“Jeeves?”

Jeeves oozed in from the bedroom and looked over my shoulder.

“Do you need a hand, sir?”

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all, sir.”

Now, normally, when I rise from the foamy bathwater, like Venus from the sea, the pride of the Woosters is, well, a bit like the last balloon at the school treat. Deflated, I mean to say, wrinkled and pruney, but on this fine morning, my soldier was standing at attention, ready to march into Agincourt at the sound of the trumpets.

Ever obliging, Jeeves wrapped an oiled palm ‘round the whangee.

“Stroke or jerk, sir?”

“Jerk, Jeeves. I’ve got to meet Barmy at the club for luncheon.”

“Very well, sir.”

In about three deft tugs of a lamb’s tail, there was a plop in the bath sluice, and I could once more call my onion my own.

“Jeeves, I say, that new bath sponge? A Parisian import or something?”

“No, sir. I bought it from an itinerant salesman who stopped by the flat yesterday.”

“A bit stimulating, what?”

“You wish that I dispose of it, sir?”

“No,” I considered, “but let’s keep it for special occasions, the King’s birthday and Michaelmas Eve.”

“Very good, sir.”