Chapter 1
There is nobody in the length and breadth of old England who can produce breakfast like Jeeves. After you’ve had eight hours of the deep and dreamless, followed by a cup of steaming hot breakfast tea delivered within moments of awakening, one of Jeeves’ first rate breakfasts completes the job of bracing you up ready for a new day perfectly. Juicy rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, done perfectly; fried bread, not too greasy, but crispy.
To add to the sunny perfection of the day I was wearing my new checked sports jacket which I’d purchased only yesterday from my tailor in Savile Row. Jeeves had made it quite clear that he did not approve….what was the phrase he’d used? “Somewhat on the loud side”, that was it. If Jeeves has a flaw it is that he is somewhat outmoded when it comes to the question of what the modern man-about-town is wearing; if he had his way I’d still be in a starched collar and topper. So I’d had to assert myself, and show him who was boss, and I must say that he’d taken it well. “Very good, sir, if you insist,” was his only complaint.
So, what with one thing and another it was with a bit of a spring in the old stride that I sallied forth for the Drones club. I fairly skipped along the pavement, the power of Jeeves’ b. and eggs enabling me to cover the mile or so to the club in the twinkling of an eye.
I passed my umbrella to the doorman, who winced when he saw my jacket, but I ignored him and set a course for the lounge bar. Sat there was none other than dear old Pongo Twistleton, consuming his drink with rather the air of a man who’d put a tenner on the winning horse on the 2:00 at Ascot, then put the lot on a cripple for the 3:30.
“I say, Pongo, my dear fellow, whatever is the matter? You look as though you have the cares of the world on your shoulders!”
“Oh, hello Bertie,” he said, listlessly. He focussed on me. “Good Lord! What on earth is that ghastly thing you’re wearing?”
“It’s my new sports jacket. Do you like it? I think it’s rather fetching, what?”
“Take it off, Bertie, do, it’s hurting my eyes.”
I obliged. Pongo had conservative tastes, rather like Jeeves, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings at that moment when he was showing every sign of having been given the elbow by Lady Luck.
I bought him another drink, indulging in a brandy and soda for myself at the same time, despite the early hour.
“Now then, Pongo, tell all. Bertram is all ears.”
“It’s my niece, Blaire.”
There is nobody in the length and breadth of old England who can produce breakfast like Jeeves. After you’ve had eight hours of the deep and dreamless, followed by a cup of steaming hot breakfast tea delivered within moments of awakening, one of Jeeves’ first rate breakfasts completes the job of bracing you up ready for a new day perfectly. Juicy rashers of bacon, two fried eggs, done perfectly; fried bread, not too greasy, but crispy.
To add to the sunny perfection of the day I was wearing my new checked sports jacket which I’d purchased only yesterday from my tailor in Savile Row. Jeeves had made it quite clear that he did not approve….what was the phrase he’d used? “Somewhat on the loud side”, that was it. If Jeeves has a flaw it is that he is somewhat outmoded when it comes to the question of what the modern man-about-town is wearing; if he had his way I’d still be in a starched collar and topper. So I’d had to assert myself, and show him who was boss, and I must say that he’d taken it well. “Very good, sir, if you insist,” was his only complaint.
So, what with one thing and another it was with a bit of a spring in the old stride that I sallied forth for the Drones club. I fairly skipped along the pavement, the power of Jeeves’ b. and eggs enabling me to cover the mile or so to the club in the twinkling of an eye.
I passed my umbrella to the doorman, who winced when he saw my jacket, but I ignored him and set a course for the lounge bar. Sat there was none other than dear old Pongo Twistleton, consuming his drink with rather the air of a man who’d put a tenner on the winning horse on the 2:00 at Ascot, then put the lot on a cripple for the 3:30.
“I say, Pongo, my dear fellow, whatever is the matter? You look as though you have the cares of the world on your shoulders!”
“Oh, hello Bertie,” he said, listlessly. He focussed on me. “Good Lord! What on earth is that ghastly thing you’re wearing?”
“It’s my new sports jacket. Do you like it? I think it’s rather fetching, what?”
“Take it off, Bertie, do, it’s hurting my eyes.”
I obliged. Pongo had conservative tastes, rather like Jeeves, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings at that moment when he was showing every sign of having been given the elbow by Lady Luck.
I bought him another drink, indulging in a brandy and soda for myself at the same time, despite the early hour.
“Now then, Pongo, tell all. Bertram is all ears.”
“It’s my niece, Blaire.”
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I do have to disagree though with one thing. I have eggs for breakfast all the time! Well egg whites anyway...
