Puffington Host

Suspicious Room Picture
It's a puff piece.

Part One.

His name was Wilfred Puffington, and he was hosting a darling little dinner party for one of my many close friend. The evening started as most do and ended similarly so; with a sunset and a sunrise, respectively. I wasn’t officially invited but my mother’s only son was pitifully lonely so I decided to act as chaperon and jester, to add froth to what promised to be a percolating evening. I wasn’t entirely confident of the most appropriate outfit to don to such a soiree. Being a man of such cultural voracity, I have ample cummerbund but of what colour for this evening? And of which material? Oh, the mind boggles but I pushed through my malaise and decided to go white-tie. Just as the youngens do say, OOLO! One only lives once!

The locale for our party was in a charming part of town I wasn’t overly familiar with but do recall one particular time, in my adventurous twenties, buying meth for an ex at a corner near the house in question. I was, of course, hoping that some mild gentrification had nudged those types to a more effluent area, so I wouldn’t be noticed by my past, or parents. As we arrived at our destination I was pleasantly surprised.  The host had a private valet that promptly took my bike, and held on to my Tiffany keychain for me. He was a nice chap, not too dark and had a beautiful outline of a teardrop dripping from his left eye. I instantly recognised it as an homage to Punchinello, the sad clown – I could tell this was going to be a smashing evening.  I remember mentioning that to my companion, and he enthusiastically agreed.

Just as the youngens do say, OOLO! One only lives once!

The venue was a charming chalet with a cleverly faux-ramshackle facade that reminded me of a quaint suburban family house or home with bricks the colour of the manila folders you would see at a public school or in a filing cabinet at a detention centre.  Such fun! I felt like I was about to attend a Murder Mystery party that bourgeoisie couples attend and I couldn’t be more enthused. I stepped up onto the patio fashioned from milk crates, removed my frappaccino-coloured Michael Kors gloves and lightly fisted the door. The sound reverberated loudly and I imagined a large marble chamber with a crystal chandelier, and a hand-woven red carpet leading from the door to the opulent spiral staircase, wrapping itself around a bronze sculpture of a cherubic angel flowing water from his urn into the moat below.

I heard pale footsteps heading toward the door.  With scorching eyes open wide and my big, generous heart racing, I handsomely gulped as the door finally opened and I came face to face with our host, Mr Puffington.

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A certified pony saddler and professional crumpet toaster, Ribald is a true renaissance man. He is credited for making pantaloons popular again and for establishing the burgeoning franchise, Deep Ship, a popular drinking hole for seamen.

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