When I was five I was slapped by The Wine Waiter (he will never be a sommelier to me) for the first time. I found out when I was seven that Father was slipping him a note (bank wise, not Presidentially) to reimburse him for the effort he excreted in such a motion. After spending the night in the comforting arms of Arthur C. Bear, the novelty, man size bear that Father had dashingly won from the fairground, and who he would send into my room whenever I seemed to be upset, I realised I was going to have to hate one of them irrevocably. As Arthur stroked my hair and asked if I was feeling a little too warm I decided on the waiter, who had the rotten misfortune of being a Spaniard. Could there ever be an easier man to best? It would be moderately pleasant finding out.