“…get me one of those bracers of yours, will you?”
“I have one in readiness, sir, in the ice-box.”
He shimmered out, and I sat up in bed with that rather unpleasant feeling you get sometimes that you’re going to die in about five minutes. On the previous night, I had given a little dinner at the Drones to Gussie Fink-Nottle as a friendly send-off before his approaching nuptials with Madeline, only daughter of Sir Watkyn Basset, CBE and these things take their toll. Indeed, just before Jeeves came in, I had been dreaming that some bounder was driving spikes through my head — not just ordinary spikes, as used by Jael the wife of Heber, but red-hot ones.
I really like P. G. Wodehouse. In fact, the other day I looked at this collection of Wodehouse’s work and thought, “I haven’t read any Wodehouse lately” and actually felt guilty. That is not a normal reaction. Something may be wrong. In any case, he makes me laugh, and is fantastic, so you know, tolle lege.