“WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HIM, THEN?”

“He’s suffering from a limp wrist, sir.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“Er – sort of, like this, sir.”

“Gosh, you look like a teapot, Cheeves.”

“I don’t see what you’re chortling at, sir. It’s no laughing matter, indeed!”

“Indeed? Whatever next?”

“Oh, and a lisp, sir.”

“Look, I do wish you’d stop calling me sir with nearly every sentence! It sounds like you’re taking the piss! Now what’s this about a lisp, old chap?”

“Well, as in, shall we say, thailor.”

“Thailor?”

“Oh, don’t grimace like that, sir. It reminds me of a rather grumpy old Bullmastiff.”

“Well, spit it out then, Cheeves old bean. What do you mean?”

“Sailor!”

“He’s not one of those is he?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What? A sailor?”

“No, he’s a –“

“Now you look like a dashed teapot again.”

“Honestly, sir – you really do take the biscuit.”

“Well I don’t know why you don’t come straight to the point, Cheeves, instead of mincing about like some silly old tart or a ruddy great poofter.”

“Got it in one, sir! Bravo! Or should I say, got it in about a dozen or more. Good lord, you’d win prizes in the art of prevarication or for pure density, not to mention a distinct predilection for the avoidance of any form of delicacy. Ah, the Bertram Mills-Boone branch of the Worcester-Sores family! What a veritable circus it is!”

“I say, Cheeves, you are rather touchy today, aren’t you, old chap?”

“No more than is required under the circumstances I think, sir.”

“Then I think you’d better cut down on the thinking when it comes to certain issues. Let’s call a truce, Cheeves, old chap and call a spade a spade and a queer a queer, in utter defiance of the political correctness league of idiots, and bugger off down the pub for a jolly good old snifter or two. Or maybe even three or four.”

“What a damned, good, spiffingly excellent idea, sir. Your round, I do believe.”

”There are no flies on you, Cheeves!”

“There are, sir. Fortunately, they’re all buttoned up at present.”