gisho - Psmith/Mike, teacup

When their efforts were concluded, Psmith invariably reached for the teacup: "It fills me with a singular diffuse melancholy, Comrade Jackson, when I consider that Early Man must have made his way without the help of tea -- tea, that spring of every human virtue, panacea for every ill, without which the Empire would indubitably be up to its knees in the bouillabaisse -- I have always thought that the fact that our unfortunate ancestors ever made it down the trees without it must be taken as proof of the existence of a benevolent God"; but if he expected this to draw from Mike an expression of his theological beliefs, he was disappointed, for physical exertion always made Mike sleepy: "Do you really," he said, but he was not attending.

flambeau - Mike/Psmith. Too much beer.

"This tendency towards low habits concerns me, Comrade Jackson. Check it, I beg you. Remember the mother at whose knees you said your childish prayers, and for her sake, fight against it. To see one so young and full of promise set on the road to perdition -- "

"It's only beer, Smith," said Mike testily. "You can have port if you like."

flambeau - Oh, but, you know, there's that amazing postapocalyptic wodehousian thing where Jeeves and Wooster are living in the ruins of London, and Jeeves pretends that Bertie has gone nuts and is hallucinating this whole world-gone-apocalyptorific thing and he's just humoring him, although deep down he knows he's the one who's cracking, pretending things are normal, and of course Bertie knows, too, and they are terribly kind to one another, and they're trying to organize the evacuation of everyone they know into the countryside, because it has to be better than here, but of course the trains aren't running and they don't know how to get petrol, or a bigger car if it comes to that, and some of Bertie's friends are dead and some are injured and no one really knows what's going on and--

*deep breath* Anyway. That one.

It was then that the thought came to me. I don't know how it is for brainy chappies like Jeeves, who have juicy ideas sleeting through their lemons at the approximate speed of a persecuted nephew across good country, but inspiration lights upon the Wooster brow about once a decade. It felt rather like a bread roll in the middle of the forehead, as are commonly flung about by the worthy patrons of the Drones.

"I say, there's Oofy Prosser," I said. "Doesn't he have one of those enormous limousine jobs? Those things like a caterpillar in motor form, you know the one I mean."

Jeeves's left eyebrow twitched, like the little finger of a dead man whose family has just made off with the cash for the monument with marble angel.

"Oofy Prosser is currently unavailable, sir," said Jeeves.

"At a time like this? Where on earth could he have gone?"

That was when it hit me, hit being what Jeeves likes to call the bon mot.

"Oh, I say," I said. Not much of a eulogy, but one doesn't, at these times, if you know what I mean. I mean to say. One can't.

"Mr. Prosser will no doubt return in due course, when he has exhausted the pleasures of Monte Carlo," said Jeeves.

"Poor old Oofy," I said. "Poor old chap."

"If I may venture an opinion, sir, I feel excessive concern is unwarranted," said Jeeves. "Mr. Prosser is more than capable of managing his affairs, even in Monte Carlo, where the less prudent may do well to exercise caution."

Fancy Oofy flinging away handfuls of the old family fortune upon the gambling tables of Monte Carlo! But: "Well, yes," I said. "I suppose you're right, Jeeves. Silly of me to worry, what?"

I mean to say. What else could one do?