Speaking of the Brits, I'm reading another P.G. Wodehouse novel lately because I needed to be cheered up (remember, it was only last month I finished the R.O.T.K. re-read, and that's always depressing). It's working quite well. I find myself giggling constantly. Your excerpt for the day:
'A woman has the right to expect the man she is about to marry to regard their troth as a sacred obligation that shall keep him as pure as a young knight who has dedicated himself to the quest of the Holy Grail. And I find you in a public restaurant, dancing with a creature with yellow hair, upsetting waiters, and
staggering about with pats of butter all over you.'
Here a sense of injustice stung Lord Dawlish. It was true that after his regrettable collision with Heinrich, the waiter, he had discovered butter upon his person, but it was only one pat. Claire had spoken as if he had been festooned with butter.
Pretty much the whole thing is like that, as are all his books that I've seen so far. He is so delightful.
Oh, but he can't write American accents worth beans. I'll pick on that another time, maybe. Still, I love him to pieces.