Two Chaps Talking

Hey ho old thing,

Congratulate me if you will for today I was officially invited to reside in the New World. This is not to be confused with citizenship, which I do not desire for I am and will always be an Englishman. Anyway the Missus and I sat before a confirmed bachelor and answered sundry questions as they occurred to the dear love. He wasn't looking for a great deal of convincing, far from asking me to begat her before him across the chipboard table, he merely asked whether we had married in Saratoga during the races. A thoroughly decent chap and a credit to his profession.

Back in the land of the slacker we had an interesting experience last week in Paris. Having only three nights in that fair city I selected a restaurant for Saturday night with not one, but two Michelin stars. The kind of place where God has to book in advance. Primed for an orgy of gastronomic delights we settled into the sumptuous upholstery and contemplated a feast fit for a king.

Imagine if you will my surprise when two hours later I was forced to upbraid the manager in a manner more becoming a blacksmith to his errant horse. The evening had been a catalogue of ineptitude and amateurism; dishes too late, too early, too cold, even melted, and of course the classic invisible or surly waiters. It was so at odds with what was promised that M and I had laughed our way through the whole debacle, expecting Jeremy Beadle to emerge at any moment and ask if we were Game For A Laugh.

Well we were game for a laugh but when Mr Beadle didn't emerge I was forced to expound my views and demand the bill with a pained look. I intended to amend it according to my own calculations. The manager saw this coming and quite correctly refused all payment. Highly amusing and remarkably easy on the wallet. Following this ordeal M and I strolled to the Eiffel Tower and counted ducks on the Seine by the light of the moon. Very romantic.

Sartorially speaking, and we're never far from it are we, I'm in a fix. One of the privations of living here appears to be a complete lack of braces with those nasty little clips. Before you raise an eyebrow I know, I know, I know; a gentleman should button his braces. I've been through all that with my tailor, but what to do with ultra fine hand woven silk fighting bottoms? Or indeed a worsted wool so fine that one less micron would render it invisible? I could go on, but perhaps should not. Anyway apart from the pleasure of a day spent talking to charming young fillies who kept talking about 'suspenders' in gent's outfitters the cupboard is bare. I shall have to come back to Blighty sooner rather than later if only to acquire some of Thurston's finest.

At this juncture I am bound to mention a despicable trick that was perpetrated upon me. During my recent quest for braces I couldn't help but notice a book entitled 'What a Gentleman Should Say' featured in numerous mercers and clothiers. As a student of all things preux I was bound to acquire a copy and compare notes. So I opened this 'book' with a kindly gaze and an open mind. Let me quote to you now so that you might fully appreciate my surprise;

"What a gentleman should say if a neighbour asks to borrow his favourite tool"
-"I'm sorry Jerry, I just don't lend my tools to anyone, it's one of my personal rules."

I hardly know where to begin. A gentleman with a favourite tool! What on God's green earth would a gentleman be doing with a tool? And if a chap quoted you one of his personal rules a punch in the eye would be where you'd start surely?

I dashed straight into the nearest bar for a stiffener and thence to a book shop to cleanse my mind with some soothing P G W. Once fortified I strode back to the purveyor of this filth and demanded a refund with damages. I pointed out that 'What a Bloody Mormon Should Say' was surely a more appropriate title. Even now I shudder at the recollection.

And on that note my dear old thing from one flaneur to another I must bid you adieu.

S