Cleaning the grime of a London Particular from one's spats. Continental umbrella furling. The price of fish. The buttering of parsnips and the consequent lack of fine words. Defeating dastardly foes. The Isness Of Being.
...The fiendish harpie who chewed my head off in my Great Adventure 'A Severed Head' and then reduced me to a state of corporeal desuetude, scattering limbs and organs to the four corners of the multiverse. How annoying is that? Also anyone prepared to volunteer to replace Jock and Snowy as Bart Dickon sidekicks, as I'm a bit cheesed off with them (especially the Hibernian one). Also that dear sweet damsel, Angela Brasil, whom I met in the adventure called 'The Thunderer'. Charming young filly.
This cove Shostakovich may come up with something interesting in time, but the dance bands playing 'Flat Foot Floojie with a floy floy' and 'Tiger rag' take some beating. Other than that it's jolly old Scarlatti and the lieder of Schubert. Yes, I'm a real little avant gardist when it comes to tunes.
Can't see the kinema ever catching on meself. A game of rummy and a cup of cocoa before bed is my idea of entertainment before taking on the wily bosch. However, Buster Keaton and Mary Pickford are rather good. This Harold Lloyd seems to get himself out of a sticky situation hanging off a clock face high above 42nd Street. W.C. Fields is a sound cove, too.
I know not of what you speak.
John Buchan (complete works, except for the one about growing geraniums). P.G. Wodehouse (complete works). Dorothy L. Sayers (Lord Peter Wimsey stories).
Richard Hannay. Bertie Wooster. Bart Dickon (can one be one's own hero? - in the multiple realities of the Quantum, one sometimes finds oneself saying: 'Fancy seeing me here!"). Florence Nightingale.