's gone to far . . . Foul stroke!'
from Yellow Dog by Martin Amis
* * * * *
The man is a comic genius (well, I had the urge to share)!
* * * * *
In the royal Rolls the King, with a showily dexterous flick of the wrist, activated the television and sat back with a contented grunt to watch the snooker for the rest of the drive. 'Oh, perfect weight . . . They make it so . . . Now. Has he got the angle on the yellow?'
After about an hour Brendan started to think logically, or at least consecutively. If one used one's imagination (he told himself), Victoria's reaction could probably be readily explained. What do we do in bathrooms? Nothing we're very proud of. A bodily function, perhaps. The use of a tampon, conceivably. Or something rather more intimate. Which woman friend had informed him that young girls referred to the hand-held shower as 'Rain Man'? And she was fifteen. Remember that: the outlandish disproportion of being fifteen, when you were waiting to find out who you were.
'Shot. Now he'll come down for the blue . . . Oh no, he's gone to far . . . Foul stroke!'
from Yellow Dog by Martin Amis
* * * * *
The man is a comic genius (well, I had the urge to share)!
