Sunset at Barons Court

A good sunset in the cemetery yesterday. I had a walk with Luna, a small, bonkers black spaniel that struck up an instant emotional rapport with Bertie. I likewise warmed to Luna’s owner. 

Meanwhile the Magistrates’ Court is being nibbled away. There will soon be an excellent view of the Ark, bulging above the flyover like a pregnant hippopotamus, until it’s blotted out by the hotels.

Bertie is getting the hang of his Advent calendar and I have bought him a bottle of scent for Christmas. He recoils from it which is most gratifying.

Do you remember another Bertie being dispatched to a silver shop to sneer at a cow creamer? He sneered “modern Dutch” and inadvertently stole an umbrella, one of the most serious crimes imaginable, along with vulpicide. The silver coaster, above, is modern American and a treasured present from my park-bench-picnic friend.

This leads me on to what popped through the postbox yesterday. Two magazines, one uplifting, the other rather poignant. Here’s the happy one.

Seventeen years steering the PG Wodehouse Society without going off course is an achievement to be saluted. I couldn’t keep a steady hand on the tiller on night sails in the Aegean. Plum might have used a different analogy: the old girl never put a ball in the rough.

Within this issue of Wooster Sauce is a tribute to its former editor, Elin Murphy, who served for a mere thirteen years. The mood of the meeting, with which I concur, is that she was brilliant; but I take pleasure reminding her of an issue when the proprietor of Matchingham Hall was referred to as Sir Geoffrey Parsloe-Parsloe. I remember this with shame because I was the author of the piece. I know what an ass I am but I’m surprised she didn’t take a closer look at the submission of a contributor with negligible intellectual capacity.