Automatic Woman

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I am a jolly fellow. My name is actually Jacob Fellows. The gentlemen in my office refer to me, literally, as Jolly Fellow, which is their euphemism for my rotund figure. There’s a long precedence of fat men also being funny men. I don’t regard myself as a man of mirth or good humor. In truth, I’m more apt to crack skulls than I am to make silly gestures, but the assumption stands and it’s easiest for my mates to pigeon-hole me in what they already hold true.

I’ve often looked for a solution to my roundness. I’m physically active at work and in leisure. I love football and am bloody hell on gears in the goalie box. Nevertheless, my cheeks are round and my jowls hang.

Whenever blokes find out that I’m a thief-catcher by trade, that I’m an operative for the Bow Street Firm, their eyes light up and I am forced to tolerate the inevitable comments.

“Oy, what kind of man are you going to run down?”

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