The Library in the Drones Club
My crowd seems very eclectic, which is pretty much to my taste. If I do not have a variety of people to talk to, I would have nothing to say.
I've said that most of my ideas come from other people, and it's true. I just sit around reading The Times at the Drones Club until Jespersen glides in holding his silver charger with a small ivory envelope on it, saying that a Mr. Darn-Good-Notion awaits without. I crack open the note, take a gander, sniff a bit, then tell good old J. to show him to the billiard room, where shall have our tête-à-tête... with plenty of good stiff pool cues handy. My morning horoscope in the Sun had said that I should beware of a tall dark stranger.
"Jespersen," I say to the retreating morning coat.
"Sir?" he says, pausing in his tracks.
"This Mr. Notion... is he tall? Tall and dark, actually. Is he tall and dark?"
"Yes, sir." J. affirms.
The brow furrows under my delving thoughts.
"Uh, very much so? I mean, very tall?"
"Yes, sir. I would say almost 2 metres."
I pondered. "And dark... very dark?"
"Like a Gypsy, sir."
Since the banter had descended to stereotypical descriptions - and decidedly Victorian ones, at that - there was nothing for it but to trot off to the carambole room and meet the fellow. One never knows. Usually they're ne'er-do-wells, but ... sometimes... a great... Notion?
What I mean is, if everyone were in total agreement and in if, in our discussions, shades of meaning were totally beigey earth tones, then we would all be rather dull.
an apocryphal quasi-pseudo-rehash