The Unbearable Lightness of Being Arthur

Arthur adjusted his monocle, more out of habit than necessity, as Brenda approached. "Arthur, isn't this weather simply divine?" she chirped, gesturing vaguely at the sky.

Arthur paused, consulting an invisible barometer in his mind. "It is, Brenda, precisely 18 degrees Celsius, with a relative humidity of 62%. Ideal, one might say, for the oxidation of garden gnomes."

Brenda blinked. "Oh! Well, yes, I suppose. And the canapés! Aren't they delightful?" She popped a miniature quiche into her mouth.

"They are," Arthur agreed, eyeing a tray passed by a server. "Statistically, at least one in every five contains an unexpected culinary adventure, typically involving a rogue anchovy. A gamble, but one must admire the caterer's commitment to suspense."

Brenda's smile faltered slightly. "You always find such… unique perspectives, Arthur."

"Indeed," he responded, taking a delicate sip of lukewarm sparkling water. "It prevents one from falling into the dangerous trap of generic pleasantness. And besides, someone has to monitor the gnome situation." He then turned his attention back to a particularly mottled rose bush, as if expecting it to confess something.