Weekly Drabble Challenge ("It's a hard world for a girl, Jeeves.")

[lawnnun.livejournal.com]

Rules:
1) A drabble is, by definition, a 100-word story therefore all responses should be 100 words exactly, no exceptions.
2) You may also choose to respond to this challenge with a five-minute sketch.
3)PLEASE put the word DRABBLE at the top of your post. That way people can easily spot the drabbles in amongst any reader comments they receive.

RATING:I don't think this should be limited so reader beware that they could be any rating (you could put it in the subject line if you feel it needs it)

PLEASE try to remember to make each drabble a comment in response to the original post. That way, if the comments start to collapse, the drabbles themselves should remain visible.

This week:  Jeeves is actually female.  Cis-gendered, heterosexual, and wouldn't be a social outlaw of any kind except for the rampant transvestitism.  She's been living as a man for years for the clothes (as well as all those fringe benefits like being taken seriously and left alone), and is now wondering what on earth to do about the presumable invert she's in love with. 

Comments

[cherrypep.livejournal.com]

Fic: A gentleman and a scholar (2/4)
Rating: PG

In Oxford, we agreed that Jeeves would spend the days at the conference, returning at lunchtime. I felt it unnecessary; after all, I argued, I could put on the nosebag at the hotel with little expectation of salmonella, for the place was a haunt of gourmets. From the looks of our guide-book you couldn’t throw a bread roll without hitting a Michelin scout. But Jeeves insisted. I could see that it meant something to the chap, and on discussing the issue with Two-Sticks – Two-Sticks Boddington, a stout fellow of the Varsity who had soaked in his education so effectively that the blighters had given him a job and instructed him to think his socks off – it dawned that perhaps Jeeves simply wanted a little grounding.

For as Two-Sticks put it, “Wooster old boy, those philosophers are jolly heavy stuff. A morning’s worth of listening to them and your man is bound to want a little light relief.”

And it’s true, of course. In matters of no significance few come more highly rated than your humble correspondent. The explanation had everything to recommend it. Consequentially, I ceased to protest and allowed myself to enjoy the prandial return of my wandering valet.

It was a halcyon week. Each morning Jeeves donned civilian clothing and departed for the College. We lunched by the river. I said only as much as was required to encourage Jeeves to share with me the events of the morning. As Jeeves is loath to speak of himself, I nonetheless made most of the conversation during these sessions, although I heard quite enough to be able to assure you that these philosophers have an unwarranted reputation for gravitas. They get up to some pretty wild stuff. The drinking songs alone were an education.

At the close of the conference, Jeeves returned to the hotel room with a faint smile and a fainter odour of smoking-rooms and vintage brandy wafting around his person. “What ho!” I said, for I had run out of murder mysteries. A shot of Jeeves’ presence was a welcome antidote to the silence of the tomb, or the Castle Hotel, which in the absence of a sufficiently large number of mealtimes - and the presence of a large number of student essays which Two-Sticks was honour-bound to mark - had begun to feel very much like the same thing. Many of these severe and serious establishments suffer from a similar flaw, you know. Tastebuds may be satisfied, but what of the bonce?

I said as much to Jeeves. “Indeed, sir. In wine, it is said, one beholds the heart of another. A temple to Bacchus must show us the hearts of our fellow travellers...”

I perceived that the good man remained in philosophical mood. “I don’t think much of this lot’s,” I said. “The man in the blue serge, who always takes the table by the pillar, spends all his time scribbling into a notebook – if that man’s a Bacchanalian then I’m a Dutchman.”

Jeeves was smiling now. I was almost sure of it. “The gentleman is a food critic, sir,” he said. “And I perceived from his regular ingestion of patent pills that he suffers from indigestion. For myself, I am quite satisfied as to the character of my fellow-traveller." He paused. "If you will permit me, sir, I shall resume my working attire and then perhaps - “

I stopped him. “Jeeves, I can be silent no longer. My pride runneth over. It is your week of triumph, and I“ - here, I stuttered - “I should like you to celebrate it with me. Come down to the river, Jeeves, and we shall hire a punt and drift to the Water-Rat, where the ale is of the finest.”

I thought he would refuse. I was kicking myself for making the suggestion, for the pride of a Jeeves is no small matter and I feared that I had wounded him. But at length, he said, “Under the understanding that, tomorrow, I resume my usual duties - “

“Of course, of course...”

“- then I would be most gratified, sir. As Dutchmen say, ‘Drink zonder zorgen, de kater komt morgen’”