P. G. Wodehouse

notoriously a tough egg

Mine not to reason why, as the fellow said.

Gussie, you see, wasn't like some of my pals—the name of Bingo Little is one that springs to the lips—who, if turned down by a girl, would simply say, “Well, bung-oh!” and toddle off quite happily to find another. He was so manifestly a bird who, having failed to score in the first chukker, would turn the thing up and spend the rest of his life brooding over his newts and growing long grey whiskers, like one of those chaps you read about in novels, who live in the great white house you can just see over there through th

The Grammar School at Market Snodsbury had, I understood, been built somewhere in the year 1416, and, as with so many of these ancient foundations, there still seemed to brood over its Great Hall, where the afternoon's festivities were to take place, not a little of the fug of the centuries. It was the hottest day of the summer, and though somebody had opened a tentative window or two, the atmosphere remained distinctive and individual.
In this hall the youth of Market Snodsbury had been eating its daily lunch for a matter of five hundred years, and the flavour lingered. The air was sort of heavy and languorous, if you know what I mean, with the scent of Young England and boiled beef and carrots.

“I heard a story the other day. I can’t quite re­mem­ber it, but it was about a chap who snored and dis­turbed the neigh­bours, and it ended, ‘It was his ad­en­oids that ad­en­oid them.’ ”

aqua­plan­ing

aqua­plan­ing

look­ing bronzed

pre­par­at­ory

con­ver­sa­tion