Sipping cognac after a light evening repast of smoked quail egg duck terrine and lamb chops, grilled redder than m’lady’s love for me, we’re watching some very loud television program featuring scantily clad young women and bushy-bearded men.
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“HAH! HAH! HAH!”
The summoning, staccato laugh of Lieutenant-Colonel Bixley careen and carom of the Club walls, shattering the usual somnolent, contemplative silence that most of us less roturierians pay top dollar membership dues to revel in.
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There was a day—Ah yes! Those were the days!—when, dear reader, yours truly, c’est moi, the brash and dashing owner and publisher of the country’s newest broadsheet at the time— Continue reading