But something is awry; the fairy-stories, the mythologies, are mixed up. Tom is less a masculine Pygmalion caressing his dream-statue into flesh than a feminine Galatea waking to see her lover's face blotting out the sun; less an Oberon than a Titania, falling in love with “the first person he had seen on waking from his drugged sleep”.

Is it that hard to manscape? You know, get an electric razor, trim up your shrubbery, blow out your front yard a bit?

Oh yeah. They're feening. They're feening, is what we called it. They're feening for that drug and they're feening for someone to offer it to them.

a rigorous officer of justice