And when the Seventh Seal was opened I heard "Siderius Nuncius"
<siderius.nuncius.matron@tesco.net> cry in a loud voice:

>
>David Graham wrote in message ...
>
>>As one who also went to Dulwich, I am amazed that you have detected a
>>"Dulwich Type" accent.
>
>Nonsense. What about Chandler and Wodehouse? I often can't tell which I'm
>reading.

Ah yes, the inimitable Dulwich literary style...

It was one of those mornings that looked as if it didn't want to be
there. And for that matter I wasn't that keen on seeing it myself. A
knock on the door left me little choice in the matter. It was Jeeves
with a cup of coffee black enough to conduct a funeral and bitter
enough to give my Aunt Agatha a run for her money. He put it down by
my bed along with the newspaper. I asked him if there was anything in
it worth reading.
"Some slight friction threatening in the Balkans, sir. Otherwise
nothing."
"How about a tip for the races, Jeeves?" I asked him, "Someone told me
last night about a nag called Privateer, a shoe-in for the Two
O'Clock. Know anything about it?"
"I should not advocate it, sir. The stable is not sanguine."
Sanguine. There's a word you don't hear too often in Los Angeles. I
shifted the conversation to shirts. I had a shipment of mauve ones on
their way from a very private source. I figured they would cut me a
dash at the Drones. But it appeared that Jeeves had other plans for
me. Bingo Little was back in town and had been trying to get in
touch. He told Jeeves that he had something of importance to discuss
with me but wouldn't breathe a word of it to anybody else. I was
going to have to meet him at the club.

-- 
Stephen

Into my heart an air that kills from yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills, what spires, what farms are those?
That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went and cannot come again.