My man Jeeves has my highest respect. My friends, I know, feel much the same, having depended upon his finely-tuned cerebrum at some time or another for strategic extraction from the bouillon. My aunts hold more nuanced views, for Jeeves is a free spirit who giveth not the battle to the strong, but they, too, recognise in my man the wit and wherewithal of a Solomon. That his name was sacred from the Drones’ Club to the Junior Ganymede I had no doubt.
Consequently, it afforded me no little satisfaction when, on one crisp November morning last week, Jeeves presented the customary poached egg and toasted soldiers with an unexpected side-order, consisting of a businesslike envelope that, upon inspection, contained a request from an Oxford Chair. Rummy, you might think, to receive correspondence from a man who styles himself as an item of furniture. Wonder no further. As I recall, for I myself went up to Oxford and barely escaped with a policeman’s helmet, these academics are of the first water in the matter of eccentricity.
Casting that to one side, the gist of the piece was essentially a summons. To wit., one Reginald Jeeves, gentleman scholar, was begged to attend an Enlightenment conference at Balliol, there to contribute to lively debate on the subject of the dualism of God and Nature.
I cannot say I did not blink. I blinked like billy-oh. “Jeeves,” I said, “Pack your Gladstone and a litre of fish-oil. We shall leave for Oxford on the morrow.”
“We, sir?”
“Indeed. I have many pleasant memories of the punting.... I see you glancing at the frozen skies. Punting in November is too cold to be entirely comfortable, but it is for this that the boatman’s tipple is so warmly recommended by the connoisseur. And besides - “
“Yes, sir?”
I don’t know whether you’ve ever felt the sensation of having taken a small bite of a hot, clingy substance – pommes de terre Dauphinoise, for example – and finding that, in fact, it is a larger bite than you had anticipated. You are left with the choice of swallowing it down, a process that always makes me feel like one of those reptiles that dislocates its jaw and swallows its prey in one lump and then sits around snoozing until the digestion has done its job, or spitting it out in an inglorious manner calculated to raise frowns from even the most placid of aunts.
In the end, I opted for, “I have friends in Oxford.” It wasn’t what I wanted to say, but I thought it better to swallow the blasted sentiment than spit it out.
no subject
Rating: PG
My man Jeeves has my highest respect. My friends, I know, feel much the same, having depended upon his finely-tuned cerebrum at some time or another for strategic extraction from the bouillon. My aunts hold more nuanced views, for Jeeves is a free spirit who giveth not the battle to the strong, but they, too, recognise in my man the wit and wherewithal of a Solomon. That his name was sacred from the Drones’ Club to the Junior Ganymede I had no doubt.
Consequently, it afforded me no little satisfaction when, on one crisp November morning last week, Jeeves presented the customary poached egg and toasted soldiers with an unexpected side-order, consisting of a businesslike envelope that, upon inspection, contained a request from an Oxford Chair. Rummy, you might think, to receive correspondence from a man who styles himself as an item of furniture. Wonder no further. As I recall, for I myself went up to Oxford and barely escaped with a policeman’s helmet, these academics are of the first water in the matter of eccentricity.
Casting that to one side, the gist of the piece was essentially a summons. To wit., one Reginald Jeeves, gentleman scholar, was begged to attend an Enlightenment conference at Balliol, there to contribute to lively debate on the subject of the dualism of God and Nature.
I cannot say I did not blink. I blinked like billy-oh. “Jeeves,” I said, “Pack your Gladstone and a litre of fish-oil. We shall leave for Oxford on the morrow.”
“We, sir?”
“Indeed. I have many pleasant memories of the punting.... I see you glancing at the frozen skies. Punting in November is too cold to be entirely comfortable, but it is for this that the boatman’s tipple is so warmly recommended by the connoisseur. And besides - “
“Yes, sir?”
I don’t know whether you’ve ever felt the sensation of having taken a small bite of a hot, clingy substance – pommes de terre Dauphinoise, for example – and finding that, in fact, it is a larger bite than you had anticipated. You are left with the choice of swallowing it down, a process that always makes me feel like one of those reptiles that dislocates its jaw and swallows its prey in one lump and then sits around snoozing until the digestion has done its job, or spitting it out in an inglorious manner calculated to raise frowns from even the most placid of aunts.
In the end, I opted for, “I have friends in Oxford.” It wasn’t what I wanted to say, but I thought it better to swallow the blasted sentiment than spit it out.