My secretary, the redoubtable Griselda Quarles, has expressed her editorial concern that our firm's newly-minted journal has dealt too much of late with the travails of its kindly proprietor.
GQ: I think our readers care more about our wares than your woes, Mr van H. Back to your regular duties. Officium te vocat.
When you say it in Latin, Ms Q, it's hard to say no. But in my defense, really, we do deal in odd objects and secret meanings, and those are most clearly recognized for what they are when your eyes are really open, which, given the sleepiness of the human people, happens rarely enough. Mostly when you're very joyful, very startled, very scared, or very heartbroken. It's all talking turkey.
GQ: Mm. Nevertheless, I think it behooves you to buck up. You may be heartbroken but we've got a business to run, and you've yet to say anything to our reading clientele about our newly arrived shipment of rare Molvanian turnip brandy, or the Nephite jade and copper sextant.
Really? We got the Nephite sextant? Who pulled that off?
GQ: Me. Leaving two dead pythons in my wake.
Ah, my indispensable Griselda, my Moneypenny, my Jeeves, I owe you more than I can say. As you wish, then. No more melancholy reflections on my mishaps for now. But I still think it makes for very useful backstory to our wares and...
GQ: Be that as it may. Swig this scotch. Shoulders back and chin up. I said up. Here, now sign this.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
You have finally found the woman for you! I admire her firmness (by that mean, she tells you what to do!) and her direction to swill scotch. Excellent. Bed her at once.
It would be both unprofessional and impossibly May-December, I'm afraid. The world is badly made.
Post a Comment