The Legend of le Tuff: (7) Mementos of genius
I wonder if in the Great Book at Judgment Day there will be less than an entire chapter devoted to Baz le Tuff and his deeds.
It was on my very first visit to Scrotsmuir that I pondered this question, as around me I beheld mementos of a wonderful life lived to the full.
The great man's loyal manservant and catamite brought in tea, and even so humble an offering as that refreshment was remarkable, served as it was from an enormous pot of finest Parramatta porcelain and poured into the most delicate Tibetan cups I had at that time ever seen. Both forms of utensil, teapot and skull, told of wide travel and daring adventure.
On the western wall of le Tuff's chamber, above an arras of pink and green, was the switchboard of the vintage monorail that ran right around the room and out to goodness-knows-where. I asked my gracious host why the switch was placed at so high an elevation, and his reply was concise and brilliant. Regrettably, to impart that to you, dear reader, would require the breaking of a confidence and consequent legal considerations. Suffice to say, there was a certain involvement of a vintage toy train collector, a news boy, the Rector of St Swithins, a delightful young German actress, two kilos of Norco butter, and a Barnacle goose.
"Cigarette?" le Tuff generously offered, and I accepted the filterless Sobranie Black Russian. Such is le Tuff's foresight that he has a ready supply of them in the basement, or so Crippen told me on another occasion. Apparently his master keeps White Russians as well; although I admit I have never heard of such a cigarette, I should very much like to try one.
As I drew on my cigarette and waited for the great man to speak, my eyes surveyed this wonderful room. Indeed, they did so for quite a time, as le Tuff does not condone idle conversation, a character trait he kindly suggested I should endeavour to cultivate (and I am learning, thanks to him).
As the sunlight outside dimmed and the beautiful gloom in the chamber enveloped all, some three or four hours after I had extinguished my Sobranie, I had ample leisure to take in a good half of the visible objets d'art and objets trouvées in the room before le Tuff roused from slumber and spoke with that unique, grating, and slightly slurred voice of his that we have all come to adore ...
To be continued
I wonder if in the Great Book at Judgment Day there will be less than an entire chapter devoted to Baz le Tuff and his deeds.
It was on my very first visit to Scrotsmuir that I pondered this question, as around me I beheld mementos of a wonderful life lived to the full.
The great man's loyal manservant and catamite brought in tea, and even so humble an offering as that refreshment was remarkable, served as it was from an enormous pot of finest Parramatta porcelain and poured into the most delicate Tibetan cups I had at that time ever seen. Both forms of utensil, teapot and skull, told of wide travel and daring adventure.
On the western wall of le Tuff's chamber, above an arras of pink and green, was the switchboard of the vintage monorail that ran right around the room and out to goodness-knows-where. I asked my gracious host why the switch was placed at so high an elevation, and his reply was concise and brilliant. Regrettably, to impart that to you, dear reader, would require the breaking of a confidence and consequent legal considerations. Suffice to say, there was a certain involvement of a vintage toy train collector, a news boy, the Rector of St Swithins, a delightful young German actress, two kilos of Norco butter, and a Barnacle goose.
"Cigarette?" le Tuff generously offered, and I accepted the filterless Sobranie Black Russian. Such is le Tuff's foresight that he has a ready supply of them in the basement, or so Crippen told me on another occasion. Apparently his master keeps White Russians as well; although I admit I have never heard of such a cigarette, I should very much like to try one.
As I drew on my cigarette and waited for the great man to speak, my eyes surveyed this wonderful room. Indeed, they did so for quite a time, as le Tuff does not condone idle conversation, a character trait he kindly suggested I should endeavour to cultivate (and I am learning, thanks to him).
As the sunlight outside dimmed and the beautiful gloom in the chamber enveloped all, some three or four hours after I had extinguished my Sobranie, I had ample leisure to take in a good half of the visible objets d'art and objets trouvées in the room before le Tuff roused from slumber and spoke with that unique, grating, and slightly slurred voice of his that we have all come to adore ...
To be continued
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