What Ho Proles!
Just a quick update before I make an attempt at slumber. Needless to say, I'm back from the police station and my monograph to the Women's Institute didn't quite go according to plan. I'll fill you in on the details tomorrow, but at the moment, I have to dash to find some ice to lay upon My Man's brow. His concussion is quite severe, but as I told him earlier, this is what comes from trying to mix it with a matriarch of the WI.
Until the morn.
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And, incidentally, isn't there something in Wodehouse along the lines of: if quotation didn't exist, conversation between gentlemen would consist of an endless series of What Hos!
I never quite understand why some people insist on reading that gentleman’s books as light comedy. I’ve always found them to be social realism for those of us with well turned creases and cravats. And, indeed, I did spent one evening with a friend in which we did say nothing but ‘what ho’ but I believe the debate was governed by our ever dwindling supply of malt whisky. Speaking of which, my glass is already empty. What ho!
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