It has been hot since Friday. Hot and bright. Glaringly bright. The kind of brightness that gives you a smirk and goes “Hah, don’t you wish you had your camera so you could capture the flowers, the clouds, the sunsets, the breath taking beauty of it all?” To scorn the glare and enjoy the sun I checked a volume of P.G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves stories out of the library. They are petty little works, I suppose, with none of the lasting importance of Shakespeare or  Pope, but they are amusing. And they have had a impact on us, you know. Though it is dying out, there is still the “Ask Jeeves” search engine to be traced back to that perfect essence of a gentleman’s man. There is charm in Wooster’s absurd slang, in Jeeves obvious superiority, in the insecurity of their bachelorhood. There is also a quaint sort of charm in the utter stupidity of all the characters, excluding Jeeves of course. Jeeves is rather like Sherlock Holmes. Your first impulse is to sourly wish a woman into his life to show him what’s what, but you come to your senses in time. Neither of these men could be themselves if they were not bachelors. Whatever makes a man go down that road, these two men have it in spades. Perhaps it is an unfortunately  accurate perception of their own superiority.