This story is a work of fiction and in no way is related to events discussed here or here, using metaphors as a very clever way of making a clearly valid point.

Charles Michael Hardy-Davies was perhaps the most handsome and clever man in the land. He was both proud AND prejudiced and to all the single ladies of the borough this made him utterly irresistible. Alas, their lusts came to naught as Charles was totally committed to running his estate and the various “contents” he created within: novels, oil paintings, songs for the harpsichord etc. The irony dripping from the situation, akin to the wax splurging forth from the side of the candles that inadequately illuminated Charles’s lavish workspace, was that despite being so loved, he was only able to proffer his own amour onto his artistic creations.

Charles’s constant companions were his canine chum, Hilarious Hound, and feline friend, Pretty Puss. Their days were languid and fulfilling, like a cake that has really fancy icing on the outside, but within is a sturdy fruit slab, enriched within an inch of its life. And like that very cake, this trio were sweet, tasty and fattening.

Unfortunately, a dark cloud flew low upon their heads. For this cloud took not the form of water vapour but of that of a sister. A sister that was, quite literally, the sibling of Charles. This damned female brother had a name, and that name was Ella. She was a vicious, viscous, horrid thing. A controlling, unmorale basket case of a woman, she had nary a care in the world, yet every drop of indemnity that could fill a human body.

Under the pressure of the weight of the downward thrust of his sisterly austerity, poor Charles found his deep creative well become surprisingly dry. He reached down into his insides and bravely lowered his fortitude bucket. With every gram of fibre he had remaining, Charles hand-over-hand pulled upon the sinewy rope of his own fear until the bucket was within sight. It was empty.

The cretinous, babyish Ella showed not a jot of empathy nor sympathy for her elder, superior siblings trauma. She simply demanded more. More, more, more. For she had become accustomed to the finest in drapery purchased with the power of familial content. She nary the wit nor wisdom to recognise that it was perhaps within her remit to provide succour. No, she proceeded to provide, what can only be described as, misery.

“Dearest brother,” she slimed. “If you don’t paint another epic painting what I can sell, with the next score of fortnights, then I will withdraw your allowance of 20 guineas.”

“But sweet Ella,” the charming man recoiled. “Even a baby such as thou must wisen that bullying is not now nor can never be the answer.”

To be continued, only if my point hasn’t been clearly made.