"If it's going to be written, I'd prefer it on parchment, in the nicest copperplate you can manage." No one here is serious at the moment, and it'll only get worse as they drink their way through this wine. "And if that's not possible, I think you're going to have to - say it to my face."

He nearly says something about orally, catching himself just in time. The Scanlan in the back of his mind makes certain turns of phrase unwise.

"Lipstick," he goes on, after taking a sip from his glass, "will only be acceptable on alternate weeks, once a month at maximum, and you'll have to limit your complaint to whatever you can scrawl onto my forearm before I get away from you."