Bertie learns a lesson in modernity.

“I say, Jeeves”.

“Sir?”

“A rather rummy thing happened this morning.”

“Indeed sir?”

“I had toodled across to Fortnum’s to buy a tin of Ceylon tea. I came out and turned right to hoof it to Piccadilly Circus as the weather was rather balmy. There was this poor waif standing outside the entrance. A rather pretty girl, I must say. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten for several days, she was rather on the skinny side, you know. Her clothes were rather shabby with her trousers frayed and with tears on the knees. I took pity on her and handed over a quid.”

“That was very kind of you sir.”

“But wait, you know what the bally girl did? She chucked it back at me and flounced off saying something that sounded like ‘You Creep.’ You think a quid wasn’t sufficient?”

“Rather strange reaction, sir.”

“Pardon me sir; was she wearing trousers that were indigo blue in colour?”

“Hmm, it was a sort of blue. But what does it matter what colour her trousers were?”

“Sir, if I guessed right the young lady in question was wearing what are euphemistically referred to as jeans. They are made from a blue fabric called denim derived from the French serge de Nîmes, referring to the city of Nîmes. I am given to understand, Sir that it is the latest fashion with the younger generation to wear jeans that are frayed at the bottom and have tears on the knees.”

“But she looked as if she hadn’t eaten for days.”

“Sir, may I draw your attention to this chapter in the latest edition of ‘Milady’s Boudoir’ that bemoans the latest fashion trend among the modern young girl to what is called the ‘Size Zero’ look.

“You mean, Jeeves that the girl wasn’t a waif in need of succour? Did I make what do you call it, something that starts with a ‘b’?

“Precisely, sir. Perhaps the word you are looking for is the modern term for an embarrassing mistake, what the Americans call ‘a boo boo’?

Our conversation was interrupted  by the continuous ringing of the doorbell. Jeeves opened the door and in rushed the two blots on the family escutcheon, my cousins Claude and Eustace.

“I say Bertie, where is your comp, we need it rather urgently,” said Claude.

“What comp? What is a comp, Jeeves?”

“The young gentleman is referring to a modern machine called a computer. It refers to a general purpose device that can be programmed to carry out a set of arithmetic or logical operations automatically. I understand that a certain British gentleman called Charles Babbage is referred to as the ‘Father of the Computer’”.

Eustace piped up, “spare the details, Jeeves. Lead us to the comp. Our classmate, Dog-face Rainsby is in New York and stood in the queue the whole night and managed to get his hands on the latest Apple. He wants to show it to on Skype.”

“You blisters what on earth do you want to see an apple from New York. You get perfectly good ones in Covent Garden.”

Eustace looked pityingly at me and said, “Bertie you really live in the past don’t you?”

“Sir, may I explain. The young gentlemen are referring to what is called, a mobile phone. Perhaps their friend in New York wants to display a popular model manufactured by an American company called Apple.”

“Jeeves, my head is beginning to throb. Get me a w & s.”

Just then the phone rang. Jeeves picked it up and I could hear the bellowing voice of My Aunt Dahlia.

Jeeves handed over the instrument,"Mrs. Travers for you, sir.”

Before I could say anything my aged relative shouted, “You spineless little worm, what are you doing hiding away in London. I want you to go to Paris immediately.”

“Whh why?” I stammered.

“Because I said so. Your Uncle Travers is throwing a fit as someone has purloined his porringer and has refused to fund ‘Milady’s Boudoir’ till I get him a replacement. There is one in Paris with Monsieur Poirot. Cosh him one and pilfer the damn thing or an aunt’s curse will befall you.”

And she hung up.

“Jeeves, what time is the next Boat Train? Pack my sea trunk for a week.”

“There is no need to take the ferry from Dover to Paris any more, sir. I will book you on the 0755 Eurostar from St. Pancras. You will reach Paris in a little over two hours and should be able to catch the 17.13 return train after your business is completed. You will be back home for supper.”

I had a glazed look on my face. All this was too much for me.

“Stop blabbering, Jeeves. What on earth is the Eurostar? You are aware that there is a body of water called the English Channel that separates the two countries.”

“The new train travels under the Channel, sir. Many people fondly refer to it as the Chunnel train as it passes through a tunnel under water. I will order an Uber to drop you to the station, sir.”

“Jeeves, what on earth is an Uber. Ok never mind. I need a stiff w & s.”

I was floating in the clouds, and I could hear a faint voice saying, “Sir, may I bring your tea?”

I woke up groggily and could see the shimmering sight of Jeeves with a tray. I shook my head and said, “Jeeves I just had a very bad nightmare. Do you know….forget it. You will never believe me.”

Domestic issues

The state government recently issued guidelines for recommended wages to household domestic s. I am afraid the mandarins in the secretariat were ignorant of the ground situation when they fixed a rate of Rs 224/- per eight hour day. This constituted all work including taking care of a child. I reckon they did not consult any housewife before making the decision.

For several years we had one maidservant who practically handled all activity. Unfortunately she pushed her luck a bit too much with her boss, my wife which resulted in her being given the pink slip. Since then, my house has been overrun by a bevy of female domestics. We have a 24 hour maid; a morning maid; an evening maid; and a cook. Obviously, this has played havoc with my routine and I have been confined to my study most of the time.

A couple of months back when my wife and I were on an extended holiday in London, politics reared its ugly head in a so far peaceful household. Thanks to her superior designation, the cook had become the self-appointed head of the worker clan and she was also giving the general work orders. Somewhere down the line, the morning and evening maids seemed to have had a conflict-of-duties disagreement that simmered till our return. The morning domo who had her lunch at our place for the last two years also seemed to suddenly have developed a dislike for our cook’s creations and decided to eat at her afternoon employer’s house.

On returning, we could sense coolness in the overall atmosphere of our employees. Panicking at the situation, my wife followed an age old corporate formula and declared a ‘loyalty bonus’ to all of them, plus some gifts from London. Peace reigned after that.

That men in our family have problems with domestics also has a historical perspective. After my father retired from service and settled down in Mysore there was a need for a cook. Based on recommendation, an old lady came on board. Unfortunately, she happened to have served in my father’s household when he was still a youngster. She took this old connection rather seriously and made herself at home, including having her afternoon siesta on our drawing room couch. However, what bugged my father was her regular commentary to my mother about the episodes from his younger days. At an opportune moment he found a valid excuse and packed her off.

My wife is always on tenterhook when one of our staff will defect, as there is a big demand in our apartment complex and cases of poaching with enhanced lucre are quite common. Further, she may need to find a substitute for our morning maid who has recently got hitched to a guy whom she claims is a ‘parantha expert’.

In this nebulous situation, as the only male member in a household of seven, domestics included, the only loyal associate I have is my computer. Somehow we manage to go through the day.