The life of Thomas Barrow had its fair share of trials. Born second son to a poor clockmaker, he was not set to inherit the family business, nor had he been inclined to work for the absolute clot his older brother was, whose crucial failings were least not the business of clocks. Or business, full stop, if Thomas was being fully honest with himself. And when it came to the flaws of others, he prided himself in his commitment to staunch sincerity.
He was a medic during the Great War and would rather not think of that at the present time, thank you; daily view of the scar he earned from his time spent slogging in the trenches was more than enough. Its stiffness in the cold served as a permanent and painful reminder of the oppressive fear he experienced, and I thought I told you we weren't getting into this.
Later in life, he had come to accept that he was a member of a serving staff that seemed to be comprised largely of insufferable simpleton of the neighbouring counties. Thomas liked to think he even graciously accepted the hands dealt by Fortune when these very same people took it upon themselves to quietly (and sometimes not so quietly) condemn his personal and romantic preferences – preferences which, he admitted, hadn't always worked in his favour. In fact, when Thomas was feeling particularly introspective – or when he had managed to sneak a few glasses of wine and got in a mood – these preferences had been the cause of some of the most genuinely agonizing moments in his life. Admittedly, they had also been the source of the most unquestionably euphoric moments of his life, but those had been few and far between and is ultimately besides the point of this exercise, if you could please stay focused.
This unfulfilling and mostly non-existent love life of disappointments betrayed him again and abandoned him in the land of unreciprocated and unwanted love when he fell for a man who was both his junior and his subordinate. A man whose smile and hair and face seemed to be evermore bright and beautiful and youthful each day that passed. Unfortunately, his object of affection also nearly cost him his job, the respect of many of his peers, and the chance to play an annual game of cricket. Thomas believed he didn't brag very often, but he knew he played an absolute cracking game. He could score runs just about as well as he could wear the atrocious combination of white trousers and jumpers – which is to say he scored a lot of runs and looked fabulous doing it.
But today may be the straw that would break the camel's back. Today would be the straw that, while said camel was recuperating, caused the camel's wife to leave him and grind his heart to dust, make bread with it, and then use it to make a grilled toastie for that neighbouring camel. Today would be the straw that would lead the camel down a treacherous path of bitter alcoholism and drug-abuse once he recovered and discovered the wife took the kids and was living with that other more handsome, stronger neighbour. Today could very well be the straw that persuaded the camel to take a cocktail of coccidiostats and end it all.
Because today was the day Thomas was ordered to quit smoking.
And it was all Alfred's fault.