A Flat In Brighton, Thursday Evening

[dark_slippy_thing]

"I'm a very important man, you know," Valentine said, conversationally, to the spaniel at his feet. "I had a tower. And it was an excellent tower, at that. Huge. Hundreds of rooms, staircases that went nowhere in particular. Windows! Plenty of windows. Though... maybe not quite enough windows, come to think about it. Hindsight is always 20/20 you know, Bojangles. Possibly better than that, even. I certainly don't imagine that my eyesight could have been considered anywhere near as good back when I had my proper face. Wee little pinholes, you understand. A more philosophical man might speculate that it was because of my narrow view of the world, or some such rubbish. If you ask me, it was just narrow enough, yes sir. None of that crazy advertising being thrown in my face at every glance. No need to watch customers at the restaurant stuffing their faces ten minutes before my dinner break every day. No glancing at the so-called director snogging whatever lovely little thing he's hired on to stage manage, or props manage, or costume design, or work the sound board every spare moment of every rehearsal. He's ruining my art, you know. My vision. The world would be a better place if I directed all amateur theatre productions. If you ask me, and you should ask me, dog, because I certainly know these things, the world would be a far better place if it was all windows and pinholes."

Bojangles, for his part, simply blinked up at Valentine, and then resumed gnawing on the shoe he'd found. Valentine was just making noises again.

"And possibly ears. Does nobody from this world really know how to properly listen to brilliant words when they're offered out for free?"

[For she who lives here, should she desire, and anyone who might have a burning desire to phone up a very important man. Perhaps you're feeling particularly masochistic and would like to have your ear spoken off?]