“On her hands and knees, she was, Gidders,” brayed David Cameron, chuckling maniacally and throwing back his throbbing, boiled ham head. “You jolly well should have seen her – prostrate on the floor, clawing away at my ankles like some kind of ghastly wild animal.”
He paused to drain the contents of a colossal, bulbous brandy glass.
“And the tears, Gidders, the floods of tears. I really didn’t know where to look. Neither did the other diners. I won’t be able to show my face in Apsley’s again for a while, I’ll tell you that. It was all quite mortifying, now I come to think about it.”