Lady Bumbridge

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.

Without another glance at the man lying prone on the ground, she turned around and waited for her husband to pull out a chair for her. Lord Bumbridge winced as the heavy iron chair accidentally brushed against his swollen penis. Lady Bumbridge noticed this and said “Terence, you really do need to go and see Dr van Koed, it’s not going to go down without some form of medication”. Lord Bumbridge, did as he always did when discussing matters of health, covered his ears with his hands and began to hum a nonsensical tune.