Griffin slapped his glass down on the table and fought the urge to belch loudly. He was not used to drinking beer, but he'd felt inclined to drink the pint that Gustav, the chef, had ordered for him before he arrived. And after that it would have been rude not to have the second pint. Those, in combination with the Jack Daniels he'd consumed at the Opera House earlier were making him feel a bit tipsy. He was glad that Gustav had suggested The Grotto as a meeting place though. Griffin had only been here once before and that had been after hours of prior drinking with Rex and Todd, so the memory wasn't exactly clear. At this point he was now more interested in watching the flights of the beautiful Glowmoths at the top of The Grand Cavern than he was in listening to Gustav whinge on about his domestic life with the Bumbridges.

Lord Bumbridge tapped at the green door of the “Shop with No Name” and heard the familiar clippety clop sound of his daughter’s high-heeled mules. She opened the door and ushered him into what appeared to be a reception room, with cedar wood panelling on the walls and a cream marble floor. There was nothing much else of note in the spartan reception apart from a desk, a potted fern and a picture of a loved up couple in a gondola. Lord Bumbridge noted with pride how lovely his daughter looked, with her mane of thick hair, the colour of Tunbridge Wells brick and moss green eyes, just like his.

Lord Bumbridge put down his copy of The Times and took a long sip of whisky. He was seated on a red leather sofa at the Sandrock Road branch of The Institutional Club. Actually it was inaccurate to call it a “branch”, as it was the main and original location of the club for the wealthy Tunbridge Wells elite. One of the younger members had dubbed it “The Mothership” a few years ago and unfortunately the name had stuck. Now all members were expected to use that vile name, as well as calling the town centre branch “The Annex”, which was only marginally less unpleasant.

Lord Bumbridge and Hammond Eggs sat at a small table near the kitchen of the Salon du The. The tea room would not be busy for another half an hour or so, giving them enough time to discuss Institutional Club matters without being overheard. Lord Bumbridge looked over to the front of the restaurant to where their respective wives were sat.

Lord Bumbridge hurried excitedly into the library, spilling some of his Brooms Bowel Strangler a local crab apple and gooseberry cider. He had 15 minutes to spare before luncheon with his old friend, Mr Hammond Eggs, at the Salon du The. Their respective wives would be there, but Lord Bumbridge had deliberately reserved a table as far away from them as possible, he couldn’t stand Delilah Eggs’ droning, lispy voice and anyway he had important issues to discuss with Hammond.

The Institutional Club, Town Centre branch. Lord Bumbridge likes to go here, when he goes out.

Lady Bumbridge, hindered by her corns, hobbled onto the balcony to join her husband. She could see a pained expression on his face, and knew it had nothing to do with his priapism. “So, where’s the poor Anuseater?” she asked, turning her scrawny neck from left to right, up and down. Her husband, cleared his throat and with a look of evil merriment, pointed in the direction of the hairdresser’s/barbershop Hair Hitler. Just by the doorway, Lady Bumbridge could make out a man sprawled on the cobbles, yes, it was the Anuseater alright, she recognised the yellow tights.

On a balcony above Pantiles Market, Lord Terence Bumbridge stood looking down at the milling throng. A typical day in the market: stalls, food, smoke, street performers and far, far too many people. The noise, as always, was unacceptable. Lord B grumbled into his tea, and mouthed the words “Fucking cattle”, as he did every morning while fingering open the days edition of The Subterranean, one of Tunbridge Wells’ local newspapers.