Charles Callaghan sat down in his drawing room to partake in his daily ostentatious breakfast consisting only of two black cups of Grand Moka Matari Coffee made by Bacha Coffee served in a Hermés Cheval D’Orient coffee cup and saucer, completed with a print edition of the Financial Times. No one was exactly sure the precise point in time he'd slipped into being an utter cunt, but associates surmised it was probably around the summer of 2003. It hadn't been a laborious process on his part, he found it was a naturally occurring talent, some might even go as far as to suggest it was a God given one. Whichever it was, once Charles had discovered his niche he saw no reason to deviate from his position.
If Charles’ behaviour was to the chagrin of his wife Penelope then she didn't demonstrate it outwardly at least. This may have had something to do with her weekly trysts with her horse riding instructor whereby the only thing being ridden was Penelope somewhere into next week much to her delight. It also proved the perfect smokescreen as to why her legs always came back with the occasional tremor like the aftershock of an earthquake. To be fair to Penelope she was having her world rocked to its very core in a not too dissimilar manner.
Sunday's were the only deviation from Charles’ morning breakfast routine in as much as the Financial Times doesn't have a Sunday edition. Otherwise he was still very much being a stuck up pretentious bellend and to the point he was almost insufferable to be in the same room as. The summer of 2003 may also have been about the same time he stopped having any original thoughts of his own as he now merely regurgitated and plagiarised snippets of articles he'd read whenever he was forced into appearing in circles where he didn't really want to be in the first place and truth be told no one really wanted him there either. He'd only been invited because he was married to Penelope, or Pee as she was called by her closest of friends. Whether that was taken from the end of her name or because that's what her friends thought her husband constantly took is up for debate in her friendship circles.
If you've never read the works of the late Ian Fleming such as From Russia with Love you'll be familiar with the stupidity of trying to sell the upper classes of British Society as if a thing to behold. The above inspired by the breakfast of James Bond but spun into a modern manner with tongue firmly in cheek.
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