(a sweaty tale of irresistible desire within remote salty environs)
Brigadier Robert D’Alby of those immaculate Glorious Roscommon’s was a fine figure of a man. As a Sandhurst officer cadet, it was crystal clear D’Alby was hewn from exactly the right stuff- possessing athleticism, but devoid of narcissism, & employing a military style of life, minus that all-too-familiar ‘boot-polish-up the-kilt’ mentality. Unerring devotion to discipline & Spartan indifference to discomfort made D’Alby a splendid soldier. Additionally, over time D’Alby’s ability to remain aloof- distanced from subordinates, enabled access to genuinely private thoughts beyond the appreciation of his rough & ready non-commissioned comrades. In fact, even fellow officers bored D’Alby: their drunken parties, latent homosexuality, imbecilic gambling, & tunnel vision interdicted any possible camaraderie. Yet, above all, he abhorred their collective disregard of cubic art. Still, such wilful blindness didn’t detract D’Alby from an admiration for their old-fashioned strength of character; nor could crude behavioural patterns, disseminated amongst his natural ruling-class, annul an esteem in which he held an intrinsic nationalistic existentialism pursued by élite English gentlemen.