Mr Lush turns the key in the lock and enters his apartment.
He has spent the whole day with the curator – also Etonian – of his favourite private museum. The curator is a ‘friend’ ( n. , British for: one who laughs at the same bad jokes, see also: people with no interest in one another) in his favourite private museum. When they had first met, Mr Lush had told him about an art competition he had won at the age of 19. He had not accepted the prize owing to his modesty. Both had laughed heartily and both had simultaneously felt disgust at the genetic arrogance of the story. This had brought a little light into an otherwise dreary day. What was the motif?, the curator (in his ill-fitting corduroy jacket by Underson & Deppard – probably his grandfather’s) had asked. Ever since I was 15 years old, I had painted the garden pond at my parents’ estate every day. Ironically, the original image won, replied Mr Lush wearing an old casual safari jacket which he always wears when he wants to feel like a colonialist’s artistic son. It is clear to him that the masquerade usually does not fool anyone. Furthermore, he is more or less certain that the curator knows that his family didn’t own an estate. His grandparents had already sold it to the government years before Mr Lush was even born.
Having arrived home, he leans against the kitchen counter and smokes the second of the cigarettes from his Etonian cigarette supplier, whom he had encountered while buying wine on St. James’s Street. Mr Lush is hit by a slight feeling of embarrassment when he remembers how dozens of matches had fallen out of his friend’s jacket as he lit his cigarette (quite theatrically) with a lighter. On the way to the living room, he stumbles upon an old pair of bespoke shoes by Coster & Son. They had once belonged to his uncle, but Mr Lush’s son now wears them and they are scattered around the hallway. His son is currently visiting London to seek inspiration for his artistic endeavours. From the guest room, Mr Lush hears a resounding chorus of
… Morning, your toast, your tea and sugar,
Read about the politician’s lover
Go through the day like a knife through butter
Why don’t you
You dress in the colours of forgiveness
Your eyes as red as Christmas
Purple robes are folded on the kitchen chair
You’re gonna sleep like a baby tonight
In your dreams, everything is alright …
, a song with which his long-haired son has always impressed the local females. He gazes at an old ladies’ fur coat, paired with a pair of yellow patent leather pumps by Banolo Manic. He saw them on sale yesterday. Oh God, just like my wife, he thinks to himself and goes to bed, alone. MM