Tristram Mump and the Ginger Tom

The succession of insanely screaming young women which had been chasing a well-known Aberdonian author up and down the aisle for the previous four hours passed once again in a kakocoprolalophilokryptographobillkirtonomanic iteration.  As the noise faded, an elderly American hove into view, pushing a laden trolley.  “Lunch is sunny side up!” exclaimed this gentleman, his glossy bald head gleaming in the gloaming.  “Hey puss!” he added, addressing the ginger tom, who was attempting to look inconspicuous but failing in the same way as an iceberg might not quite succeed in being un-noticed if it were to attempt a surreptitious beaching next to a naked red-head on the beach at Cannes, especially if it were so poorly advised as to try the line, “Mmm, nice Cannes!”

Tristram Mump seized the unfortunate feline by its penile appendage, explaining as he did so to the classically untrained that penis is Latin for tail, and  “a nice piece of tail” is what butchers in South London call, well never mind, said Coco, isn’t that a sufficiently long animadversory dysvarification?, and clapped the goddamned cat right back on his stupid looking head, muttering as he did so, “Why should I pay vast sums for a fucking stupid looking rug when a fucking stupid ginger tom will do just as well?”

The ginger tom demurred.  It would be inaccurate to say he depurred, but there we are.

“Where the gastrojuicical hell have you been, Mump?” expostulated the starving Clooney who by this time was on the brink – the very cusp - of chewing lumps out of the carriage’s aged upholstery.

“Offly sorry, old chap,” said Mump, slyly winking at Flugelpik in a faux-anglais accent.

Things were looking black.  Not only had the trans-Siberian Orient Express been hijacked by a set of venal town councillors, but a soie-disant krillionaire was currently building three or four dozen golf courses on the train, without so much as a buy-your-grannie.  None of this prevented Clooney from tucking into his cold ptarmigan, the brace of pheasants sang-froid, the several loaves hand-made and beautifully crusty, the sweet little tarts imported frais from Bakewell that very morning, the dansak, the Hyderabad Utterly Unbeatable Biryani, prepared in front of the guests in a copper vessel with the rice steamed wonderfully over the meat, the chocolate cake with ground almond brought by the best patissiers of fin de siecle Straight Paris to a peak of mouth-watering perfection as warm and moist as… well, never mind, said Coco, we really must get on.