The Library | Write to Sir Charles | Cast of Characters | Credits | This Week

14 July, 1995

One looks forward, as one always does, to one's summer retreat to one's seat in the country. "But Sir Charles," one hears one's readers cry. "Is not Blandsdown--surely the most reclusive and beautiful of the many manors of your ancient and most beautiful nation--itself in the country?" One replies that while Blandsdown nestles snugly in the rolling meadows of rural Britain, far from the bustle of the charmless city, one has a summer cottage (with a mere fourteen bedroom suites) in the hinterlands of Wales. One thinks there is not much to do in Wales, but the air is clean, the view is good, and hapless peasants stumble into sight on the shooting range only infrequently. One requests one's 'fans' (which are legion), to refrain from scaling the walls of the retreat, however. Since one's family achieved public fame with one's weekly advice, one has been besieged with frantic offers for young Penelope Windsor-Smythe's hand (and as she is of the blood royale, she cannot marry a commoner), and, most curiously, foundation garments. The roads to Blandsdown have simply been crowded by the adoring masses, eager for a word from one. One would dislike for the same to occur at the vacation retreat, where one cannot guarantee the safety of trespassers from the two hundred bear traps one has engaged. Anticipating one's rest, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Listless writes: Dear humble and wise Sir Charles, I need your deep guidance and witty wisdom to help me with a simple yet frustrating problem. What does one do when she finds herself alone and nowheres to go on a wild Saturday evening? Listless in Lancaster Sir Charles replies: Madame: One sympathizes. One's own ward, young Penelope Windsor-Smythe, is often at odds at the week's end. "Sir," she will say to me, a doe-like look of trust in her eyes. "Sir, what shall I do this evening that will befit my station as eighty-fourth in line for the throne of the grandest empire ever to have established itself on this very earth? Shall I have a giddy evening of Tiddleywinks with my maidservant? Or a refreshing game of badminton in the courtyard? Or shall I frolic on the Persian carpet in the third parlour with my young kitten and a ball of yarn? Oh sir, please guide me." Whereupon one gently looks upon the girl, this young flower of British femininity, and advises her to indulge in her favorite hobby, her scrapbook of 'Great British Rulers Lick and Trade Stamps.' Alas, her collection is incomplete. Several times she has vigorously licked the Prince of Wales, but he simply will not stay put. Hoping one's correspondent will follow this example of sheer gentility, One remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Immobile writes: Dear Sir Charles, While playing polo last weekend I ran across a friend of yours who suggested I look to you for correct guidance. I am 71 years of age and have lost the use of the right hand side of my face. My doctor says it is permanent. Could you please advise me on the appropriate way to decline all further gala dinner invitations. At the moment I am being deemed as a (dare I say it) "snobby old git." In desperate anticipation, I remain Immobile in Mobile Sir Charles replies: Sirrah: When one has reached a certain level of grandeur--say, the level to which oneself has risen--one no longer need think of physical disabilities or eccentricities as something which need be hidden. One's own grandfather, Sir Percy, sadly bereft of all limbs, yearly continued to lead off the first dance of the Hunt Ball until his grievous demise. One still has fond memories of sneaking, as a lad, into the old boy's smoking room, hiding his wooden arms and legs in the dumbwaiter, and shouting "FIRE!" into his ear whilst he napped. What innocent larks one had! One advises you, good sir, to continue attending these gala dinners. Without the presence of such respectable eminences as ourselves, these affairs would be little more than glittery juvenile raids on the buttery. And as for the paralyzed section of the correspondent's face, one suggests that it be cultivated into an unmoving icy expression of disapproval, which is certainly appropriate for gatherings of any sort. One remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Dung-B-Gon writes: 'Allo Guv, Seein's it'd been more'n three months, I'd thunk yer Lordship could use a reminder n'all. Where's that 50 Quid you promised me for takin' yer stable scrapings out to ol' what's'er name--the batty one up Middlesex way? Yer Lordship might take to heart that Giles (bless his soul) has put the cleanup out fer tender. It'd be a cryin' shame if them luverly Chinee scatter rugs at yer country digs were mucked up'n any way. Chumly, yer friend at Dung-B-Gon Ltd. Sir Charles replies: Sirrah: One repeats, one's charitable donation of rich fertilizer to the estate of Benedict St. Hughes and his wife, Millicent (nee Simpley) was never intended to be unloaded in the family's prize second-floor gallery of antiquities. One understands that the Gainsborough was quite ruined. One's thimble-witted secretary was supposed to write 'stables'. And there is no truth to the rumor that one's secretary's handwriting is remarkably similar to one's own. Because of this grievous error, which apparently has sent Millicent St. Hughes (nee Simpley) back to the gentle care of St. Mary's Asylum for the Wealthy and Thoroughly Barmy, one is deducting fifty pence from the bill. One trusts one will be using your services again, should she be released. With utter sincerity, Sir Charles Grandiose Cheesed writes: Sir: I am in quite a quandary. My roommate, whose identity I am compelled to keep in obscurity (Joel), has lately taken to leaving listening music at high volume whilst in his quarters with his lady-friend. After about an hour or so they emerge and engorge in a feast of bacon and other fat-laden indulgences. His recent behavior has soiled the once noble cultured atmosphere of our estate. How am I to tactfully address this problem? I fear that soon I will strangle him in his slumber. Cheesed in Cheshire Sir Charles replies: Sirrah: One hears that these days the eating of bacon is frowned upon by so-called 'nutrition experts' who, in the blind cause of 'good health', attempt to prevent its ingestion. One is not interested in these fads, and always begins the day with a plate of bacon, fried kippers, and a selection of cheeses, accompanied by clotted cream over hot butter scones. However, one's correspondent might find a pamphlet on the dangers of bacon lying about that would scare the roommate out of his excesses. Should this not work, one might be persuaded to lend one's correspondent the business card of the expedient (if grubby and not especially cheerful) proprietor of an establishment known as Dung-B-Gon, Ltd. One remains, Sir Charles Grandiose