Episode 1: Cosmo’s Grand Introduction

At precisely three o’clock on a Tuesday afternoon, when normal people were either at work or at least pretending to be, Cosmo Farfetch was sprawled across his velvet couch like a starlet abandoned mid–B-movie. A martini glass dangled from one hand, his sunglasses clung stubbornly to his face, and his robe had slipped just far enough to suggest scandal without delivering. It was the kind of tableau Vivien Leigh might have staged if she’d ever lived in a share house with overdue bills.

Cosmo, bless him, was once again recovering from heartbreak. His most recent lover — a bespectacled creature who, if you squinted and had consumed three gins, looked suspiciously like Matt Smith — had fled the scene, leaving behind only a bar tab and a suspicious number of Enya CDs. Cosmo had re-purposed the latter as a makeshift scarecrow to keep kookaburras from laughing at his misery. It wasn’t working.

There was also the matter of the rug. A rather gaudy argyle monstrosity “rescued” from the home of Tiffany — his frenemy, nemesis, and one-woman demolition derby of his self-esteem. She had accused him of theft; Cosmo insisted it was emotional compensation for being served wilted lettuce masquerading as hors d’oeuvres.

One might assume that a man at rock bottom would find solace in humility. Not Cosmo. He lapped at the spilled gin from the rug like a reformed alcoholic on a cheat day, before sitting up, cheeks flushed, with all the dignity of a dethroned duchess.

And so, dear readers, our story begins. With a failed actor, an empty glass, and a feud with Tiffany simmering like an unattended saucepan. It can only go downhill from here.

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