Category: PG Wodehouse

Hatchard Job

Gifford’s name has cropped up a few times here and, as he has never sent in his legal team to sue the socks off me, here he is again. He has drawn my attention to a poll conducted by Hatchards to pick the best novel of the past 200 years.

You Rang, M’Lord?

Reading P G Wodehouse is a source of great pleasure to me but it has a serious angle. It, subliminally, provides education on titles and forms of address and he doesn’t put a foot wrong.

A Pinch of Snuff

My late father-in-law favoured High Dry Toast. Norman Murphy, an authority on P G Wodehouse and much else besides, likes Kendal Brown. I have just ordered some Seville. From 1720 until 1981 they could all be purchased at Fribourg and Treyer’s shop in the Haymarket.

When I Was Five

“A house in Kensington and £2,000 a year.” Sounds a bit like some thing from the pen of Muriel Spark, doesn’t it? Well, you’d have to sell the house these days. When I started in the City I never aspired to a residence in Kensington but I thought that I could jog along on £4,000… Continue reading When I Was Five

Phoney

Kingsley Amis kicked it off with Colonel Sun in 1968. “It” is the craze for continuation novels and authors such as Agatha Christie, P G Wodehouse and Arthur Conan Doyle have all been victims of this literary mugging.

The Man Who….

This post is about someone who wrote more than 170 novels, 18 plays and 917 short stories. In 1928 a quarter of all books sold in the UK were by this author. One more clue: this person wrote the screenplay for King Kong.

Leather Armchairs

Leather Armchairs is a book by Charles Graves, the poet Robert’s brother, published in 1963. It has a foreword by P G Wodehouse, which is a good start, and it describes sixty of the London Clubs then extant.

Croquet Special

Today dawns in East Anglia with expectation, even excitement, hanging in the air. My illustration is an inadequate attempt to capture the mood. It is the occasion of the annual Late Summer Luncheon for members of the Norfolk County Lawn Croquet Society.

Serious Money

An American reader puts down his copy of The Razor’s Edge by Somerset Maugham and, after taking  a sip or two from a glass of Riesling, writes to remind me