Quite rightly, Egon had decided to put his incandescence on the back burner. He was angry, not stupid).
On arrival at the door to the festering, fly ridden, pseudo prehistoric swamp the room had become, Egon had warned Jocular that what he was about to see would likely cause him a terrible anguish he'd not felt since Throppington's, `Carpet Makers of Distinction to the Well Heeled', had delivered unto him a rug that was just the wrong shade of puce to match his new curtains. Oh, how he'd gnashed and wailed, my, how he'd howled with lament, cried with anguish, wallowed in despair, moaned forlornly, and indulged in various other types of over the top histrionics, which, quite frankly, were a bit pathetic and more suited to an upper class, Victorian lady who'd seen a gentleman in his underga
