ELEVEN
It was late and Archie Pointe-Lace was comfortably ensconced in his West End of London Gentlemen’s club, reading the latest edition of Embroidery for Tofs; did he ever leave Bumblin’tons? The familiar buttoned leather, wing-back armchairs, plush carpet, bookcases stuffed with unread books, would offer any normal over-privileged, silver-spooned individual a sense of secure luxurious comfort. However, Pointe-Lace ignored such things; these accoutrements were his God-given right, part of his heritage, and he gave them all – the surroundings, the money, the embroidery, the power and all of the accompanying trappings – not a second thought.
His mind focused on the latest stitches, but not even his most favourite thing in the world, sewing, in particular needlepoint, could distract him
