The CASE
OF THE MISSING
Alka seltzer.
Part 1.
April 2nd, 1980.
My dear Ouseph,
I write this in some pain.
Much to my surprise, yesterday morning, as I strolled around the practice greens, I bumped into one of our former colleagues from the St Antholin Undershaft Retirement Scheme project.
No, not Denis Zadosi (fortunately), but one Jean-Patois Wildeboare!
What are the chances, eh...?
Turns out old J-P is now knocking heads together and slapping backs at the Oathnell Distillery. He was in town for the weekend, and had apparently just popped in for a pot of peppermint tea.
Well, obviously, intrigued, I insisted on luncheon, so we sauntered down to the Benet Fink brasserie by the Exchange for ham and eggs.
The poor lamb has undergone a small degree of facial reconstruction since the incident at the bakery (which you may remember hearing about from Niamh's wedding), so he wasn't his usual ebullient self, but fortunately he's managed to retain his dry wit, to accompany his dry skin, and was in perky form. I'm not entirely sure how, but we managed 3 bottles of rioja over the course of the following few hours, nattering about everything... from the bonus he still owes you, to his faked death, to his brief relationship with that girl who presents the weather forecast, and more. Oh, and he still has your engraved pen, too.
It was an entertaining jaunt down memory lane, but I really don't remember much else about the rest of the day. We ended up in the Club, that much I do know, because I woke up on the floor behind the bar. Maurice made me a cafetiere, and explained that J-P had hot-footed it to some important meeting in Flutwick that he had completely forgotten about.
He's going to be around again in May, so I thought I might act as peacemaker for the two of you, and encourage a meeting.
That's if you're game?
He really is most dreadfully sorry, and wants to explain his actions to you over a jar, or several, and some hot broth.
Be careful though, he still drinks like a rotter!
Your thoughts, as ever, are welcome.
I trust you are well, and have hopefully now found your missing gardening gloves.
Right, now where's that Alka Seltzer? Urrggh, it must be here somewhere...
Very best,
Pitkin
The CASE
OF THE MISSING
Alka seltzer.
Part 2.
April 27th, 1980.
Dearest Pitkin,
Please do forgive the shameful delay in offering a response to your correspondence of April 2nd. I should like to say that there had been some pressing and unavoidable engagement that had kept me from sending word to you sooner, but, as it is, the last fortnight has been one of almost unalloyed leisure - reading, smoking, snoozing and experimenting with new recipes. I trust you take it as testimony to the high esteem in which I continue to hold you that I can be honest about this. I had thought about contriving some fable, but discussing the matter with Iain Laws last Thursday he advised me against it, citing the recriminations you directed towards Mordecai Szamuely when you discovered that he hadn't actually been a Blue Coat at all.
In the same spirit of candour, I feel I must inform you that I write this aboard a small passenger ferry en route to the Isle of Mann. The purpose of the trip must, alas, remain mysterious - at least for now. Let's just say that there may be one or two surprises at next month's BAFBA meet. Talking of which, I think we need to come up with some kind of "arrangement" in relation to the reemergence of J.P. Wildeboare. You must excuse my bluster, but I'm afraid I cannot feel quite the same surge of enthusiasm when I consider inviting him so fulsomely back into the fold. You and other members may feel that it's perfectly acceptable to resubmit oneself (after twelve years of shady obscurity) no questions asked - but I happen to believe in a little thing called the BAFBA regulations. Indeed, if anyone should feel sensitive to this it's JP himself, who, if memory serves me correctly, has no qualms about hiding behind legal jargon - particularly when backed into a corner.
I must say I'm surprised to hear that he's so keen to reestablish personal contact with me, though he's always been eccentric (surely I'm not alone in remembering his jingoistic posturing at the Cheadle Dog Rally in 1976?) The last time I saw him was during a recess from the tribunal at the Somerset Assizes Court in July 1977. Before we parted, he vigorously attempted to coerce me into a declaration of secrecy, though, as far as I was concerned, nothing that could be construed as even remotely clandestine had passed between us. I had resolved to write-off the said dues between us, so it will be interesting to see if he volunteers anything.
I am told we are nearing port, so shall have to cut this short. Before I do though, I must just share this with you. I came across it while looking through my father's papers the other day. It's from The Goncourt Journal, dated 18 July 1868, and seems to me to expound almost exactly the same sentiment as that which you expressed during our visit to Longleat last October:
There is a fundamental antagonism between tobacco and women. One diminishes the other. This is so true that sooner or later men in love with women stop smoking because they feel or imagine that tobacco has a deadening effect on sexual desire and the sexual act. The fact is that love is gross and material compared with the spirituality of a pipe.
As ever,
Joseph Ouseph.