Henry the 8th and his processed meats.
“What is your name?” Asked Mr Zaglanikis.
“Monsieur S J willow Walton,” he retorted in an exaggerated mock french accent. “And I’d like to join your organisation.” He casually moved towards the looming wardrobe, trailing his finger along the wall and keeping constant eye contact with he who questioned.
“Mr Walton, what are you doing?”
Mr Walton’s hands moved towards the handle. By this time the sensed peril of Mr Zaglanikis was obvious to all present, and felt with forté in the room’s ambiance. The door was flung open. Silenced breaths were drawn in wholesale. Mr. Walton, now sensing his own grandiose disposition, announced with his usual lack of social coy;
“BEHOLD, THE COLLECTION!”
A silence took over and penetrated the usual air of deipnosophism.
“By Jove,” an onlooker cried.
Mr Walton went on, “yes, yes indeed. A lifetime’s work. Years of unparalelled searching and building. For this moment.”
Mr Walton’s hand turned outwards as if to present what was inside to the audience, still in shock at the shear number of original tudor collars Mr Walton had managed to source and present to the luncheon meat club.
To be continued
