It was a small gathering, but it was enough to garner interest from the highest rungs of society’s ladder. That was always the case for the Timps Chea (pronounced “Chi”) Party.
Bolderville sniffed at the contents of his cup and scoffed; a little noise emanating from the back of his throat, “Is this what counts as an acceptable blend these days?” Emmental peered up from the book she was sifting through, mid-sip of her own drink, and shot a daring, lacklustre look in his direction. This was not the first time Bolderville had interrupted her book, her story, her line of thought. His opinions could be heard from the other side of the room, even through the most heated of debates. Once something upset his tastebuds, or his stomach, he was first to announce it and always at the top of his voice.
“If you don’t want it you are more than welcome to try to find something more to your tastes in the back of Nanny’s cupboard. I think she still has some Oakenfold Harbinger from her trips to the Ivory Coast. It goes remarkably well with civilised company,” she quipped, hoping to dismount his verbal attack before he even had a chance to regroup his efforts. Bolderville didn’t even bother to acknowledge her remark; he was too preoccupied with the flavour rolling around his mouth. Usually he had ripped the drink to pieces by now.
Could it be that he had changed his mind and the chea was growing on him?
“I’ve tasted better down the crack of even the most slimiest, more repugnant shops in the sweatiest districts of Backgammon. In fact, the last time I threw up I’m almost entirely sure it had the texture of this!” That was more like him. Those were the words of a blunderbuss, a person botherer, an unpleasant, parsnip-twitching, egotistical hammock of a man.
Emmental sighed. Her own chea, a blend she had cultivated herself after long afternoons in the portland stiles, was as light and bewitching as the eyes of the black kitten Nanny had given her just the other day for her twilight birthday. Between the two of them they had enchanted just about every member of the Tripod Dynasty, even burned out Haggard McPondPoodle. The chea reflected her personality. It gave good lips and a savage grace. There was no point wasting any on Bolderville though; he would not understand the subtle nuances, and fake a gagging noise to attract attention from the clot of Susan beasts in the courtyard.
No, today was her book and her chea. Let him with his he and his ho waddle in the puddle of his own discontent. Let him dampen the air with foul language and disharmony. Crash away, my good man, Emmental thought, for you have no business here.
Only one problem but remained; nobody knew what a Timp was.