Wodehouse. The very word dispels any thought of depression or melancholy. I thought it was only myself who when feeling a little dull around the gizzard opened up a Wodehouse tome and guffawed at the antics of the Drones Club. Elixir to any fevered brow. Yet over time I read of many who satiated their need for mirth with a re-reading of the antics of one Bertram Wooster at the Market Sodbury School prize giving. A delight then that today flopping onto the mat like an expectant kipper, two of the finest pick-me-ups a chap could wish for. December is a long way off, yet on checking the seating arrangements this week, such is the timeless draw of the comic genius of P.G. that most seats were taken or reserved. It will be four months before I fire up the old two seater and hove into the city for an evening of derring-do and aperitif. I can't wait.
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