Lady Bumbridge

The name of the book was Medieval Wild Boar Hunting Technique by someone named Francis Frimler, published 1942. Lady Bumbridge thumbed through the dusty pages and admired the lavish illustrations, especially those involving the skinning and butchering of the beasts. The book was one of many on offer to the clientele of Hair Hitler, as a distraction to be utilised while getting one’s hair cut or styled. Although brothers Grant and Shane Hitler took great pains to rotate and augment the selection of titles, it was clearly more for their own enjoyment than that of their customers. Yes, for most people a visit to Hair Hitler was just as much about non-stop gossip laden conversation with the brothers, as it was about a good hairstyle. Nevertheless Lady Bumbridge was an exception. She always took great interest in the books, often taking notes and occasionally even borrowing a volume.

Lady Bumbridge wearily left the meeting with Solange d’Espere, the Masturbation Clinic’s director. She then hailed a kago (a Japanese-style sedan chair) to take her tired body up the hill to Summerhill House on London Road. She always enjoyed seeing Solange and talking of ways of improving the clinic’s reputation and raising awareness of masturbatory issues. She didn’t however look forward to seeing her son at the squat he shared with Helga and Hedwig. She felt that her son, Howard, at 34, had wasted his life and acted like a teenager. She sighed and dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

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.

Lady Bumbridge was upstairs in her bedroom, sat at the dressing table mirror and examining her reflection. She was about to meet a Mrs Hammond Eggs for luncheon at the Salon du The and was not feeling particularly enthusiastic at the prospect of being nagged at over a lunch of cucumber sandwiches. Clytemnestra Bumbridge had once been an attractive woman, but now, at 64 she looked more like Quentin Crisp than Dame Helen Mirren.