Lord Bumbridge

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 Gunbridge Bells’ local newspapers.

Clutchworthy, the Bumbridge family butler, stepped onto the balcony with breakfast. “Would you care for more tea, sir?” he asked, placing the tray on the table. “No, no Crustworthy,” Lord B replied, “Just bugger off and tell her ladyship that one of the street jugglers has just accidentally clubbed The Anuseater. She’ll want to see this.” “Very good, sir” said Clutchworthy, pulling a small brush from his waistcoat and gently brushing the dandruff from Lord B’s shoulders. He exited, soundlessly.

On the breakfast tray was the usual Bumbridge morning repast of toast, smoked Hograt strips, a large Glenfarclas 25yo Cask Strength and a glass of filtered water from the river Spa itself. Lord B settled down to eat and read his newspaper.

Soon the sound of commotion from inside the house disturbed his morning ritual, as it always did. He grimaced and mouthed the familiar words “The witch cometh” to himself, as Lady Clytemnestra Bumbridge stepped onto the balcony.