|The Giant Squirt and the Luminous Rabbit|
are even now being packed.
In short, I've moved to Penarth.
The Vale! Glory be etc. Frankly, it was that or suffer cross-city commutes four times a day, up to four days per week, at peak traffic, to fetch or deposit the boy at his new educational institution.
So, I've been busy and I've been tired.
Not too tired for Wodehouse, however–just too tired to put finger to keyboard. This collection of 11 curt but classic tales of Bertie's travails and the seemingly unerring instinct of his man, Jeeves, is peak Wodehouse. The short form leaves no great room for a long-winded run-up, and plays a straight bat (with a tongue winkingly in cheek) down wicket right into the reader's grateful hands, fairly cutting to the heart of the matter, i.e. the inevitable intervention by Jeeves in the confused and precarious plotting of Bertram Wilberforce Wooster as he negotiates the pratfalls of a life in which there is nary a finger to lift, except to snaffle another canapé or tilt a glass mouthwards. I found myself guffawing heartily and at inopportune moments whenever I picked it up. It is the perfect tonic for anyone in the mood to sink into the eiderdown or slide down the neck of a good bottle. In fact, I would go as far as to say that, transferred epithets or no, taking a good draft of Wodehouse every day means, "everything will be oojah-cum-spiff."