Could get lost going down these steps. The air colder. Which way. To the kitchens. Of which according to the ledger there are six. Push open this white door. Explore while one is on the way. Give Erconwald ample time to get it back into his trousers. And out of the sight of that woman who has a rather musical laughter. Which might keep Erconwald’s pecker up till the cows come home. Or he gets blown. A room the walls lined with cupboards from floor to ceiling. Barred windows peeking out on the courtyard. Shelves with earthenware pots. Cloves, cinnamon, bay leaves. A spice room. The scientists could add seasoning to the distillate. Of which Erconwald must slam back a dram for breakfast. Get it to pop up and poke the stranded lady right on the red bump on her nose. Between pretty blue eyes. Which will sparkle throughout the eight or nine years of good screwing she must have left. Tonight my first social engagement. And I’m searching for petrol. To motor a matron out of this menagerie.
