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

5 July, 1996

During the Lady Felicia's holiday to investigate the recent transmogrification of her step-mother from Augusta Windover-Midden to wife-of-a-cow-farmer Mrs. Willie Windover-Wynchie (rather the reverse of a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly . . . more akin to a grub transforming into a grub of lesser station, in one's own opinion), one has hied oneself to the bohemian life in London, lodging with one's nephew and heir, Chauncey. Young Chauncey leads such a gay and frivolous life in his flat in Brompton Square that one has been inundated with invitations to fetes and soirees and the so-called 'cocktail' parties. And oh! The celebrities one has met! One cannot recall their names, but there was a Miss M.A. Thompson, and a Miss Springfield (whom everyone cruelly presumed to call 'Dusty', though one could not espy a single smut upon her stylish frock) and a vivacious young red-headed Duchess who shall remain nameless, as her fixed gaze upon one's bulging family jewels was most unnerving. (These particular cuff links were a gift from one's favorite uncle.) At any rate, though one is extremely busy with the little gatherings to which Chauncey is treating one, one's readers (who, one has it upon good authority, are so many in number that were they all space themselves across the expansive continent of North America, join hands, and sing 'We Are the World' at the tops of their voices. . . . one rather thinks one will not finish this thought. One's stomach is slightly queasy at the saccharine prospect) would be disappointed without their weekly dose of one's erudition, one has requested one's secretary to reprint a treatise of great import below. One believes that the essay will allay any doubts whatsoever that one is perhaps a leading expert on the exports of the counties of the British Empire for any given year, provided that year is 1937. Exports of Hampshire, 1937 Note to one's secretary: Insert the boyhood handwritten essay I sent you in this week's mailing in this spot. It bears the same title as above. The other letters should be put in one's most private files. Do not drop the lot and confuse them, like the treacle-witted clotpoll you are, or one shall have your hide. Ah, the wheats of Hampshire, fragrantly waving in the summer breezes. But does the casual 'fan' of export data know that in August of 1937. . . . Brompton Square London Dear Miss Manceau-Baddeley (may one call you Anita, my flower?), One has arrived in London. Faugh! The thick clouds of dust and grime only besmudge my country tweeds, but it sickens me to think what they must do to you, my gillyflower of the city. Forgive my familiarity. But surely you must know, my sweet, how my heart pounds when I think of you, sitting across from me in the dim lamplight of your dressing room, preparing for your impersonation of the Barbarous Trysand, playfully swatting me with your faux nose, eating fish 'n' chip dinners and speaking to me in your husky voice while the light glinted on the thick golden hair of your forearms . . . surely you know what you have done to me! May we meet? Chauncey can surely arrange it. I remain, tempestuously, C. (Sir) . . . infernally bad year for groats. But when one takes into account the tariffs affecting the gross national product for the year. . . . Abandon St. London My dear, Speak not of affection! There is something you do not know about me. I fear you do not know that I am not what I seem. I must tell you all. A. M-B Brompton Square London Sweet-a, petite-a, Anita. . . . What could you tell me that I do not already know? I know you are the perfection of your sex. There is no artifice in your sweet smile, in your ready wit, or in the fullness of your b-s-m. . . . Let us meet again, so you might read me more of Wilde and this curious Isherwood fellow. C. (Sir) Abandon St. London Oh, my dear, You really haven't a clue about my real self, do you? Perhaps we had best not see each other again. P.S. Have you seen The Crying Game? Kisses forever, A. M-B Brompton Square London A. M-B. . . . Saucy wench. Why do you resist? What rumors have passed your ears? The rumors that the royal divorce was caused by Princess Diana's passion for the Grandiose chin are completely unfounded. Absolutely without warrant, one tells you. One has no idea who sent those love notes scribbled on silk panties from Winslow and Highbottom, Ltd., signed, 'Love and pash, D.' No idea! Weeping, one remains, C. (Sir) . . . overall export leader in both corn and potatoes within the county. Sadly, this state of affairs would only last through the month of December, 1937, and one is not sure what happened after that, nor does one much care. One trusts that the essay has both illuminated many points not previously known about the subject at hand, as well as sparked an interest in one's readers into inquiring further about it. One does have a way with words, you know, and a keen insight that penetrates even the most tenacious of agricultural conundrums. Satisfied that one has done one's duty to the curious intellect, Sir Charles Grandiose Pierre DePue writes: Dearest Charles, This notice is in reference to the fine art selections I have sent you on consignment under plain brown wrapper. I had sent you two separate packages as you requested: Biker Babes and Spank Me, Thrill Me. The invoice for the above is now past due. Please remit before I am forced to take up unpleasant actions. Collectively yours, Pierre DePue Sir Charles replies: Mr. DePue, One thought one made oneself quite clear that the selections were to be sent under cover of brown wrapper to one's postal box in the town of Cleves. One also wishes to state that your catalogue is poorly printed. One was expecting a treatise on ancient Pompeiian culture, particularly the rites of the temple 'Bikea', for one selection. And one had thought that 'Rank Me, Trill Me,' would be an examination of the juried voice recitals of the Royal Conservatory of London. Imagine one's surprise, then, when one opened the package with trembling, excited fingers, only to find material of a prurient nature within! Shocked, sirrah, one was! Shocked! Why, when one's lady wife entered the smoking room some four hours later to summon one to dinner and discovered one still stunnedly gazing at the magazines, one had to inform her that they were the footman's, and fire the chap on the spot. One is afraid that one must demand a refund immediately. However, one has enclosed a separate order for one's third cousin, Lady Eunice Greengage, who is going through a difficult spot toilet training her young daughter. I would assume that the title Nasty Knickers would contain some instructive hints? As ever, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Franklin Whittle, OBE writes: My dear Sir Charles, Recently, my brother, a naturalised American, entered into morganatic marriage (on her part, to be sure!) with the widow of an Earl. (It is most certainly a marriage of convenience.) Now he wishes everyone to address him as "The Honorable Harold Whittle" and expects special seatings at all meals. Is this behaviour correct? Your humble and obedient, Franklin Whittle, OBE Sir Charles replies: Sirrah: The morganatic marriage is specifically arranged with the proviso that the lesser in station of the couple shall not share in the estates or titles of the better-bred. Nor any of the offspring. Quite sensical, of course. After all, what is the sense of families honing their bloodlines and fortunes for generation after generation, for some flighty youth to throw it all away upon an unfortunate evening in the ice shed with some lesser knight's son who will inevitably end up gambling away the family's fortune in Monte Carlo given a fraction of a chance? Eh? As for your brother, one suggests a round of good firm snubs, the worst seat at table, and the last serving at dinner. A little isolation and a few well-aimed snide remarks should cure him of his pretensions remarkably quickly. There is nothing one abides more than a Snob. Especially when it is one of the grubby lower classes. Somewhat disappointed at this loss to posterity, one remains, Sir Charles Grandiose Davy D. writes: Sir Charles! My man! Got a couple of questions for you about the old b-ball. Which hand do you start with for the double-dribble? And oh that sweet magic you do when you approach the net . . . where's it come from, man? Is it in the back, or the sneakers? Davy D.! Sir Charles replies: Bestial Lad: One has had inquiries of this sort before, of course. It would seem that some of one's more thick-headed readers are confusing oneself, Sir Charles Grandiose, with an athletic Sir Charles Borkley or Barkleigh or somesuch. One cannot find the name in Burke's Peerage . . . a clear sign that the person in question is nothing of import. One wishes to make clear the following point. One leads a clean life in the country. One is not, nor has one ever been, a dirty, moist, foul-smelling, athletic supporter. Dismissively, one remains Sir Charles Grandiose