Gennaio gazed into Rollsroycia's velvet eyes with a fear born of lust and respect.

She guided him around the dance floor like a skillful floor buffing machine operator, her waist perilously close to his belt buckle.

He'd always like tall women from afar, but they intidimated him close up, as they could match him not only in height but often in strength.

He didn't like feeling weak, except for those few minutes just after...

"Lunch!," cried the concierge.

"About time," said her corsage, in Korean.

"What did it say?"

She translated.

"I didn't know that thing could talk," said he.

"I didn't know it was awake," said she.

As they entered the blimp hangar, hands in each other's pockets, they walked past the competition entries, effigies of starving third world children made with potato salad crowding the groaningly laden borrowed folding tables.

"A bit of a squalid topic, don't you think?"

"No. They are going to airlift them to Eritrea in a refrigerator plane just after the fete."

"How touching. Oxfam?"

"No, the Cambridge Headlights Club."

"How apropo."

"Touche."

"Later, when we're alone, my sweet."


As they strolled toward their table with the most eligible bachelors, co-eds, twins and oboe players arrayed around it,
lounging in unimaginable splendor with out-of-work accountants plying them with
peeled grapes, chunked pineapple and defrocked priests soaked in Amontillado,
they graciously bowed, curtseyed and kowtowed to their hosts, Lord and Lord Ford-Fairmont, of Surtsey.

The Lords waved their kilts at them in a credible display of confidence in their hereditary prominence.

Rollsroycia blushed prettily all the way down to her pessary.

"Surely you've been in the presence of a Member of the House of Lords before, haven't you?"

"Ah, deary dear, yes, you putty-faced pootery boy, but never at such a remove and in such lighting."


The Corinthian Leather Cummerbund Band struck a chord, sent it on it's way, and then launched into a medley of Ricky Wagner's greatest hits.

Those present who had a clue got up and pretended to dance, while the others spun up their hidden CD players and listened to Destiny's Child through hidden earplugs.

Gennaio whisperly fed his date the necessary data with his nose in her hair.

She giggled and a properly leather encompassed matron reproached them with her glass eyes.

Gennaio was beginning to think that this would be one of the most significant evenings in his life.

Rollsroycia was beginning to think that it would be a good idea to find the lady's.


Then a space/time/management/analysis anomoly sped all the zippers and velcro in the county into another dimension that would, on the whole, have rather had toilet paper.

Everyone but the Lords and the defrocked priests found themselves in disarray.

The band began to play old favorites from Swedish movie soundtracks, with four young Boy Scouts providing the subtitles in semaphore, using the knickers of four young Girl Scouts who were now scurrying to find a solicitor and a chemist.

A spaceship landed in the car park, smashing every vehicle of note below 1,135,000 Belgian Francs in cost.

A small alien in Ascot morning dress kicked open the hatch and trundled down the gangway, waving a small Corgi which sang "Georgy Girl".

A former policeman stepped forward and asked intently,"Do you have an invitation?"

"Yes," said the alien. "Someone named Camilla called my service last night."

"Aha," said Lord Ford. "She swore she'd get back at me for reporting her congestion violation. She said she'd crash my party if it was the last thing she did. Where is she, the little minx?"

"Ah, the last I knew, she was in Wainscotting, hobbling a horse."

"Ah, thank God for that," said Lord Fairmont.