for breakfast jeffgar proop, gentleman louse, was sat down eating blood pudding bought from kafka hess the butcher. he wondered at the state of the world as described in the morning paper - thought that he was lucky to live in a country that tolerated the strange thing that he was - well, strange for them, if not for him at least.
he was the toast of polite society - hmm, that was stretching the truth somewhat; how might he say it and not buy into the hyperbole and capture better the true sense of relationship with them? he was fashionable, in vogue; not repugnant for some small moment when fascination played the trump card.
it had been otherwise and he saw that it might, at any moment, constitute a turning tide again. what he would do given that eventuality he could not say - he rather enjoyed being able to catch a musical in the west end; he relished the cuisine on offer to him thanks to his celebrity (not that it always agreed with him, but it tasted good).
for lunch he had scheduled a meeting with obstreperous jones and for tea he was dining with spectacles macallister. he had busy day ahead of himself and he was looking forward to it.