It was jolly chilly yesterday. Bertie voted for Wimbledon Common for a walk so we sallied forth. I find golf clubs pretty rum. In a proper club there is no Chairman’s chair in the bar but at the Royal Wimbledon there is a parking space for the Ladies’ Captain; perfect ‘tho I hoped she didn’t turn up because I didn’t fancy a tongue lashing from the Lady Captain. Our walk was extended well beyond the advisory hour because Bertie dashed off and, realising I was lost, teamed up with a nice woman and took her home. I suppose she knew the way but it showed kindliness. Beagles are keen to please but quite often press the wrong button.
PG Wodehouse had a soft spot for dogs and sustains me in these strange times.
There is only one cure for gray hair. It was invented by a Frenchman. It is called the guillotine.
It was my Uncle George who discovered that alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.
The fascination of shooting as a sport depends almost wholly on whether you are at the right or wrong end of the gun.
And she’s got brains enough for two, which is the exact quantity the girl who marries you will need.
The voice of Love seemed to call to me, but it was a wrong number.
Unlike the male codfish which, suddenly finding itself the parent of three million five hundred thousand little codfish, cheerfully resolves to love them all, the British aristocracy is apt to look with a somewhat jaundiced eye on its younger sons.
Now Bertie wants a walk in the Black Forest.
Wonderful!
I am an adoring friend of Suzy and Robert Redfern West’s.
They have introduced me to your delightful site.
Looking forward to all!
Thank you,
Cecily