J. Sheekey and Glen Russell
My Dear Chap,
Welcome back from the land of the winsome smile and lissom limbs, I forget, was it your first visit there? And have you ever encountered a more delightful nation, more beautiful womenfolk, friendlier people, cheaper booze, clearer sea? I am entirely confident that you and dear A had the time of your lives. Are you brown? And fully rested? And ready to tell your charges how the hell to do it during your country house gatherings? I bet you are.
What a smashing time we had visiting you in Blighty, the highlight without doubt was our evening at J. Sheekeys. Bloody marvellous food, wine and company, it goes straight into my hit parade at number one.
Remember the Glen Russell tweed we came across in Crombie, a rather racy hacking jacket with my name all over it? Well as luck would have it I happened upon exactly that en route to Cordings on my last day. To complete the outfit I popped into Mr Smiths emporium over here and am now resplendent in my country ensemble: aforementioned hacking jacket, Tattersall check shirt, rough tweed tie and bright fucking red moleskins. I kid you not, the locals are not amused, as well they should not be.
Life here in the New World continues as ever. The first lot of fools to dip their toe in yours truly's pool have realised that they can get along pretty well without me, though there is talk of something called consultancy, which I take to mean popping in from time to time to tell them where the hell to get off and getting handsomely rewarded for it. Oh yes, and another bunch of Charley's have invited me in for a chat, so who knows, the leisured class might have to manage without me yet. Pray for me my Son.
The darling wife has her umpteenth birthday tomorrow and I have been feverishly gadding about searching for gold, frankincense, myrrh and a location for festivities. The lucky winner this year is a gaff called Markt, a Frog-Belgian place with a fine line in beer and chips, I shall teach the assembled masses to eat les chip butty's till they're sick of 'em.
Read another of Kingsley Amis's gems the other day; 'all that could be said of him was that his suit clearly came from a non-English speaking country.' Something to dream about what?
And there old fruit I leave it, there's no country like the old one but we do all right over here, you must try to pop across. My fondest to you and yours.
Dum vivimus vivamus, as they say,
S