Beeves and Homan

Hogshead cheese on Melba with mustard, relish and chutney, and an After Eight to aid digestion, awl of spine, jurypost and cataract. It is darker than coal outside my bedroom window, the selfsame window I gaze through like a monk in a cloister, knees crooked in supplication to Beeves and Homan, whom I have never met, and probably never will. These are dark days indeed, so Beeves and Holman said, darker than soot and bootblack. I will hang a sprier from the hook in my ceiling, and moor it in place with Burgees, Claxton and Mulberry, just to be on the safe side, which I never am, never.