Jeeves and the Cocktail Catastrophe
(in the style of P.G. Wodehouse)
It all began, as these things often do, with Aunt Agatha. She rang me up one morning, her voice brimming with the sort of steely resolve that usually precedes a demand for matrimonial sacrifice or moral improvement.
“Bertie,” she said, “you are to attend Lady Snodgrass’s social evening on Thursday. It is a gathering of the right sort - no jazz bands, no chorus girls, and absolutely no trousers of a dubious hue.”
“But Aunt Agatha,” I protested, “I’ve a prior engagement with the Drones Club’s annual sardine relay.”
“Cancel it,” she snapped. “You must learn to mix with people of substance. And wear something that doesn’t make you look like a Balkan revolutionary.”
With that, the line went dead, and Jeeves, who had been lurking with the air of a man about to suggest a restorative, raised one eyebrow.
“Lady Snodgrass’s social party, sir?”
“The very same, Jeeves. Apparently, it’s the height of glory of the early twentieth century.”
“Indeed, sir. I shall lay out the grey lounge suit and remove the crimson cravat from circulation.”
Thursday arrived with all the ominous trimmings. I found myself deposited in a drawing room that smelled faintly of lavender and moral superiority. The guests were already assembled, sipping cocktails with the sort of delicacy usually reserved for communion wine and exchanging remarks about the weather, the Empire, and the correct way to fold a napkin.
“Good evening,” said Lady Snodgrass, appearing like a duchess in full bloom. “Do come in.”
I complied, as one does when faced with a hostess who could probably have you flogged for declining.
The lounge was a sea of polite nods and conversational nonsense. One fellow was explaining the virtues of his new umbrella stand, while another waxed lyrical about the decline of the cucumber sandwich. I attempted to inject a note of gaiety by mentioning the sardine relay, but was met with the sort of silence usually reserved for tax audits.
Jeeves, meanwhile, had stationed himself near the drinks tray, dispensing wisdom and brandy with equal precision.
“Jeeves,” I hissed, sidling up to him, “this is ghastly. I feel like a waxwork in a museum of etiquette.”
“Indeed, sir. The atmosphere does appear somewhat... performative.”
“Performative? It’s a blasted theatre of triviality. These people are frittering away the hours with fashionable idiocy.”
“Quite so, sir. Might I suggest a discreet exit?”
“Can you engineer one?”
“I believe Lady Snodgrass’s cat has a tendency to become agitated near the piano. A well-timed disturbance may provide the necessary diversion.”
Five minutes later, the cat - a Persian with delusions of grandeur - was yowling atop the piano, having been gently encouraged by a strategically placed sardine. The guests scattered, cocktails sloshed, and I made my escape under cover of feline chaos.
Back at the flat, I collapsed into a chair and regarded Jeeves with the gratitude of a man rescued from conversational purgatory.
“Jeeves,” I said, “you are a marvel. That party was the very definition of how the mighty have fallen.”
“Thank you, sir. Shall I prepare a restorative?”
“Make it a double. And burn the invitation list.”
(in the style of P.G. Wodehouse)
It all began, as these things often do, with Aunt Agatha. She rang me up one morning, her voice brimming with the sort of steely resolve that usually precedes a demand for matrimonial sacrifice or moral improvement.
“Bertie,” she said, “you are to attend Lady Snodgrass’s social evening on Thursday. It is a gathering of the right sort - no jazz bands, no chorus girls, and absolutely no trousers of a dubious hue.”
“But Aunt Agatha,” I protested, “I’ve a prior engagement with the Drones Club’s annual sardine relay.”
“Cancel it,” she snapped. “You must learn to mix with people of substance. And wear something that doesn’t make you look like a Balkan revolutionary.”
With that, the line went dead, and Jeeves, who had been lurking with the air of a man about to suggest a restorative, raised one eyebrow.
“Lady Snodgrass’s social party, sir?”
“The very same, Jeeves. Apparently, it’s the height of glory of the early twentieth century.”
“Indeed, sir. I shall lay out the grey lounge suit and remove the crimson cravat from circulation.”
Thursday arrived with all the ominous trimmings. I found myself deposited in a drawing room that smelled faintly of lavender and moral superiority. The guests were already assembled, sipping cocktails with the sort of delicacy usually reserved for communion wine and exchanging remarks about the weather, the Empire, and the correct way to fold a napkin.
“Good evening,” said Lady Snodgrass, appearing like a duchess in full bloom. “Do come in.”
I complied, as one does when faced with a hostess who could probably have you flogged for declining.
The lounge was a sea of polite nods and conversational nonsense. One fellow was explaining the virtues of his new umbrella stand, while another waxed lyrical about the decline of the cucumber sandwich. I attempted to inject a note of gaiety by mentioning the sardine relay, but was met with the sort of silence usually reserved for tax audits.
Jeeves, meanwhile, had stationed himself near the drinks tray, dispensing wisdom and brandy with equal precision.
“Jeeves,” I hissed, sidling up to him, “this is ghastly. I feel like a waxwork in a museum of etiquette.”
“Indeed, sir. The atmosphere does appear somewhat... performative.”
“Performative? It’s a blasted theatre of triviality. These people are frittering away the hours with fashionable idiocy.”
“Quite so, sir. Might I suggest a discreet exit?”
“Can you engineer one?”
“I believe Lady Snodgrass’s cat has a tendency to become agitated near the piano. A well-timed disturbance may provide the necessary diversion.”
Five minutes later, the cat - a Persian with delusions of grandeur - was yowling atop the piano, having been gently encouraged by a strategically placed sardine. The guests scattered, cocktails sloshed, and I made my escape under cover of feline chaos.
Back at the flat, I collapsed into a chair and regarded Jeeves with the gratitude of a man rescued from conversational purgatory.
“Jeeves,” I said, “you are a marvel. That party was the very definition of how the mighty have fallen.”
“Thank you, sir. Shall I prepare a restorative?”
“Make it a double. And burn the invitation list.”
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