Of all the associates who have enlisted in the sustenance of rmbl as the Reform Club lark that it is - from this position - certainly Gérard has shown himself to lack none of Dickie Hakluyt's gall, Naughty Witt's cheek, Hercule and Auguste's obliviousness, and dear Thorny's genius for the strategic doze so much as he, and in this observation we include his plodding little editor. You can imagine with what relief, then, we greeted his solution to our recuperation's tiresome insomnia, tricky leg and spiking pain, which is to take an hour every day in his Maserati Infamnia, as revenge. It had been wasted on his present proving ground anyway, his uncle's breakwater.
Gérard is infallibly too polite to ask a thing to be practical, if he likes the looks of it. We, too, treasure a barometer from Hermès, of impeccable uselessness, because it's such a handsome little caricature of a ship's portal. The Infamnia pleased Gérard in his piercing days, and we set our barometer to say what we want.
Not that this sentimental aesthetic indulgence extends to his choice of companions, all gifted in some way, for performing some thing; and it was nothing for him to flip through his rolodex under "Feet, Agile, Exemplar of," to make his remedy as elegant as it is. Lacking adult passenger legroom and headroom, the Infamnia acts as a kind of global compression bandage, not merely upon the imagination of the young, but upon the propinquity of its occupants. Driven, then, at that breakneck velocity at which even the reflexes are gulpingly obliterated, the Infamnia delivers a fearsomely accelerated massage, of which an hour seems to drain every complaint.
take this seriously, Hercule.
Guys will line up for an
Infamnia, and it doesn't
exist.
Oh, I hear that it might
very well, Auguste.
Elegant.
ReplyDelete