By Alekh Bhurke
Better known as Gussie Fink-Nottle, Alekh had originally shared the following story with the denizens of PGW-Net and alt.fan.wodehouse. It seems only fair to share the fun with Plummies everywhere. The moral of the story should be clear to the meanest intelligence. --AD
What ho! What ho! What ho! I recently had a very spiritual yet harrowing experience from which I was saved only because I read my Wodehouse religiously. Here is my tale.
I was in South Carolina for a convention--one of those swanky rural retreats with ponds and cottages and ducks and swans. And when I say swans I mean big, black swans looking as if they've just returned from a visit to their hair stylist and rather haughty about it. To get from point A in this place to another point, say B, one needs to cross little wooden foot bridges. And as one day we went for a stroll there stood a swan in our way, guarding the bridge. We thought nothing of it as we quietly edged past and all was well. The next day I found myself in the vicinity of the same bridge with a Wodehouse in my pocket and the sun shining brightly. Not being of a particularly nimble mind, I took off the jacket, plopped down on the lawns and started on the book (Louder and Funnier). An enjoyable hour passed, the ducks waddled, the swans floated, all was right with the world. And then suddenly, through the corner of my eye, I spied what looked like a big, black, hissing garden hose on a collision course with me at 60 miles an hour. Further observation proved it to be one swan--wings spread, about sixteen feet of neck unrolled, hissing like a leaky gas-pipe and its temper shortening by the stride. In another two seconds the menace would be upon me!
The first thought was to look for strategically located little octagonal summer houses to climb upon. A quick survey of the landscape revealed the futility of such an endeavor. And then, quick as a flash, it came to me. I popped up, picked my jacket off the ground and opening it up wide, thrust it upon the head of the swan who was now conveniently located a couple of feet away from me.
The poor chum was so startled he staggered back. I took the opp. and legged it to a nearby balcony, leaving behind everything but my shoes. After fifteen minutes of what looked like a war-dance, it wandered off in search of other prey and I was able to pick up the remains of my attire and much humbled ego. I shudder to think what would have happened if I hadn't read my Wodehouse every Sunday morning from the age of ten. There is a lesson in this for all of us.
P.S. These black swans, I was later informed,
come from Perth, Australia. My sympathies go out to all Australians.
But look at the silver lining, old chaps. Facing these swans on
a daily basis must be what gives your cricketers that fabled poise
and composure on the pitch. No wonder the Aussie fielders run
so fast. I did too.