Sublime

only vestiges left in Mr L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats.

‘Don’t start. What do you want?’ ‘England’s in peril.’ Lancelot levels a muddy finger across the park. ‘It’s not the Falklands again, is it? I should have thought I was perfectly clear about that last time. The Falklands aren’t part of England, and they never have been. They’re well outside my purview.’