If there were a gentleman's gentleman in my employ, he would right now be packing my case.

Vacation beckons, and there is packing to be done. Books first, of course, and then some clothes, for padding. So I'll simply share a couple of short passages from P. G. Wodehouse's Aunts Aren't Gentlemen (1974). First, a pleasant surprise, which comes when Bertie is confronted by the angry father of a girl who's just eloped:

"Pfui," I said. It is an expression I don't often use, but Nero Wolfe is always saying it with excellent results, and it seemed to fit in rather well here.

It's obvious to any reader of Rex Stout's novels that he was a fan of Wodehouse, but I hadn't known that the admiration was reciprocated.

Then there's this exchange, which occurs on the last page of the novel--the last novel Wodehouse would complete:

"Jeeves," I said, my philosophical mood now buzzing along on all twelve cylinders. "Do you ever brood on life?"

"Occasionally, sir, when at leisure."

"What do you make of it? Pretty odd in spots, don't you think?"

"It might be so described, sir."

"This business of such-and-such seeming to be so-and-so, when it really isn't so-and-so at all. You follow me?"

"Not entirely, sir."

But eventually Bertie makes him understand. Jeeves always understands.

Spotty posting ahead, but things should be roughly back to normal by mid-August. Thanks for reading.

Medical advice from Bertie Wooster

From the opening of Aunts Aren't Gentlemen (1974):

"Jeeves," I said at the breakfast table, "I've got spots on my chest."

"Indeed, sir?"

"Pink."

"Indeed, sir?"

"I don't like them."

"A very understandable prejudice, sir. Might I enquire if they itch?"

"Sort of."

"I would not advocate scratching them."

"I disagree with you. You have to take a firm line with spots. Remember what the poet said."

"Sir?"

"The poet Ogden Nash. The poem he wrote defending the practice of scratching. Who was Barbara Frietchie, Jeeves?"

"A lady of some prominence in the American war between the states, sir."

"A woman of strong character? One you could rely on?"

"So I have always understood, sir."

"Well, here's what the poet Nash wrote. 'I'm greatly attached to Barbara Frietchie. I'll bet she scratche when she was itchy.' But I shall not be content with scratching. I shall place myself in the hands of a competent doctor."

"A very prudent decision, sir."

There's nothing so comforting after a busy weekend of work than putting oneself in the hands of a competent gentleman's gentleman.