Take a chair

     And a moment late in came a bloke. Obviously not the Colonel, for Myrtle and the O.B.E. gave no sign of recognition. Then who? The man was a perfect stranger to me. However, I played the host.

    "Good afternoon," I said, affably.

    "Afternoon," said the bloke.

    "Take a chair," I said.

    "I'm going to take all the chairs," he said. "And the sofa, too. I'm from the Mammoth Furnishing Company, and the cheque for the deposit on this stuff has been returned Refer to Drawer."

    It is not too much to say, Corky, that I reeled. Yes, laddie, your old friend tottered and would have fallen had he not clutched at a chair. And, from the look in the bloke's eyes, it began to seem that my chances of clutching at that particular chair were likely to be very soon a thing of the past.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Just get it open!

     "Go on! What are you waiting for?" I fumbled at the handle.

    "I don't seem to be able to get the door open," I explained meekly.

    "Tchah!" said Miss Ukridge, swooping down. One of the rooted convictions of each member of the human race is that he or she is able without difficulty to open a door which has baffled their fellows. She took the handle and gave it a vigorous tug. The door creaked, gut remained unresponsive.

    "What's the matter with the thing?" exclaimed Mis Ukridge petulantly.

    "It's stuck."

    "I know it's stuck. Please do something at once. Good gracious, Mr. Corcoran, surely you are at least able to open a drawing-room door."

    It seemed, put in that tone of voice, a feat sufficiently modest for a man of good physique and fair general education; but I was reluctantly compelled to confess, after a few more experiments, that it was beyond my powers. This appeared to confirm my hostess in the opinion, long held by her, that I was about the most miserable worm that an inscrutable Providence had ever permitted to enter the world.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Thrown out on my ear again

    You know the position of affairs when I go to live with my Aunt Julia. She feeds me and buys me clothes, but for some reason best known to her own distorted mind it is impossible to induce her to part with a little ready cash. The consequence was that, falling in love with Mabel as I had done and needing a quid or two for current expenses, I had had to rely on my native ingenuity and resource. It was absolutely imperative that I should give the girl a few flowers and chocolates from time to time, and this runs into money. So, seeing a rather juicy clock doing nothing on the mantelpiece of the spare bedroom, I had sneaked it off under my coat and put it up the spout at the local pawnbroker's. And now, apparently, in some devious and underhanded manner she had discovered this.

    Well, it was no good arguing. When my Aunt Julia is standing over you with her sleeves rolled up preparatory to getting a grip on the scruff of your neck and the seat of your trousers, it has always been my experience that words are useless. The only thing to do is to drift away and trust to Time, the great healer. Some forty minutes later, therefore, a solitary figure might have been observed legging it to the station with a suitcase. I was out in the great world once more.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Get it over with!

 Of all the uncounted millions who in their time have listened to bands playing "Poet and Peasant," few can ever have listened with such a restless impatience as did Frederick Fitch-Fitch on this occasion. Time was flying. Every second was precious. At any moment disaster might befall. And the band went on playing as if it had taken on a life-job. It seemed to him an eternity before the final oom-pom-pa.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

He obviously wanted two girlfriends

     "Oh, Freddie!" she cried. "The worst has happened."

    Freddie gulped. "Rackstraw?"

    "Yes," said Annabel. "But how did you know about him?"

    "He came to me, bubbling over a good deal with veiled menaces and what not," explained Freddie. He frowned, and eyed her closely. "Why didn't you tell me you had been engaged to that bird?"

    "I didn't think you would be interested. It was just a passing girlish fancy."

    "You're sure? You didn't really love this blighted prestidigitator?"

    "No, no. I was dazzled for a while, as any girl might have been when he sawed me in half, but then you came along and I saw that I had been mistaken, and that you were the only man in the world for me."

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Invalidic arrogance

 For though few people are aware of it - so true is it that half the world does not know how the other half lives - there is no section of the community in which class-consciousness is so rampant as among invalids. The ancient Spartans, one gathers, were far more cordial towards their Helots, and the French aristocrat of pre-Revolution days tended to be a little stand-offish with his tenantry, but their attitude was almost back-slapping compared with that of - let us say - the man who has been out in Switzerland taking insulin for his diabetes towards one who is simply undergoing treatment from the village doctor for an ingrowing toenail. And this was particularly so, of course, in those places where invalids collect in gangs - Baden-Baden, for example, or Hot Springs, Virginia, or, as in Sir Aylmer's case, Droitgate Spa.

(from Eggs Beans and Crumpets, by Sir Pelham Wodehouse)

Why beetles?

 "A frown darkened her brow, and she kicked petulantly at a passing beetle." (from Eggs Beans and Crumpets)

We find expressions similar to this occasionally in the writings of Sir Pelham Wodehouse. This raises the question, Did the author carry a grudge against beetles? Had he had a particularly disturbing confrontation with one in his childhood? One wonders.