“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me. YOU’RE RUINING MY LIFE.” George flounced around the room, struggling out of his new red jacket and flinging it on the floor. His father was such an idiot, he’d clearly bought it in the wrong size.
“But George, I got it in the size you asked for. You do buy an awful lot of clothes, I assumed you knew your own measurements.”
“I do, Dad. I do know them. And this is obviously wrong! I can’t get the buttons done up at all.”
“Well, perhaps you ought to have tried it on before lunch, my boy.”
There was silence. George stared at his father, gradually turning white, then red, then purple with rage. If he had looked in a mirror, he would have been even more angry - his face clashed with his outfit.
Eventually, George exploded, much like the buttons on his trousers had after his third helping of Christmas pudding.
“Did you just call me fat? You just called me fat! God, Dad, it’s no wonder everyone thinks you’re mental! You’ve got no idea about manners, or tact, or - or anything.”
“Now look here, young man,” said George’s father to the Christmas tree. “Your behaviour has been absolutely appalling today. I got you all the things you asked for -”
“Except your bloody throne,” George muttered.
“All right, I got you nearly all the things you asked for, and I even said your little friend Beau could come to stay over the holidays, but you’ve spent the whole day being incredibly ungrateful. You’re a big boy now, George, you need to start acting like one.”
“Well maybe I would act like an adult if you treated me like one! Ugh, I hate you!” George stormed out of the room, slamming the door on his way out. Beau, who had remained silent throughout the whole exchange, squeaked and ran after him. He found his Georgie pacing around his bedroom, grumbling about his father and kicking over toy soldiers.
“Georgie my love? Are you quite all right?”
“No, actually, I’m not. I bet Napoleon doesn’t have to put up with this. It’s ridiculous. I’m almost very nearly king, you know, I don’t need to tolerate this kind of treatment!”
Beau hesitated. He really didn’t want to upset George, but maybe if he put it delicately...
“Um... I think perhaps this time your father might have a point, darling. Just a teeny one. One about you needing to be a little more mature. I mean, you are over fifty.”
After risking a brief glance at George's face, Beau ran downstairs to lock himself in a cupboard - preferably not one in the kitchen.
FILL: A Very Porgey Christmas- George IV/Beau Brummel, George III
“But George, I got it in the size you asked for. You do buy an awful lot of clothes, I assumed you knew your own measurements.”
“I do, Dad. I do know them. And this is obviously wrong! I can’t get the buttons done up at all.”
“Well, perhaps you ought to have tried it on before lunch, my boy.”
There was silence. George stared at his father, gradually turning white, then red, then purple with rage. If he had looked in a mirror, he would have been even more angry - his face clashed with his outfit.
Eventually, George exploded, much like the buttons on his trousers had after his third helping of Christmas pudding.
“Did you just call me fat? You just called me fat! God, Dad, it’s no wonder everyone thinks you’re mental! You’ve got no idea about manners, or tact, or - or anything.”
“Now look here, young man,” said George’s father to the Christmas tree. “Your behaviour has been absolutely appalling today. I got you all the things you asked for -”
“Except your bloody throne,” George muttered.
“All right, I got you nearly all the things you asked for, and I even said your little friend Beau could come to stay over the holidays, but you’ve spent the whole day being incredibly ungrateful. You’re a big boy now, George, you need to start acting like one.”
“Well maybe I would act like an adult if you treated me like one! Ugh, I hate you!” George stormed out of the room, slamming the door on his way out. Beau, who had remained silent throughout the whole exchange, squeaked and ran after him. He found his Georgie pacing around his bedroom, grumbling about his father and kicking over toy soldiers.
“Georgie my love? Are you quite all right?”
“No, actually, I’m not. I bet Napoleon doesn’t have to put up with this. It’s ridiculous. I’m almost very nearly king, you know, I don’t need to tolerate this kind of treatment!”
Beau hesitated. He really didn’t want to upset George, but maybe if he put it delicately...
“Um... I think perhaps this time your father might have a point, darling. Just a teeny one. One about you needing to be a little more mature. I mean, you are over fifty.”
After risking a brief glance at George's face, Beau ran downstairs to lock himself in a cupboard - preferably not one in the kitchen.