Romano, skinny lawyer, walked like a man on two stilts with long, skinny legs that balanced a tall body. A typically English golfer, son of property like his father and following suit in law. Everything 'acceptable in society' was jotted down in his life notebook, except he never kept notebooks nor wrote a solitary word of art. He worked, played golf, changed the sex of his cat if he wished - with a name like 'Babe' for an ancient male cat that drooled over guests. A small, unattractive grey cat far too affectionate to unwilling bystanders. Ballet performances graced the wall by the stairs of an immaculate 2-bed house outside of which a perfect silver BMW eased itself into a parking space for one in front of the small latch-gate. Quite perfect and very grown up. A home for perfection. Certainly not fun, artistic or for children.
His thin, long bony fingers were crooked and in his entirety he summoned an eerie aura. He was one of those who had pursed lips most of the time when either quiet, thinking, watching television or amused. There was one particular seat in his small lounge in which he formed a curved slouch. He was not that attractive. The Englishness, in this case, repulsed my native instinct.
The slow speed of his driving. The taste of Classical music and ballet. That cat, those legs, the skin, the thinness, his character absent, a high-class facade and expected package - all determed the lack of x-factor. Of course an all-important, and absent higher belief eroded further. Skinny lawyer, so fine and yet not fine at all. A personally tailored jacket, tweed of course, simply too much.
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