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Wimsey drabble
May. 1st, 2009 10:38 amSauce for the Gander
‘Harriet,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, appearing in his wife’s bedroom in dressing gown and the war's last surviving pair of silk pyjamas, ‘Would you mind awfully if I slept in the other room tonight? Preferably with you, of course.’
‘I shouldn’t mind at all. But why?’
His lordship cast a rueful glance at the goose-feather bed – not Noakes’ woodwormed original, long since claimed by his creditors, but the sentimental replacement.
‘That blasted mattress! Of course, it might be palsied eld, or this morning’s unfortunate incident with somebody’s roller skate, but I think my back's done for.’
‘Harriet,’ said Lord Peter Wimsey, appearing in his wife’s bedroom in dressing gown and the war's last surviving pair of silk pyjamas, ‘Would you mind awfully if I slept in the other room tonight? Preferably with you, of course.’
‘I shouldn’t mind at all. But why?’
His lordship cast a rueful glance at the goose-feather bed – not Noakes’ woodwormed original, long since claimed by his creditors, but the sentimental replacement.
‘That blasted mattress! Of course, it might be palsied eld, or this morning’s unfortunate incident with somebody’s roller skate, but I think my back's done for.’