Not yet that date which will live
in infamy, but close enough to it for me to face the curious accusation of
classlessness. Lo, may I drive four hundred miles through the valley
of the shadow of death, and one way or the other come home absolved.
I had planned an appearance better described as 'unwashed victim of contagious
and terminal illness'. But I have received instructions that
appropriate dress includes the preludes of shampoo and shaving.
I could slouch in there sucking on a Big Gulp, but such an affirmation
would have its downside, because between here and there exist few public
toilet facilities, and probably when I get there I will anyway have to
Last time I 'Pointed Percy' at an
ornamental, I was watched from a drawing room window. It was a garden that belonged to a
grandee, and needless to say there was no shaking of hands when we finally
met. But in those days there was full employment and finding good help
was a complexity many a grandee had to struggle with.
It is the English part of me I suppose
that sometimes puts the plum far back into the throat, develops nasal
congestion and finds itself using phrases like "frightfully nice to
meet you", "jolly good show" and "tally-ho chaps".
And this must be in good spirits, because
it is so easy to issue "bite me" and be altogether done with the
oil slick most assumptions contain.