Classic Wodehouse, full of period dialogue, impossible plot contrivances, two-dimensional characters and everything else one might love about old Plum, if one loves old Plum at all. Infectious, too. But here's the thing: all the while I was reading it, I couldn't shake one thought from my mind.
Stanley Featherstonehough Ukridge is without a doubt the original on which Boris Johnson modelled himself.
Quite apart from the fact that I have barely written a thing here for almost a month, I thought it would be worthwhile to pick a low-hanging fruit. So I followed the very simple instructions at Automate your outgoing webmentions and now my hope is that I have removed one more piece of grit from wh...
I dunno. I'm not generally the squeamish type, but "a doctor recommended nasal aspirator that removes mucus from your child's nose" is not something I've noticed a lack of in my life. Via.
And then there's this:
listening to certain people with strategic pretensions is like listening to so...
For about fifty years, I have been labouring under a personal grooming misunderstanding. It has always been my belief that one needs some sort of lubricant to get a decent shave; soap of some form, for the most part, although I did dabble with a shave oil for a month or two. A couple of days ago, for reasons,1 I decided to shave with just water.
Revelation.
A friend happened to meet Edmund de Waal at this year's Venice Biennale, and in telling us about the encounter he was so persuasive about this book, which had made him seek out de Waal, that I resolved to read it. I'm so glad I did. It had been sitting on the shelf here forever, and while I had been aware of it, I thought it was about netsuke. It is, and so much more.
