Meet Jeeves, the world’s most famous valet and P.G. Wodehouse’s best known character. The name Jeeves has come to symbolise the epitome of efficient service to millions who’ve never even read Wodehouse. Among fans, he is spoken of with a reverence usually reserved for deities. And how many of us have wished for a Jeeves in our lives? But is this rosy view of Jeeves’ as Bertie Wooster’s domestic saviour justified, when so often it is Jeeves who contrives the situations from which Bertie must be rescued? Nor is his support lacking in self-interest. In Wodehouse’s idyllic world, is Jeeves more serpent than servant?
The story of Jeeves’ introduction to the Wooster home is told in ‘Jeeves Takes Charge’ (Carry On Jeeves). Jeeves enters Bertie’s employment after Bertie’s previous man, Meadowes, is caught pinching his socks.
I was reluctantly compelled to hand the misguided blighter the mitten and go to London to ask the registry office to dig up another specimen for my approval. They sent me Jeeves.
Jeeves enters in style, his almost supernatural powers evident from the first.
…he floated noiselessly through the doorway like a healing zephyr. That impressed me from the start. Meadowes had had flat feet and used to clump. This fellow didn’t seem to have any feet at all. He just streamed in.
Jeeves’ first act is to mix Bertie a hangover remedy that instantly transforms his new employer from a weakened state, winning his approval. A mere page after his arrival however, Bertie notices ‘…a kind of rummy something about his manner’ when Bertie announces he is engaged to Lady Florence Craye. The page after that, Jeeves conveys his disapproval of Bertie’s check suit.
Again there was that kind of rummy something in his manner. It was the way he said it, don’t you know. He didn’t like the suit. I pulled myself together to assert myself. Something seemed to tell me that, unless I was jolly careful and nipped this lad in the bud, he would be starting to boss me. He had the aspect of a distinctly resolute blighter.
Bertie tells us Florence Craye is ‘…a dear girl, and, seen sideways, most awfully good-looking; but if she had a fault it was a tendency to be a bit imperious with the domestic staff.’ Florence orders Bertie to destroy his Uncle Willoughby’s memoirs, which contain some rather fruity stories about her father, before they reach his publisher. Bertie pinches the manuscript and asks Jeeves to dispose of the remains, but Jeeves posts it to the publisher. When Florence cancels their engagement, Bertie is appalled to discover Jeeves’ presumptuous interference in his affairs and sacks him.
Jeeves slips off the mask of deference and explains his motives:
“As I am no longer in your employment, sir, I can speak freely without appearing to take a liberty. In my opinion you and Lady Florence were quite unsuitably matched.”
He speaks at length of Florence’s bad temper, her reputation in the servants’ hall, and her plans for Bertie’s education — having started him on Types of Ethical Theory, she was preparing to introduce him to Nietzsche.
“…You would not enjoy Nietzsche, sir. He is fundamentally unsound.”
On reflection, Bertie sees that he is well out of the engagement, and we feel relieved for him. But he reinstates Jeeves without pausing to question Jeeves’ methods or motives. It is certainly in Jeeves’ interests to remove Lady Florence as a dominating force in Bertie’s life (as he does with Bertie’s later love-interests). Even if we feel Jeeves’ motives are sound, his underhanded methods are not. To interfere in the love-life of a friend is a moral grey-area, but as a new employee it definitely crosses the line.
Poor Bertie is too preoccupied with his lucky escape from Florence Craye, and hailing Jeeves as his saviour, to appreciate that he may have succumbed to an equally dominant force in Jeeves.
“Oh, Jeeves,” I said; “about that check suit.”
“Is it really a frost?”
“A trifle too bizarre, sir, in my opinion.”
“But lots of fellows have asked me who my tailor is.”
“Doubtless in order to avoid him, sir.”
“He’s supposed to be one of the best men in London.”
“I am saying nothing against his moral character, sir.”
I hesitated a bit. I had a feeling that I was passing into this chappie’s clutches and that if I gave in now I should become just like poor old Aubrey Fothergill, unable to call my soul my own. On the other hand, this was obviously a cove of rare intelligence, and it would be a comfort in lots of ways to have him doing the thinking for me. I made up my mind.
“All right, Jeeves,” I said. “You know! Give the bally thing away to somebody!”
He looked at me like a father gazing tenderly at the wayward child.
“Thank you, sir. I gave it to the under-gardener last night. A little more tea, sir?”
And so, like the young Dorian Grey, our hero Wooster makes his pact. If this was the first installment in a sci-fi serial, we would have sufficient clues to mistrust Jeeves’ and gnash our teeth between episodes in fear for Bertie’s safety. But somehow we do not. We too are under Jeeves’ spell. Snake or saviour? It’s too soon to tell.
This delightful four-part series from the Inimitable Ashokbhatia explores the ups and downs of married life for Bingo Little and Rosie M Banks — one of my favourite Wodehouse couples. It’s always a pleasure to read Mr Bhatia’s stuff, but he’s really excelled himself this time. Enjoy!
Originally posted on ashokbhatia:
Present tense, future perfect
Many of us, the residents of Plumsville, are familiar with eligible bachelors and spinsters who dot its magnificent landscape. Their attempts at attracting each other, as well as their romantic rifts, keep us glued to many a narrative. Incurable optimists that we are, we believe that once they have tied the knot, they would live happily ever after. Their present may be tense, but their future would surely be perfect.
But life has this innate tendency to keep them baffled. The harsh slings and arrows of Fate continue to torment them with equal ferocity even after they have sauntered down the aisle with their soul mates and we, the gullible readers, have mistakenly decided to breathe easy.
To PG Wodehouse’s credit, he etches out the struggles of married couples with as much aplomb as he does those of bachelors and spinsters in his narratives.
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During the recent bout of UK election campaigning, I have regrettably observed the name of Wodehouse lugged into political debate on Twitter by people with strange ideas about Wodehouse (a man whose family could not afford to send him to University) as some sort of establishment figure representing wealth, privilege and the ‘old boys’ network. I have no wish to prolong the life of ill-informed ‘tweets’ by sharing them here, but certain remarks were still rankling somewhere in the dungeon I like to call my mind, when I read the following passage in The Pothunters.
Barrett stood at the window of his study with his hands in his pockets, looking thoughtfully at the football field. Now and then he whistled. That was to show that he was very much at his ease. He whistled a popular melody of the day three times as slowly as its talented composer had originally intended it to be whistled, and in a strange minor key. Some people, when offended, invariably whistle in this manner, and these are just the people with whom, if you happen to share a study with them, it is rash to have differences of opinion. Reade, who was deep in a book — though not so deep as he would have liked the casual observer to fancy him to be — would have given much to stop Barrett’s musical experiments.
The young Wodehouse astutely paints such interactions between schoolboys with both humour and a dash of insight that still strikes a chord, more than a century after publication. The passage continues:
To ask him to stop in so many words was, of course, impossible. Offended dignity must draw the line somewhere. That is one of the curious results of a polite education. When two gentlemen of Hoxton or the Borough have a misunderstanding, they address one another with even more freedom than is their usual custom. When one member of a public school falls out with another member, his politeness in dealing with him becomes so Chesterfieldian, that one cannot help being afraid that he will sustain a strain from which he will never recover.
There was little evidence of this public school ‘code of conduct’ in the televised spat between Boris Johnson and Ed Miliband on the Andrew Marr Show. While their conversation (if that’s what the various buffering noises indeed were) may not inspire the concerned citizen with hope for the future, it sparked my interest as a Wodehouse reader when argument shifted to their shared school days. I provide a rough transcript (minus the buffering noises):
BORIS: Not only did we go to the same University, we went to the same Primary School, a fact… you won’t hear Ed Milliband admitting very often.
ED: Not the same secondary school.
The episode reminded me of the altercation between Rev. Stanley Brandon and his bishop in ‘Mulliner’s Buck-U-Uppo’.
‘Who ever told you you were an authority on chasubles?’ demanded the vicar.
‘That’s all right who told me,’ rejoined the bishop.
‘I don’t believe you know what a chasuble is.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Well, what is it, then?’
‘It’s a circular cloak hanging from the shoulders, elabroately embroidered with a pattern and with orphreys. And you can argue as much as you like, young Pieface, but you can’t get away from the fact that there are too many orphreys on yours. And what I’m telling you is that you’ve jolly well got to switch off a few of these orphreys or you’ll get it in the neck.’
The vicar’s eyes glittered furiously.
‘Is that so?’ he said. ‘Well, I just won’t, so there! And it’s like your cheek coming here and trying to high-hat me. You seem to have forgotten that I knew you when you were an inky-faced kid at school, and that, if I liked, I could tell the world one or two things about you which would probably amuse it.’
‘My past is an open book.’
‘Is it?’ The vicar laughed malevolently. ‘Who put the white mouse in the French master’s desk?’
Open rifts between old boys are rare in Wodehouse. In the above case, the young curate Augustine Mulliner saves the day. Under the influence of strong tonic, he intervenes to remind the old fools of their shared bond:
‘…But what,’ said Augustine, soothingly, ‘are a few orphreys between friends? Reflect! You and our worthy vicar here were at school together. You are bound by the sacred ties of the old Alma Mater. With him you sported on the green. With him you shared a crib and threw inked darts in the hour supposed to be devoted to the study of French. Do these things mean nothing to you? Do these memories touch no chord?’ He turned appealingly from one to the other. ‘Vicar! Bish!’
The vicar had moved away and was wiping his eyes. The bishop fumbled for a pocket-handkerchief. There was a silence.
‘Sorry, Pieface,’ said the bishop, in a choking voice.
‘Shouldn’t have spoken as I did, Boko,’ mumbled the vicar.
These ‘sacred ties’ of the old school crop up often in Wodehouse — it’s a fantastic comic plot device. When a chap encounters another chap sporting the old school tie, he feels both a sense of camaraderie and the pull of obligation. Even if the other fellow is a stranger, the well bred public school gentlemen cannot refuse another old-boy lunch or the loan of a fiver.
Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge’s whole mode of existence depends upon this code. In ‘A Bit of Luck for Mabel’ (in Eggs, Beans and Crumpets) Ukridge touches old school-fellow George Tupper for a fiver on page 136 of the Penguin edition (for the price of admission to Ascot) and again on page 137 for a new ‘topper’.
For a man like me, Corky, may be down, but he is never out. So swift were my mental processes that the time that elapsed between the sight of that ruined hat and my decision to pop round to the Foreign Office and touch George Tupper for another fiver was not more than fifty seconds. It is in the crises of life that brains really tell.
The Ukridge stories amuse us with his outrageous personal abuses of the ‘old boys’ network, which his former school-fellows accept under the pressure of his forcefully engaging personality. He pinches their clothes, and extracts their surplus funds on the flimsiest pretexts.
‘This suit? — this shabby, worn out suit? — you don’t really mean to stand there and tell me that you actually wanted this ragged, seedy, battered old suit? Why, upon my honest Sam, when I came upon it while rummaging through your belongings yesterday, I thought it was just something you had discarded years ago and forgotten to give to the deserving poor.’
I spoke my mind. Any unbiased judge would have admitted that I had cause for warmth. Spring, coming to London in a burst of golden sunshine, was calling imperiously to all young men to rejoice in their youth, to put on their new herringbone-pattern lounge suits and go out and give the populace an eyeful; and this I had been prevented from doing by the fact that my new suit had mysteriously disappeared.
After a separation of twenty-four hours, I had met it in Piccadilly with Ukridge inside it.
(Ukridge and the Old Stepper)
Aside from being swindled themselves, Ukridge’s friends are often drawn-in to his schemes to swindle and defraud the unsuspecting public, even his own family, in the pursuit of financial gain. The evidence suggests Wodehouse’s Ukridge was inspired by one particular fellow (see N.T.P Murphy’s Wodehouse Miscellany for details), but if Ukridge represents a ‘type’ amongst former public-school fellows, it may explain why our more expensively-educated politicians hold such warped ideas about poverty.
Readers less familiar with Ukridge (you have a treat in store) will recognise the ‘code’ of standing by one’s former school-fellows from the adventures of Bertie Wooster. Bertie is frequently embroiled against his better judgement in dubious schemes at the behest of ‘old boys’ like Bingo Little, Tuppy Glossop and Gussie Fink-Nottle. Bertie’s loyalty makes him prey to manipulation by less honourable schoolboys, allowing Wodehouse to place him in all manner of comically unpleasant situations for our amusement.
That Wodehouse’s name has become associated with the privileged ‘old boys network’ is perhaps understandable — I know of no other writer who has used the (exaggerated) bonds of the ‘old school’ to such an extent. Wodehouse also remained devoted to his own school, Dulwich, throughout his long life. What I cannot fathom is the sneering way in which Wodehouse’s name is used, as if the attributed association with Wodehouse is censure in itself. This cannot be on account of the scandalous Ukridge, Wodehouse’s least known central character, whose morally dubious schemes always fail. Nor is there any suggestion that Wodehouse himself was ever ingratiated in the sort of old-boy ‘I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine’ network that the voting public rightly objects to (self included).
People from all walks of life have laughed at Wodehouse’s old boys, as we are unable to laugh at our politicians, because the joke is always on them. Not us! Wodehouse reflected humanity at its most ridiculous. He gave us only a handful of political candidates, most notably: Sir Roderick Spode and his nationalist Black Shorts gang; the morally dubious Conservative and Unionist candidate Sir Gregory Parlsoe, Bart; and Comrade Bingo’s revolutionary pals, the Heralds of the Red Dawn. All are equally silly in Wodehouse’s world, as indeed they are in ours.
Wodehouse was not a political or social commentator, and any ‘messages’ we take from his work about the ‘old boys network’ or politics are likely to be ours, not his. Some Wodehouse readers feel his stuff romanticises wealth and privilege. Others, like myself and George Orwell, find more egalitarian values to admire. Returning to The Pothunters for an example, when one of the richest boys in the school is robbed of a few pounds, he writes:
Adamson was in the same House as Jackson, and had talked of nothing else throughout the whole of lunch. He was an abnormally wealthy individual, however, and it was generally felt, though he himself thought otherwise, that he could afford to lose some of the surplus.
Now this is the sort of Wodehouse spirit I wish to see in a candidate! Ironically, Ed and Boris were supposed to be discussing the issue of ‘Nom Dom’ status (which allows wealthy individuals to stash wealth offshore to avoid paying tax) when their conversation detoured onto educational matters.
My advice to political correspondents and tweeters looking for inspiration from Wodehouse is, instead of focusing on where candidates went to school, perhaps we should follow Comrade Psmith’s example and ask:
“Are you the Bully, the Pride of the School, or the Boy who is Led Astray and takes to Drink in Chapter Sixteen?”
(Psmith, in Mike and Psmith)
A treat from the desk of Victoria Madden at Moulders Lane. In my imagination, this is a perfect writing haven, and Victoria is sound on Wodehouse too. Enjoy!
Originally posted on Moulders Lane:
I recently found a series of fascinating interviews in The Paris Review, with half a century of famous writers discussing How They Wrote: a treasure trove of advice and inspiration for the aspiring author. The one that most struck a chord, though, was the interview with our beloved Plum in 1975 by Gerald Clarke.
Wodehouse returned to America in 1914, following earlier, brief visits – payment for his short stories being considerably more than that by KinGaCCouPoon” href=”#”>offered in England – and it was there that he found success in the musical comedies that would stylistically define the rest of his writing career. He’d first contributed a lyric to a London show in 1904, but his first substantial contribution, in 1914, had been a flop. Over in New York, Miss Springtime, his first outing with dream team Guy Bolton and Jerome Kern, was a success; a year later…
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‘What’s up with you today?’ he asked.
He could hardly have chosen a worse formula. The question has on most people precisely the same effect as that which the query, ‘Do you know where you lost it?’ has on one who is engaged in looking for mislaid property.
‘Nothing,’ said Reade. Probably at the same moment hundreds of other people were making the same reply, in the same tone of voice, to the same question.
I started reading The Pothunters yesterday. It’s a habit of mine, every so often, to set about re-reading the complete works of P.G. Wodehouse in order of publication, starting with The Pothunters (1902) — his first published novel. Invariably I get distracted from my purpose, somewhere between A Prefect’s Uncle and Love Among the Chickens. Sometimes, it’s the distractions of life. ‘Life!’ as Douglas Adams’ paranoid android Marvin says — ‘Don’t talk to me about life.’
More often it is Wodehouse who distracts me. I pick up The Mating Season or Pigs Have Wings, or possibly Mulliner Nights, in search of a quotation and end up reading the whole thing. Life goes on, time passes, until one day I begin with The Pothunters all over again. Fortunately, it’s a dashed enjoyable book.
I picked it up yesterday in an odd sort of mood. Life has been a bit of strain lately and I’ve been identifying with the aforementioned Marvin more than ever.
‘The first ten million years were the worst,’ said Marvin, ‘and the second ten million years, they were the worst too. The third ten million years I didn’t enjoy at all. After that I went into a bit of a decline.’
Douglas Adams (The Restaurant at the End of the Universe)
So I turned to Wodehouse, as I often do, as a soothing balm in troubled times.The therapeutic power of great comic writing has long been undervalued by self-appointed literary elites, who look down their noses at ‘light’ fiction, and sneer at those who read for pleasure. Even sensible reviewers and book bloggers often struggle when it comes to reviewing Wodehouse, and other comic writing. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve seen Wodehouse novels ‘reviewed’ with a few sentences along the lines of — ‘I enjoyed it, but as a light comic novel, there isn’t much I can say about it.’ Others stick like glue to Stephen Fry’s view that ‘you don’t analyse such sunlit perfection.’
Is it any wonder that I have these odd moods? There is plenty to be gained from analysing Wodehouse. Why does his writing make us happy? What is is about his world and characters that appeal to us? Are there lessons we can take from his writing to make the world a better place? What can emerging writers learn from Wodehouse — so that his legacy extends to include future generations of writers who bring sunshine into our souls?
It’s all part of the Plumtopian vision — to inhabit a world where the healing balm of Wodehouse is liberally applied.
She melted quite perceptibly. She did not cease to look like a basilisk, but she began to look like a basilisk who has had a good lunch.
The Girl on the Boat
The beautiful spring weather we’ve been enjoying in Somerset, reminded me that it is nearly always spring or summer in Wodehouse’s world. Yesterday was a day so fine, it could have been written to order by Wodehouse himself.
It was a glorious morning of blue and gold, of fleecy clouds and insects droning in the sunshine. What the weather-bulletin announcer of the British Broadcasting Corporation, who can turn a phrase as well as the next man, had called the ridge of high pressure extending over the greater part of the United Kingdom south of the Shetland Isles still functioned unabated. Rabbits frisked in the hedgerows. Cows mused is the meadows. Water voles sported along the river-banks. And moving a step higher in the animal kingdom, the paying guests at Sir Buckstone Abbott’s country seat, Walsingford Hall in the county of Berkshire, were all up and about, taking the air and enjoying themselves according to their various tastes and dispositions.
You can read more about the four seasons of Wodehouse here.
Added to the meteorological delights of yesterday, Robert Webb, who plays Bertie Wooster in the current tour of Perfect Nonsense, appeared on BBC Radio 4 to help commemorate the completion of Everyman’s 15 year project to make the complete works of PG Wodehouse available — for the first time. A great day for Wodehouse fans indeed!
A fabulous tale of discovering Wodehouse from Bill De Herder.
Originally posted on Bill De Herder - Author Page:
P.G. Wodehouse became my hero years before I would be capable of reading any of his novels. Growing up in Goodrich, the local Public Broadcasting System tower was in my backyard. And we had no cable. We had a large antenna on the roof, but the little TV in my bedroom had bunny ears, and it pretty much only picked up PBS. It was hard not to pick up PBS. Even the radio would pick up audio of the backyard tower’s broadcasts. And on weekend nights, PBS would broadcast a lot of British television: Are You Being Served?, Keeping up Appearances, Poirot, and, my personal favorite, Jeeves and Wooster.
Jeeves and Wooster starred Stephen Fry (who is also an extremely talented writer) and Hugh Laurie (who wrote The Gun Seller, which I think is really good). Jeeves was Wooster’s valet, and the premise of the…
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‘…he [Barmy] would have been the first to agree that he had never been one of those brainy birds whose heads bulge out at the back. Some birds bulged and some birds didn’t, you had to face it, he would have said, and he was one of the birds who didn’t. At Eton everyone had called him Barmy. At Oxford everyone had called him Barmy. And even in the Drones Club, a place where the level of intellect is not high, it was as Barmy that he was habitually addressed.’
Barmy in Wonderland (1952)
Cyril “Barmy” Fotheringay-Phipps (pronounced Fungy), a member of Wodehouse’s famed Drones Club, stars in two stories of his own.
‘Tried in the Furnace’ is a short story from Young Men in Spats (1936 UK edition), and a great favourite of mine. Barmy and fellow Drone Pongo Twistleton-Twistleton retire to the country to rehearse their act for a Drones smoking-concert. When they both fall under the spell of Angelica Briscoe, it tests the bonds of friendship as well as the lengths to which a chap will go to prove his love. Angelica, daughter of the Rev P.P. Brisco, enlists Pongo’s help with the local School Treat, while Barmy is conscripted to oversee the annual village Mother’s outing:
“No sooner were they out of sight of the vicarage than they began to effervesce to an almost unbelievable extent . . . a very stout Mother in a pink bonnet picked off a passing cyclist with a well directed tomato, causing him to skid into a ditch. Upon which all sixteen Mothers laughed like fiends in hell . . .”
I have reread this episode half a dozen times and it never fails to bring on a case of hysterics.
Barmy eventually finds love in America, in the 1952 novel Barmy in Wonderland (based on George S. Kaufman’s play ‘The Butter and Egg Man’). As the story opens, we learn the astonishing news that Barmy is gainfully employed as a hotel clerk, although his intellectual capabilities do not seem to have been improved by the experience.
‘Cyril Phipps was tall and willowy, a young Englishman of the type so common in the Drones Club, Dover Street London, an institution of which… he remained a member in good standing. His disposition was intensely amiable, his hair the colour of creamery butter and his face one of those open, engaging faces which arose the maternal instinct in women…’Barmy in Wonderland . But in the opinion of Barmy’s employer, J.G. Anderson, Barmy has ‘…an I.Q. somewhat lower than that of a backward clam – a clam, let us say, which had been dropped on its head when a baby…’
Barmy in Wonderland
Happily, Barmy manages to win the love of Eileen ‘Dinty’ Moore, a street-wise Irish-American dame who promises to add a much needed dash of common sense to the blood of the Fotheringay-Phipps. For more snippets from ‘Barmy in Wonderland’, have a look at my piece ‘Moments when one needs a drink’.
Ashokbhatia delights us once more. This piece is just the thing for those of us who need some joyous reading before we turn our attention, post Easter holiday, back to the rigours of life and work. Thank you, Ashokbhatia!
Originally posted on ashokbhatia:
Some residents of Plumsville may like to join me in recalling our pre-adolescence days. Our first ever encounter with Cupid’s arrows. The time when innocence slowly started giving way to half-baked romances of a transient nature. The neighborhood crush and the chance encounters. The classroom and the furtive glances. The one-sided affections. The attempts at showcasing gallantry and modesty. The unfulfilled desire to share tips on demystifying Romeo and Juliet. The relentless yearning for companionship. The possibility of a picnic where the presence of a certain person made our hearts go all of a twitter.
A more sinister restlessness crept in when we got infatuated with someone within the dark confines of a cinema hall. Posters of an upcoming movie featuring the adored person invariably got more attention than any text-book at hand. Sneaking off to a matinée, while giving a skip to the homework assigned, was also attempted…
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In approximately 25 minutes, I will be heading off to explore P.G. Wodehouse locations in Shropshire, on route to the wedding of a Wodehouse lover called Bill. To mark the occasion, I’d like to share my favourite ‘Wodehouse’ poem — presented as the work of Lancelot Mulliner in ‘Came the Dawn’. I wanted this to be read at my own wedding, but the celebrant bucked.
DARKLING (A Threnody)
By L. BASSINGTON MULLINER
(Copyright in all languages, including the Scandinavian)
Like a corpse’s withered hands,
Waving against the blacker sky:
Bitter like the tang of half-remembered sins;
Bats wheeling mournfully through the air,
And on the ground
And nameless creeping things;
And all around
I am a bat that wheels through the air of Fate;
I am a worm that wriggles in a swamp of Disillusionment ;
I am a despairing toad;
I have got dyspepsia.
from: Came the Dawn (Meet Mr Mulliner)