Written by Sherry
Monday, 22 October 2007 17:25
I had planned a little Wodehouse fest yesterday but alas our webserver was down all day.
It made me feel a bit like Percy, my twin brother, who died tragically years ago. I thought of the words inscribed on Percy's tombstone: Percy continued to stare before him like a man who has drained the wine cup of life to its lees, only to discover a dead mouse at the bottom.
I had dreamed of a entire day dedicated to the art of the master and my frustration grew until I couldn't stand to keep working away on my Detroit presentation. I started pacing as I often do when distressed. Unexpectedly, Fr. Mike dropped by to pick up some notes from our last meeting. As he told a friend later I could see that she was looking for something to break as a relief to her surging emotions ... and courteously drew her attention to a terra-cotta figure of the Infant Samuel at Prayer. She thanked me briefly and hurled it against the opposite wall.
Then Fr. Mike encouraged me in his usual compassionate way:Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum.
As we talked, I was startled by a loud, sudden noise.The drowsy stillness of the afternoon was shattered by what sounded to my strained senses like G. K. Chesterton falling on a sheet of tin.
Fr. Mike, who used to work out religiously but was forced to give it up under the pressure of constant travel for the Institute, turned suddenly to see what caused the noise. I noticed that the lunches of fifty-seven years had caused his chest to slip down to the mezzanine floor.
We ran out of the house to find a large woman had been hit glancingly by a passing car and was sitting on the curb, gasping and furious, her face red and distraught. She looked like a tomato struggling for self-expression.
All in all, it was a trying afternoon. When it was all over and Fr. Mike was just about to leave, he turned and said thoughtfully: "I know that you wonder why you have so little name recognition. Have you ever considered changing your name to something more marketable like "She On Whom It Is Unsafe To Try Any Oompus-Boompus?"
Can no one rid me of this Dominican? I retreated back into the house and settled down with a badly needed gin and tonic. If only I had a lorgnette handy at moments like that! I knew that England was littered with the shrivelled remains of curates at whom a lady bishopess had looked through her lorgnette. I had seen them wilt like salted snails at the episcopal breakfast table.
It was then that I turned again to the one source of comfort that has never failed me in times of distress: The random Wodehouse quote generator.
Let me recommend it to you. When reading a P. G. Wodehouse quote, the slug is on the bloom and all is right with the world.