ThursdayNext : www.jasperfforde.com
A discussion of all things Thursday !
Especially for Octavia
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: October 26, 2002 10:50PM
<HTML>Lord Peter Wimsey; The Next Business
Lord Peter Wimsey got up from the piano, having just finished playing four of Bach’s most difficult pieces. The adagio for crumhorn had given him some little trouble, but Wimsey felt a quiet satisfaction in having successfully transposed it for piano whilst sight-reading.
“I’m feeling quite on form, Bunter,” he remarked to his manservant, “what say I give a little recital, you know, just a few friends, nothing formal?”
“Very well, my Lord. Shall I book the Albert Hall again, my Lord?”
“No, no. Couldn’t get everybody in last time. And I thought I might ring up Tommy Beecham, see if he’d lend me the LSO. What do you suppose the acoustics are like in Wembley Stadium?”
“In my experience, my Lord, poor.”
“Are they, by Jove? And what took you to Wembley, Bunter?”
“I was playing left-half for the Arsenal, my Lord. I often help Mr. Chapman out when he is short of a player or two.”
“Oh well,” Wimsey said, rising from the piano, “if Wembley’s no go I’m sure a man of infinite resource and sagacity like yourself will find a suitable venue. Si nous ne trouvons pas des choses agreables, nous trouverons du moins des choses nouvelles.”
“Indeed, my Lord. Although if I remember the story related by Voltaire correctly, nothing pleasant was in fact found. Does your lordship wish to take luncheon now?”
“Do you know, Bunter, I think I will. What’s on?”
“Pain chaud avec fromage a la Pays de Galles, my Lord. Followed by compote de sago a l’ecole publique.”
“Excellent choice, Bunter. And open a bottle of the Sancerre, would you….the ’23, I think.”
“Very good, my Lord. But I have been remiss in my duties; while your lordship was playing, a letter was delivered; I did not care to disturb you.”
“Quite right too, Bunter. What sort of letter is it?”
“I believe it to be a mysterious one, my Lord.”
Wimsey turned from looking out of the window and spoke in a sharp tone.
“Then I hope you have had it dusted for fingerprints, photographed from every angle, examined minutely for dust particles and conducted a thorough calligraphic examination of the address?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“And?”
“It appears to have been addressed by a female hand, by a lady who does not use perfume, using a Parker retractable pen; it was posted this morning in Wiltshire, possibly in Swindon or Stoke Fleming, and contains a letter weighing approximately three and a quarter ounces. Other than this, I can ascertain nothing concerning it. Not without opening it, anyway.”
“Then you had better give me both the letter and a paper-knife, Bunter.”
Wimsey cut open the envelope eagerly but carefully, unfolded the letter within, sniffed it twice, and then read it with attention. Bunter waited patiently, surreptitiously scratching his arse the while.
“Bunter,” Wimsey said, at length, “this missive is, as you divined, from a member of the fairer sex. Her name, she claims, is Next – a Miss Thursday Next – from something called Special Operations – I presume that is what the barbarous contraction she employs signifies. I’ve never heard of such an organisation. Have you, Bunter?”
“I can’t say I have, my Lord.”
“Hm. I shall have to ask Parker about it. Some advantages to having a rozzer for a brother-in-law. Anyway, she is, she says, trying to warn me. Apparently I am to be kidnapped by someone called Hades.”
“Why has she not informed you of this in person, my Lord?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Smells dashed fishy to me. Let me see – she goes on to say that she can’t tell me face to face because of something called Goliath, which is apparently blocking all entry into -” but at that point Wimsey’s face fell, and he sighed heavily.
“No, I’m sorry, Bunter, this is nonsense. File it with the rest of the loonies, Bunter. The kind of rubbish she goes on about even Poirot wouldn’t swallow. Pity. I was hoping for a bit of excitement before my fight with Jack Dempsey. Why these poor wretches write to me, the dear Lord only knows. It’s the title, I think; if you can get the brother of a Duke to believe your mad fantasies, you can pass yourself off as sane, or at any rate eccentric. I mean look at it - ” and he waved the screed contemptuously – “even the name gives it away. Thursday Next, I ask you. Has she got a sister called Whatever, do you think? What kind of poor fool thinks up a name like that…it’s as bad as the sort of things that chap I knew at Oxford used to come out with – what was his name? Tol- something…..mind you, I did know a Next once. At Ypres, it was; he was a Colonel in some sort of intelligence outfit. Interesting cove; we had a bit of a discussion about Spinoza, I seem to recall. Heigh ho, on with the motley. Bring up that Sancerre, will you, Bunter. I need something to stop me brooding.”
“Are you feeling quite well, my Lord?”
Wimsey looked out of the window once more, the letter dangling forgotten from his slack fingers. He gazed out mournfully for some while before replying.
“What do you think of Miss Vane, Bunter?” he said at last.
I think Harriet Vane is a smug cow who is quite obviously an idealised self-portrait of the author, Bunter thought.
“I believe her to be your lordship’s perfect life’s companion,” Bunter said.
“Do you, Bunter? Do you really? But how am I to make her so, Bunter, do you know that?”
“Possibly you will have to get her off another false charge, my Lord. That often seems to work quite well. If I might have the letter, my Lord, I will file it and then serve luncheon.”
“Very well, Bunter.” Wimsey sighed, handed Bunter the letter, and resumed his brooding gaze out on to the street.
Bunter, meanwhile, went to his room and carefully placed the letter in a file marked ‘SpecOps/JurisFiction’, and then returned the file to the drawer. Placing it just next to the one marked ‘Jack Schitt/Wages Received’.</HTML>
Lord Peter Wimsey got up from the piano, having just finished playing four of Bach’s most difficult pieces. The adagio for crumhorn had given him some little trouble, but Wimsey felt a quiet satisfaction in having successfully transposed it for piano whilst sight-reading.
“I’m feeling quite on form, Bunter,” he remarked to his manservant, “what say I give a little recital, you know, just a few friends, nothing formal?”
“Very well, my Lord. Shall I book the Albert Hall again, my Lord?”
“No, no. Couldn’t get everybody in last time. And I thought I might ring up Tommy Beecham, see if he’d lend me the LSO. What do you suppose the acoustics are like in Wembley Stadium?”
“In my experience, my Lord, poor.”
“Are they, by Jove? And what took you to Wembley, Bunter?”
“I was playing left-half for the Arsenal, my Lord. I often help Mr. Chapman out when he is short of a player or two.”
“Oh well,” Wimsey said, rising from the piano, “if Wembley’s no go I’m sure a man of infinite resource and sagacity like yourself will find a suitable venue. Si nous ne trouvons pas des choses agreables, nous trouverons du moins des choses nouvelles.”
“Indeed, my Lord. Although if I remember the story related by Voltaire correctly, nothing pleasant was in fact found. Does your lordship wish to take luncheon now?”
“Do you know, Bunter, I think I will. What’s on?”
“Pain chaud avec fromage a la Pays de Galles, my Lord. Followed by compote de sago a l’ecole publique.”
“Excellent choice, Bunter. And open a bottle of the Sancerre, would you….the ’23, I think.”
“Very good, my Lord. But I have been remiss in my duties; while your lordship was playing, a letter was delivered; I did not care to disturb you.”
“Quite right too, Bunter. What sort of letter is it?”
“I believe it to be a mysterious one, my Lord.”
Wimsey turned from looking out of the window and spoke in a sharp tone.
“Then I hope you have had it dusted for fingerprints, photographed from every angle, examined minutely for dust particles and conducted a thorough calligraphic examination of the address?”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“And?”
“It appears to have been addressed by a female hand, by a lady who does not use perfume, using a Parker retractable pen; it was posted this morning in Wiltshire, possibly in Swindon or Stoke Fleming, and contains a letter weighing approximately three and a quarter ounces. Other than this, I can ascertain nothing concerning it. Not without opening it, anyway.”
“Then you had better give me both the letter and a paper-knife, Bunter.”
Wimsey cut open the envelope eagerly but carefully, unfolded the letter within, sniffed it twice, and then read it with attention. Bunter waited patiently, surreptitiously scratching his arse the while.
“Bunter,” Wimsey said, at length, “this missive is, as you divined, from a member of the fairer sex. Her name, she claims, is Next – a Miss Thursday Next – from something called Special Operations – I presume that is what the barbarous contraction she employs signifies. I’ve never heard of such an organisation. Have you, Bunter?”
“I can’t say I have, my Lord.”
“Hm. I shall have to ask Parker about it. Some advantages to having a rozzer for a brother-in-law. Anyway, she is, she says, trying to warn me. Apparently I am to be kidnapped by someone called Hades.”
“Why has she not informed you of this in person, my Lord?”
“That’s what I’d like to know. Smells dashed fishy to me. Let me see – she goes on to say that she can’t tell me face to face because of something called Goliath, which is apparently blocking all entry into -” but at that point Wimsey’s face fell, and he sighed heavily.
“No, I’m sorry, Bunter, this is nonsense. File it with the rest of the loonies, Bunter. The kind of rubbish she goes on about even Poirot wouldn’t swallow. Pity. I was hoping for a bit of excitement before my fight with Jack Dempsey. Why these poor wretches write to me, the dear Lord only knows. It’s the title, I think; if you can get the brother of a Duke to believe your mad fantasies, you can pass yourself off as sane, or at any rate eccentric. I mean look at it - ” and he waved the screed contemptuously – “even the name gives it away. Thursday Next, I ask you. Has she got a sister called Whatever, do you think? What kind of poor fool thinks up a name like that…it’s as bad as the sort of things that chap I knew at Oxford used to come out with – what was his name? Tol- something…..mind you, I did know a Next once. At Ypres, it was; he was a Colonel in some sort of intelligence outfit. Interesting cove; we had a bit of a discussion about Spinoza, I seem to recall. Heigh ho, on with the motley. Bring up that Sancerre, will you, Bunter. I need something to stop me brooding.”
“Are you feeling quite well, my Lord?”
Wimsey looked out of the window once more, the letter dangling forgotten from his slack fingers. He gazed out mournfully for some while before replying.
“What do you think of Miss Vane, Bunter?” he said at last.
I think Harriet Vane is a smug cow who is quite obviously an idealised self-portrait of the author, Bunter thought.
“I believe her to be your lordship’s perfect life’s companion,” Bunter said.
“Do you, Bunter? Do you really? But how am I to make her so, Bunter, do you know that?”
“Possibly you will have to get her off another false charge, my Lord. That often seems to work quite well. If I might have the letter, my Lord, I will file it and then serve luncheon.”
“Very well, Bunter.” Wimsey sighed, handed Bunter the letter, and resumed his brooding gaze out on to the street.
Bunter, meanwhile, went to his room and carefully placed the letter in a file marked ‘SpecOps/JurisFiction’, and then returned the file to the drawer. Placing it just next to the one marked ‘Jack Schitt/Wages Received’.</HTML>
Re: Especially for Octavia
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.nv.iinet.net.au)
Date: October 27, 2002 06:52AM
<HTML>Woo-hoo! *dances little dance* Thankyou Jon, thankyou!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :-)
You have made me a very happy woman. Brilliant. fantastic!!!!!!!!
PS- Cheese on toast and school rice pudding?? with Sancerre '23? Surely the 22 would be a better match? ;-)</HTML>
You have made me a very happy woman. Brilliant. fantastic!!!!!!!!
PS- Cheese on toast and school rice pudding?? with Sancerre '23? Surely the 22 would be a better match? ;-)</HTML>
Re: Especially for Octavia
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: October 27, 2002 10:52AM
<HTML>Glad to be of service ma'am....it was quite fun to do too, even though I was about 15 last time I read a Wimsey book. Some brisk research on Wimsey websites was called for. Obviously not quite enough was done, or else I would have spotted the Sancerre error. Damn.</HTML>
Re: Especially for Octavia
Posted by: ScarletBea (148.177.129.---)
Date: October 28, 2002 09:26AM
<HTML>Not knowing anyone you mentioned, I quite liked it :)))))
*claps*
*rushes off to next installment*</HTML>
*claps*
*rushes off to next installment*</HTML>
Re: Especially for Octavia
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: October 29, 2002 09:04AM
<HTML>Well, there's serendipitous. (Look it up). I didn't know when I wrote this it was Octavia's birthday on Friday, so, call it an early birthday present.</HTML>
Re: Especially for Octavia
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.nv.iinet.net.au)
Date: October 29, 2002 11:34AM
<HTML>There are good things about being 26, after all!!!</HTML>
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