A word about Cecil

As a dry run, allow me a moment to tell you a bit about Cecil Bandersnatch. Some may claim he is an invention of the imagination, perhaps added by a degree of alcohol consumption, but I can tell you for certain he is a real person. This is what I know about him:

Cecil was born in the south of England in 1980 in the town of Hastings. His parents were only holiday there from their home in London, and so he has no special connection to the place. He has been overheard to say, however, that when things got rough in London he has been known to make a "Hastingsy retreat".
Though there is some uncertainty, no doubt encouraged by Cecil himself, as to the occurrences of his youth, if there is one fact about Cecil that is not in question, it is this: he went to Oxford. There he studied botany, and distinguished himself as best one can amongst the clearly competitive botany crowd. When interrogated further, Cecil has revealed on several occasions that he was second in his class, though the reason that he did not obtain the top spot has only be explained as, in his own words, "A social faux pas involving the daughter of a Dean at Oxford, and the botany department located at King's College".
Cecil's family is very old money, as people like to say; his father is the attaché to the Minister of Defense in England, which as I understand is more of a ceremonial position given to him in much the same way our country hands out ambassadorships like they are candy. Needless to say, Cecil wants for nothing and is perfectly content that way. While he does not squander his wealth, having it allows I know for a fact, having visited the place on several occasions, that he owns a rather spacious apartment in New York City that contains no furniture at all, though he has gone to the trouble of outlining every space the furniture would occupy with painter's tape and enjoys making a show of always asking why you are standing on the couch when you wander within the imaginary perimeter.
I must correct myself on one point regarding his New York apartment; there is one room that is furnished, and to see it you would think you had stepped into a different time. The walls are hardwood, where they are not hidden behind bookshelves stuffed to the breaking point with volumes containing all variations of knowledge. The vast majority of the tomes are bristling with makeshift bookmarks and notes, no doubt added by Cecil himself. The only other furniture in the room is a massive hard oak desk with a decidedly comfortable-looking chair on one side. Most of the drawers of the desk are locked, the only one that is not holds an assorted array of pipes, all of which when blown will emit a stream of bubbles.Cecil to entertain the strange notions that overtake him as a person with more free time than commitments.
I would not go so far as to say that Cecil is a drunk; this assumes that one not only achieves sobriety during the course of their waking hours, but also that one overindulges in consuming alcohol. It seems somehow significant that Cecil manages to constantly walk the line between either of these states. He carries with him always the faintest scent of alcohol in the way one is left with a favorable scent-memory of a beloved realitive who drinks a bit too much, and less in the oh-God-why-do-i-always-get-the-subway-seat-by-the-wino. He also always carries a flask on his person, though they occasionally vary in design; I have learned over time that this betrays their contents, though my investigative skills are humbled when I reveal this knowledge only comes to me by Cecil's own admission.

And that is all I have to share on the man for now.