I was actually raised by women, my father skated but he left me with latent addiction.
This is Mr. Bartlett Finchley, age forty-eight, a practicing sophisticate who writes very special and very precious things for gourmet magazines and the like. He's a bachelor and a recluse with few friends, only devotees and adherents to the cause of tart sophistry. He has no interests save whatever current annoyances he can put his mind to. In short, Mr. Bartlett Finchley is a malcontent, born either too late or too early in the century.