Perhaps some fresh Norwegian spruce (Picea abies) branches burning on an open fire for you, guv’ner?
No, my good man, just chestnuts and rabbit meat pies en croute.
P’raps with a twiggy grassy wren’s nest? Just close your eyes, guv’ner, and you’re on a fjord.
If I wanted something that exudes carrot cake in an elliptical brass loafpan, my good man, I’d ask for it. And there are no carrot cakes of which I’m aware on offer at any fjord.
Maybe you’d like a taste then, guv’ner? It’s all a piece with the aromatics—but you’ll find that it carries your story forward. Like the next chapter in your autobiography.
My good man, I tend towards the theosophical, not the confessional. If you told me it advanced my syllogism by adding a new premise, one of plums and other indiscernible ruby fruits held in a purple silk lady’s kerchief that was carried through an Australian eucalyptus forest, I’d plump for it.
Ah, guv’ner, but it’s more like an animal that puffs up when startled, startling you as well.
A new experience? Fear in the wild arising from a mutual affinity broken by the asymmetry of a safari? You begin to intrigue me, street vendor.
Imagine, guv’ner, an exploding sourdough ball as depicted by 50 photographers sequentially making daguerreotypes, giving an illusion of motion! Imagine dozens of oddly-shaped pieces of peat perfectly balanced in an epic game of Jenga, guv’ner! Just remember that lingering bittersweet taste in your mouth, guv’ner, that came either from rich dark chocolate consumed after a vigorous ride, or your mistress, with whom you wished to end the affair, suddenly and mysteriously being found dead, leaving no records of your sinful deeds, guv’ner.
The deuce! The devil! What kind of street vendor are you?!