Slow & low

Imagine a life of sybaritic indolence, where work is a dirty word and physical exercise, save in matters amatory, an aberration. Transport between bedroom and dining room, the two centres of your universe, is via sedan chair, carried by a sextet of Nubian dancing girls. Grapes are peeled and dropped into your mouth by blushing virgins. And an entire army of eunuchs is employed solely to squeeze lemon on to your breakfast oysters. Fun for a day or two, sure, but tiring after a while. And rather dull, too. Your flesh might be soft, tender and perfumed, but your character could be somewhat lacking.