As he stood near the doorway, one or two panting figures rushed up the steps, and flung themselves at a large book which stood on the counter near the door. Mike was to come to know this book well. Psmith in the City One of the minor curses of my day-to-day existence is being habitually late for work — not through personal tardiness, I hasten to add. Mine is not the life of Joss Weatherby (Quick Service), who oversleeps after late nights at the gambling table, or Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps (Barmy in Wonderland) who goes on toots with Mervyn Potter. No, … Continue reading When the martyred p. is late for work
In ‘French Leave’ Wodehouse shows he’s not afraid of bedroom scenes, or understanding the plight of the world’s workers. Continue reading French Leave
What Ho! Or as we say in France, ‘Bonjour!’ Usually at this time of year, I mark my birthday by lazily re-blogging an old piece, The desert island pickings of a quadragenarian, which is beginning to date me in a … Continue reading Joyeux anniversaire à moi
This Lord Worplesdon was Florence’s father. He was the old buster who, a few years later, came down to breakfast one morning, lifted the first cover he saw, said ‘Eggs! Eggs! Damn all eggs!’ in an overwrought sort of voice, … Continue reading Eggs! Eggs! Damn all eggs!