Extract from ch32 of Helix Folt the Conservative

A claw, lacquered, is extended, grips the Folt tie - a silken dream of white polka dots against a navy blue background - and pulls the attached personage over the threshold and into the vestibule of the House of Buggery, wherein nothing has changed, and all is as dirty and as nastily beige and as beigely nasty as ever it was, and thence into the lounge of the House of Buggery, wherein the analogous truths hold, with the bust of history’s second greatest mass murderer staring impassively over the oozing, undulant Sargasso of female nether garments, the garish polychromaticity of which rather serves to exacerbate the underlying beigeness and, yes, nastiness of everything. 

 They perch on the greasy, spavined chaise longue, Mrs Roger Buggery spreading herself across the middle, and Mr Helix Folt clinging manfully to the foot much in the manner of Rogue Male hanging from his cliff edge by his mutilated fingertips. 

     “Shto!” says Mrs Roger Buggery, sidling kittenishly towards her guest, “is why you come to see me when stupid husband Roger not here is?” 

Mr Helix Folt feels his face reddening as the claws of the lady unknot his tie. 

     “One did rather think to avail you of the intelligence that the clamour in one’s neighbourhood appears to have somewhat abated.” 

Mrs Roger Buggery manifests the tokens of delight. 

     “You are such nice Tory Chew, not like nasty homosex husband who say like like like,” and, assuming decidedly businesslike tones as she commences the office of easing the gentleman out of his jacket, “shto! You want to obtain rubbeeng, yes?” 

     “Golly!” says Mr Helix Folt, and “crumbs! One does not for an instant suppose that you have as yet found the opportunity to apprise your husband of the fects of our … er … ahem … thet is to say ... the state of … ahem … affairs? One feels positively wretched for the fellow.” 

Mrs Roger Buggery, beginning to undo the top buttons of the gentleman’s shirt, smiles at this. 

     “I tell heem everything. I tell him you want to obtain rubbeeng and we go to bordel, and I laugh at heem and say he is not real man, only stinking English homosex who say like like like.” 

In response to this intelligence, Mr Helix Folt looks very downcast. 

     “Oh dear. One rather thought that a certain discretion might have cushioned the blow. Quite apart from not wishing to hurt the poor chep’s feelings, it would be better for all parties if he were not to be provoked into a display of vindictiveness. One would wish ultimately to avoid being named in a case. The association of one’s name in a metter will be quite exquisitely mortifying.” 

     “Shto!” snorts Mrs Roger Buggery, “why you care, is only stupid English homosex. He not care about other husband that is old man Henchop.” 

Mr Helix Folt is somewhat taken aback at this. 

     “One had vey little idea that Roger was your second husband. A Muscovite, this Henchov, one assumes?” 

     “Nyet. He is old English lordy men, wary wary reech, who like to take banya with boxing man and dancing girl and running horse. Is when I am in USA.”