Ah, now that is where you're entirely wrong. I already know where I am, you bloody clod.

[How? He's not sure. He has memories of being here, walking these corridors, interposed over his memories of hundreds of years of life, wars and endless political strife. The latter only comes to the fore now because of the person in front of him, someone that part of himself recognises.]

As for that dire excuse for an insult, I shan't even give it the dignity of a response. If you're reduced to attempting to insult my cooking your mind truly must be on its way out.