Just as an indolent jobbing clerk employed within the precincts of Doctors' Commons reduces his obligations to the execution of his office through the simple expedient of arriving at his desk well after his fellows and quitting it well before them, so, during the months of winter, the sun, normally a faithful companion in other seasons, becomes a lackadaisical attendant; and, like a dipsomaniacal footman, is noted more for his absence than his presence.
On the morning after his bachelor's party Mr Headstone rose some three hours after that celestial orb had performed the self same operation, and he looked upon the works of the previous night's entertainment with despair. The bare floor was strewn with discarded oyster shells and had the appearance of an underwater kingdom, wherein the empty bottles that had fallen onto their sides might be supposed to be pouting pot-bellied fish. The furniture was in disarray - although, in truth, this was not a condition out of the ordinary - and the table was littered with grease-stained items of crockery; the one advantage being that, as so many of the platters were broken into pieces, soaking them in soapy water was a service that they no longer required.
Mr Headstone, who was a gentleman of a fastidious nature, could not long survey the scene of domestic chaos without making a resolution to restore it to some sense of order. First, he swept the oyster shells into a large pile in the corner and covered them with old newspaper; then he cleared the table through the ingenious method of tying the four corners of the cloth together and making of the whole a giant knapsack, which he deposited in another corner of the room; finally, he righted all the bottles - having first emptied them of any final drops of liquor - and set them on the mantelpiece. Having opened the windows to banish the smell of ripe cheese and stale beer, Mr Headstone quit the room, and made his way to a coffee-house in Tavistock Street.
After some difficulty in describing to the waiter the exact nature of the beverage of which he wished to partake (the principal point of disagreement being related to a definition of measurement), Mr Headstone settled himself into an easy chair and opened a copy of The Morning Chronicle. The pedagogue was gratified to read within that august journal's pages several reports of celebrations of Mr Dickens's birth date, and derived particular satisfaction from the fact that recognition of the author's genius extended beyond the shores of his own country - a state of affairs that, he supposed, could only be attributed to the tireless philanthropic endeavours of Mrs Jellyby.
Mr Charles Dickens
