He knew his girth was such that, jogging in public, he would likely frighten small children and fair maidens, and so he never ventured outside his gated house in Sussex in anything less than a suit. Not even his wife, God rest her miserable soul, had ever seen him without a tie. Since her demise, he had put on four stone in weight—one for every year without her. But despite his weight gain, since his wife’s death his sex life had dramatically improved. It was remarkable that the higher your bank balance became, the lower your inhibitions went. The women he entertained didn’t care how big his waist was or how small his appendage, so long as he was stuffing their panties with money and their nostrils with white dust. His zip parties were legendary—the girls would zip a line and unzip his trousers. He never touched the stuff himself. Not since New Year 1999. He took a towel and draped it around his neck like a professional boxer and walk-jogged to the gym room behind the kitchen. He had no mirrors in his gym; he was anything but vain.
