“Hello, dearie,” croaked an ancient crone, whose kyphoscoliosis was so pronounced she had to look sideways to make eye-contact, while she scrabbled at his arm with taloned fingers. Repelled yet fascinated, Flugelpik marvelled at the skill of the make-up people, for the old woman had uttered these words in precisely the tone which indicated that she was, despite all appearances to the contrary, George Clooney. His old adversary, one time Maxixe world champion, and possessor, it was rumoured, of the secret Sardinian Engine.
Flugelpik blinked. Surely it couldn’t be he? But the old woman was already making space for him on the threadbare tapestry seat, a relic of the Imperial Dynasty which had been swept out of existence so long ago. Her ragged silk petticoats rustled as he sat down, and her perfume – Old Spice – hit him like a wall of genteel parsnips collapsing on a drunken vicar at a country fair.
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