SIXTEEN
THE MAN FROM THE COUNCIL
The Professor elegantly half-squatted, his knees flat out and in line with his not insubstantial child bearing hips and loose change area, which coincidentally were contained in Nijinsky styled pink corduroy trousers, though as upper middle-class cognoscenti would know, they could equally be of a mustard hue. He held his arms horizontally that Pimple presumed was more ballet tosh, likely Battement Fondue and, as he rose, he pointed the toes of his right foot, elegantly exposing in his yellow sock, a potato (an amusing colloquial expression for a hole in one’s sock). His thrusting big toe looked like a banana sticking out of a bowl of custard, which amused the professor’s audience inordinately. He then swung the pedal extremity back to the pain au chocolat
