Toothpick

Sour grapes—I thought—as a little waitress flitted past with steaming plates. Flitted? Or perhaps it might have been an optical illusion or delusion. Pea soup and sippets—and cigarettes—admirable combination that propagated a delightful restful feeling. A plate of succulent bivalves—oysters, to be specific—neatly arranged in order of age (but not of sex), and cooked to a delicious, golden brown.

A toothpick delicately manoeuvred odd morsels from obnoxious crannies, while pleasant voices said pleasant things and told funny stories with frequent references to Bill—the censor. Then Bill, the censor, told a ripe one during a momentary lapse of censorship and I hurriedly laid down the toothpick and quaffed a large draught.

After this Bills popped up everywhere, and one was uncertain whether it was the same one or a different one. However, it was immaterial, as a great sense of 'spiritual peace pervaded the atmosphere

Well—from there to hence and thither—with many arguments—to the rhythm of the dance . . .and . . . and er . . .

By the way. I went to the Haeremai Club's First Annual Dinner. Bai Jove!

This is an organisation worth supporting! Look into it.—"Hock."