Chapter Text
22ND MAY
Well. Well, well, well. That is to say, well then. Readers, you assuredly know that all is not, in fact, well.
The twenties have proven to be quite a soup of a decade thus far, what? The tureen has offered up great steaming scoops of scandal, stress and stinginess, all floating in a gloopy broth of hand sanitiser. Even given Blighty's new-found (but perhaps ill-advised) freedoms, I feel that most chaps are still a bit too skittish to get their hopes up. Miss Rona has made the prudent among us downright paranoid. Recently, I have heard the less fat-headed of my fellow Drones lament that even in this post-booster vaccine era, some fresh fiasco is surely queued up on Fate's to-do list.
I just wish I had listened to them, rather than charging pell-mell into planning a wedding. That is to say, my own wedding. To one Reginald Mandeep Jeeves, the most beautiful and brilliant of men in known history - not to mention the most insufferable, intractable bloody groom-zilla I have ever had the misfortune to be affianced to. This feted wedding of ours, after a long engagement and a whopping wad of hefty holding deposits, may soon be called off. All thanks to a nosy blighter of a magistrate, a humourless blasted loony doctor, and those damned fish.
Not to mention about the hot water bottle. But that's just the cherry on top of the plague, I suppose.
I feel I am getting ahead of myself, and I do so hate to leave my readers lost in media res, scratching their onions and wondering what the devil is bedevilling old Betram W. W. Well, my night bus is not due for another fifty minutes. While I sit here shivering in deepest darkest Richmond, perhaps recounting the events which led up to my current consommé will pass the time.
For those who are new or casual acquaintances of this blog: my (soon-to-be-ex?) fiance, Reginald Mandeep Jeeves, is not only London's greatest solicitor, but surely the brainiest gent this side of the equator. When it comes to grey matter, he's got oodles of the stuff. Not to mention that he wouldn't look a whit out of place in a Paco Rabanne commerical. On the whole, he has proved to be a solid confidant and a most darling cuddle-puppy. If only he weren't such a dogmatic stick-in-the-mud.
It's a dashed shame, really. I had gotten down on bended knee during Christmas B.C. (Before COVID). And while the world descended into a mess of toilet paper riots, our shared lockdown in our little flat actually proved quite cozy. I would have been happy with a social distancing-friendly gathering of ten at a registry office. However, Reg was adamant that his dream wedding would be worth waiting out the pandemic for. Had I known that his demand for an elaborate ceremony and full sit-down dinner for a hundred of our nearest and dearest would lead us to the current grim circs, I would have tied him to a chair and organised a shotgun wedding over Zoom with the first unscrupulous celebrant I could find on Google.
As it so happens, lockdown was the time we chose to expand our family with the pitter-patter of little feet. If Reg and I do end up parting ways, I can't imagine what the custody battle will be like.
Our boy Vasily has Papa Reggie's beauty and Papa Bertie's innate klutziness. He is slowly learning not to trip over his own feet, but he's still managed to break three pieces of crockery this fortnight alone. I can't tell you what a nightmare his toilet training was.
His sister is much more graceful, clever like Reg and gifted with the sweetest voice that could ever grace your ears. The little lady chirps like a bird. Rather fitting that her name is Puccini, though I prefer 'Poochy' for short.
I know Fate has been in his most malevolent top form of late, but surely he would not be so exceedingly cruel as to rip my babies from their Papa Bertie's loving bosom? Even if they are fur-babies? Those cats have been the pippins of my eye.
Ah, I see the old N22 trundling up through the dark just now. I best hop on, the next one won't be til 4.30am. I shall continue my epic of engagement ennui once I'm back at the flat, and I have at least two hot sugary cuppas in me and a fur-baby on my lap. Pip-pip for now.