The bohemian lives with his exes, dates his wife, neglects, especially, the children he knows about. He classifies rustication his highest qualification. He’s more often preoccupied than occupied, more often either than employed. At the bohemian’s place, it’s always ‘open house’, never home. He invariably accepts a drink because he lives in the moment, never buys a round as he despises the smack of patronage. He likes music loud, shirts black, socks odd. To him, everything is Art; why shouldn’t his sexts scoop the Turner? The bohemian is spiritual not religious, his horoscope more binding than any marriage vow, God no worse than his bankrolling father writ large. To his doctor he’s depressed, to his lovers Romantic, to the off-licence an undiscerning connoisseur.
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