The fug of the small stable is a pleasant and truly bracing scent. Horses, their shifting hooves a rustling thud. One horse specifically, of course. My Alphonse. He lips at my overcoat, dribbling half masticated alfalfa hay over the lacing. My tailor would have a fit.
This morning, I dressed myself. I'm certain those who hate me would be terribly surprised that I am able to do so, but a man has need of privacy at times, and this time assuredly was one.