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Evelyn Waugh. Excursion in Reality


Original: Excursion in Reality - p.p. 220-2


1


The commissionaire at Espinoza's restaurant seems to maintain under his
particular authority all the most decrepit taxicabs in London. He is a
commanding man; across his great chest the student of military medals may
construe a tale of heroism and experience; Boer farms sink to ashes, *
fanatical Fuzzi-wuzzies hurl themselves to paradise, * supercilious
mandarins survey the smashing of their porcelain* and rending of fine silk,
in that triple row of decorations. He has only to run from the steps of
Espinoza's to call to your service a vehicle as crazy as all the enemies of
the King-Emperor.
Half a crown into the white cotton glove, because Simon Lent was too
tired to ask for change. He and Sylvia huddled into the darkness on broken
springs, between draughty windows. It had been an unsatisfactory evening.
They had sat over their table until two because it was an extension night.*
Sylvia would not drink anything because Simon had said he was broke. So they
sat for five or six hours, sometimes silent, sometimes bickering, sometimes
exchanging listless greetings with the passing couples. Simon dropped Sylvia
at her door; a kiss, clumsily offered, coldly accepted; then back to the
attic flat, over a sleepless garage, for which Simon paid six guineas a
week.
Outside his door they were sluicing a limousine. He squeezed round it
and climbed the narrow stairs that had once echoed to the whistling of
ostlers, stamping down to the stables before dawn.
(Woe to young men in Mewses!* Oh woe to bachelors half in love, living
on J 800 a year!) There was a small heap of letters on his dressing-table,
which had arrived that evening while he was dressing. He lit his gas fire
and began to open them. Tailor's bill J 56, hosier J 43; a reminder that his
club subscription for that year had not yet been paid; his account from
Espinoza's with a note informing him that the terms were strict, net cash
monthly, and that no further credit would be extended to him; 'it appeared
from the books' of his bank that his last cheque overdrew his account J 10
16s. beyond the limit of his guaranteed overdraft; a demand from the
income-tax collector for particulars of his employees and their wages (Mrs
Shaw, who came in to make his bed and orange juice for 4s. 6d. a day); small
bills for books, spectacles, cigars, hair lotion and Sylvia's last four
birthday presents. (Woe to shops that serve young men in Mewses!)
The other part of his mail was in marked contrast to this. There was a