Every year, ever since I was a gel (once again, I refer you to my manual on sexual instruction if you need explanation of how all people begin in gel form) the Laxes have travelled to survey their kelpery properties at the foregone conclusion of the known world, the Outer Isles. The enormous riches I generate from my books, media appearances and Grace Lax xtreme moral inaction figures are not, you see, sufficient for me to retain my all-important status as a rich person, so it behoves me to run other exploitative enterprises elsewhere wherever possible. It is also part of my good work for the poor. Just as my readers are dependent on me for knowledge, I find it most appropriate to run industries in remote places where I can extort maximum labour from people with no other options; it works so well, frankly, I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do it, including the buffoondiots I employ.
Formerly, my companion on these travels had been Old Regansett, my woman who does, but she had developed a bone tumour which had made her annoying and she was no longer willing, able or unugly enough to draw me along in a cart, so I decided to put her out to pasture, tethered to a cherry tree. Instead, it seemed behovery to recruit Old Rogers for this important work. The old fool, doddery, bewhiskered and dirty as he was, had never been out of the shire, indeed, he had been known to hold forth on the belief – based, admittedly, on his own experience – that nothing at all existed beyond its bounds. I admit, little fat reader, that I wished to expand his horizons rather as one might expand a child on a rack; more importantly, I needed a man-who-does to do, and I imagined he would. Do.
Excuse me, I'm bored with you. I will go on tomorrow.
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