Once upon a time, in a verdant western county, stood a small red brick building in the middle of a roundabout. Known as 'The Pump House', it wasn't an impressive building by any means. In fact, it belied the grandeur of the man who lived between its walls.
The Grand Poobah of Pump House was a solitary man. Every day he would walk to the local newsagents to buy the papers; occasionally taking a stroll down to the ferry port to silently watch the great ships arrive and depart. He made no conversation with passers by; too lost in his thoughts to even realise they were there. People often wondered what he was thinking about - for though his furrowed brow showed he was constantly pondering, he never uttered a word.
He was a broad-shouldered man; well-dressed in fine linen jackets and silk ties. His rotund belly was testament to the gourmet food he liked so well; for he was often spotted dining alone in expensive restaurants. Some say that he only ordered dishes that came on silver platters - and chefs were instructed to ensure there were no sprouts in the building where his meals were prepared.
At the weekend, he would leave the confines of the Pump House and walk along the coast of his beloved county. People would smile and bid him a good day; but still he didn't see them. So wrapped up was he in his cogitating that he didn't have time for pleasantries.
What was troubling The Grand Poobah? Perhaps it was his loneliness? Anyone who knocked on his door was greeted with silence; for The Grand Poobah never allowed anyone across his threshold. He was an enigma. Rumours circulated (as rumours are wont to do) that The Grand Poobah was plotting something; that his thoughts were edged with a black tinge of sinister doings. Others believed that he was simply a haughty man who had his head shoved firmly up his own arse because he had so much money. Nobody could be certain, but soon their theories would gain momentum...