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crack_van2006-05-19 02:31 pm
sine-que-non767.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2006-05-19 02:31 pm
Entry tags:
Jeeves and the Understanding by Timmerryn (PG-13)
Fandom: JEEVES & WOOSTER
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie Wooster
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rahball
Author Website: The Blue Page
Why this must be read:
The first in an enjoyable series. Bertie strikes an unexpected vein of feeling when he and Jeeves enjoy a convivial birthday evening involving rather too much of the Good Stuff. Delightfully plausible - and Jeeves at a loss, for once!
"Might I inquire whether the meal was to your satisfaction, sir?”
"Very much so,” I said, and I meant it. “No man could ask for more.”
“I should not go so far as that, sir. The cake still awaits your pleasure in the kitchen.”
“The cake?”
“Yes indeed, sir. They are traditional on birthdays, I believe.”
This being said, he shimmered off to fetch it.
While I waited, I drained my glass and refilled it, pondering on the greatness of a man who could solve almost any problem you put to him and bake cakes for people’s birthdays. I was willing to bet not many other great men could manage that. Napoleon, Julius Caesar, that Marcus Aurelius chap Jeeves is always on about, they could conquer the known world, which is well and good, but bung them in the cookhouse with the raw materials and a mixing bowl and they probably went all to pieces.
Jeeves returned, avec cake, while the above was still knocking about the old bean. It – the cake, not my head - had rather more candles on it than I cared to see, but apart from that was the most deserving of the species that had swum into my ken for some considerable time.
The cake safely installed on the table, I sang happy birthday to me and so did Jeeves. Jeeves generally only sings when he thinks no-one’s listening, but I suppose tradition has the power to overcome habit on such occasions. Besides which, I wasn’t listening, because the dramatic buildup to the crescendo, “Happy birthday, dear Bertie old chap,” was occupying my full attention.
Once the candles were blown out and removed, Jeeves passed me a knife. Another tradition, I recalled, was that the candle blower-outer and bearer of the birthday had to strike the first blow on the person of the cake.
“Don’t I have to kiss the nearest girl if the knife comes out clean, Jeeves?” I asked, as I struck the f.b.
“If the knife is dirty, sir, but you are correct in the other particulars.”
“It’s a dashed foolish tradition, if you ask me,” I said. “It’s all very well for those who have family birthdays on a regular basis, where there are no shortage of cousins and so forth, but when a chap moves in a society made up mostly of gentlemen, he’s at a bit of a loss. At the Drones, for instance, the nearest thing to a girl is Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright in a wig and one needs to have been getting fairly heavily into the port before he becomes a desirable object for osculation… is it osculation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here at home there’s just us.”
“A very salient point, sir. Might I inquire whether you are intending to finish cutting the cake?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering, and pulled the knife out. It was clean, which was probably a relief under the circumstances, removing as it did a lot of potential for the sort of embarrassment and misunderstanding one tries to avoid in the home.
The cake was also delicious.
Then there was the port.
At this point, those among you who have been paying close attention will leap up and cry “Port! On top of the wine! Shameless self-indulgence! There will be regrets in the morning, you mark my words!”
Indeed, it is questionable whether two men who have already polished off an entire bottle of Chablis should be permitted to start on the port, but it was my birthday.
And it was mostly due to the port that things became a lot more interesting.
Jeeves and the Understanding
Pairing: Jeeves/Bertie Wooster
Author on LJ:
rahballAuthor Website: The Blue Page
Why this must be read:
The first in an enjoyable series. Bertie strikes an unexpected vein of feeling when he and Jeeves enjoy a convivial birthday evening involving rather too much of the Good Stuff. Delightfully plausible - and Jeeves at a loss, for once!
"Might I inquire whether the meal was to your satisfaction, sir?”
"Very much so,” I said, and I meant it. “No man could ask for more.”
“I should not go so far as that, sir. The cake still awaits your pleasure in the kitchen.”
“The cake?”
“Yes indeed, sir. They are traditional on birthdays, I believe.”
This being said, he shimmered off to fetch it.
While I waited, I drained my glass and refilled it, pondering on the greatness of a man who could solve almost any problem you put to him and bake cakes for people’s birthdays. I was willing to bet not many other great men could manage that. Napoleon, Julius Caesar, that Marcus Aurelius chap Jeeves is always on about, they could conquer the known world, which is well and good, but bung them in the cookhouse with the raw materials and a mixing bowl and they probably went all to pieces.
Jeeves returned, avec cake, while the above was still knocking about the old bean. It – the cake, not my head - had rather more candles on it than I cared to see, but apart from that was the most deserving of the species that had swum into my ken for some considerable time.
The cake safely installed on the table, I sang happy birthday to me and so did Jeeves. Jeeves generally only sings when he thinks no-one’s listening, but I suppose tradition has the power to overcome habit on such occasions. Besides which, I wasn’t listening, because the dramatic buildup to the crescendo, “Happy birthday, dear Bertie old chap,” was occupying my full attention.
Once the candles were blown out and removed, Jeeves passed me a knife. Another tradition, I recalled, was that the candle blower-outer and bearer of the birthday had to strike the first blow on the person of the cake.
“Don’t I have to kiss the nearest girl if the knife comes out clean, Jeeves?” I asked, as I struck the f.b.
“If the knife is dirty, sir, but you are correct in the other particulars.”
“It’s a dashed foolish tradition, if you ask me,” I said. “It’s all very well for those who have family birthdays on a regular basis, where there are no shortage of cousins and so forth, but when a chap moves in a society made up mostly of gentlemen, he’s at a bit of a loss. At the Drones, for instance, the nearest thing to a girl is Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright in a wig and one needs to have been getting fairly heavily into the port before he becomes a desirable object for osculation… is it osculation?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here at home there’s just us.”
“A very salient point, sir. Might I inquire whether you are intending to finish cutting the cake?”
“Yes,” I said, remembering, and pulled the knife out. It was clean, which was probably a relief under the circumstances, removing as it did a lot of potential for the sort of embarrassment and misunderstanding one tries to avoid in the home.
The cake was also delicious.
Then there was the port.
At this point, those among you who have been paying close attention will leap up and cry “Port! On top of the wine! Shameless self-indulgence! There will be regrets in the morning, you mark my words!”
Indeed, it is questionable whether two men who have already polished off an entire bottle of Chablis should be permitted to start on the port, but it was my birthday.
And it was mostly due to the port that things became a lot more interesting.
Jeeves and the Understanding
no subject
I wrote that! :D
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