A friend lent me the ‘Weekend Wodehouse’ with instructions not to return it until I was a fan. This order I received upon my not so enthusiastic tale of Wodehouse Woe. The book sat, I say calmly and patiently on the far corner of my shelf. I took notice of it about every third week for at least the first six months and then the irregularity increased to about the length of the professional basketball season, which I am told is nearly as long as an elephant’s gestation period. By which is meant, I forgot the book existed.
Long story even longer, I found the book a few weeks ago. I read several stories, read the introduction by Hilaire Belloc, and I think I’m at the beginning of meaningful relationship. I’ll go so far as to say I laughed several times and even tried to read a story to my wife. I must say it’s not that I don’t want to like him. I liken him to tea. I think tea is a great idea: herbal, hot or cold, cheap, healthy, traditional, stylish, and English… what more might a fellow want in a non-alcoholic drink?
The first sip is good, the second ok, and by the third I’m wondering why I didn’t order coffee. I’ve gone so far as to buy my very own Right Ho, Jeeves. I suppose that counts for something, but let’s just say I haven’t given the book back to my friend yet.
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