|April 16, 2001||
Try this delicious receipt for the Lady Felicia's
This spicy concoction is perfect when served at tea with Lady Felicia's Crunchy Cattle Crisps. Bottle it in cunning glass jars decorated with crocheted doily lid-toppers and yours will be the most popular booth at the Ladies' Gentlemen's Gentlemen Aid Bazaar. Omit one cup of water from the mixture, and your chutney will be stiff enough to sculpt into lovely table centerpieces!
Dear Sir Charles,
I have been reading with great interest your advice to young marrieds. However, my Heathcliffe and myself have been married for nigh over two decades, and I can't get him to keep his hands off my buns.
I didn't mind it so much in the early years, even when we had company, but it's got to be a problem now. You see, when we were first married, Heathcliffe was a somewhat dinky lad, and I felt it my wifely duty to plump him up a bit whenever I could. Having learned the art of baking from my mum when I was but a small lass, I naturally made Heathcliffe plenty of fatty baked goods. He was especially fond of my hot cross buns. Through the years, he got plumper and plumper, and now he doesn't need my help to stay plump.
The doc says he's got to lay off the buns because of the cholesterol and all. Of course, by now I've got myself a little home baking business so I'll have a few quid for myself without having to ask Heathcliffe for money, and I'm pumping out my buns on a daily basis for paying customers.
Well, wouldn't you know, when my back is turned, Heathcliffe will pinch one of my buns for his own enjoyment. I keep telling him my buns are my own business, but he seems to think he can help himself whenever he pleases. I told him I was going to write to you for advice, but he says a rich bloke like you probably never pinched a bun in your life, so what would you know about his needs of the common man.
Tell me, Sir Charles, what's a poor woman to do to save her buns?
Baking in Basingstoke
Sir Charles replies:
Though it is true that one is a 'rich bloke,' one must confess that one has pinched many buns in one's life. One cannot help oneself. One is an inveterate bun-pincher.
One's nanny, in one's youth, had the plumpest, juiciest buns one knew. They were so firm, so round, so golden-tan, that one could scarcely resist reaching out and grabbing them. And oh, how she squealed, every time. "Hands off me buns now, Cholly, you're too young to go pinching them like that" she would say, with a secret wink.
Even this week, when one was visiting the lower depths of the house, the pretty kitchenmaid squealed as one walked behind her, crying, "'ands off me buns!" (Which was curious, as the baking had been put away for the day.) Then, in the Latin Vulgate that young Penelope Windsor-Smythe taught the staff (if one has not mentioned it, young Penelope is eighty-fourth in line for the throne of our great Empire), she added, "Oddingsae ervertpae!" Young Penelope later translated the phrase for one (as eighty-fourth in line for the throne, her mastery of tongues is exquisite) as "Too crusty for me!"
Thus, madam, one must conclude it is in the nature of the male to grab a handful of buns whenever it strikes his fancy. He hungers for it, madam, and relies upon the woman he married to give it to him. Not once a week, not twice a week, but whenever he fancies, even if it is three or four times a day. 'Tis the duty of a good wife, to surrender her buns thusly.
Anticipating the barrage of mail from the staff of 'Ms.' magazine, one remains,
Sorority Gal writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
I'm a poor college co-ed who's lost her fellowship. How was I supposed to know that once I was in Tri-Delt I was supposed to keep going to class? It wasn't in the college handbook!
Anyway, my problem isn't about the $20,000 per year I need for tuition and tight, tight, tight sweaters (it's only a state university in Minnesota, after all), because I know that a wealthy man like you wouldn't be interested in supporting a 19-year old blemish-free girl who looks like Tori Spelling except without the surgery. Really!
I have another question. Do you think our cheerleading outfits are too skimpy? I have enclosed for your pleasure a few photos. Take especial notice of the one where I'm doing the splits.
Oh, not that it'll matter anyway, once I get kicked out from my department for insufficient funds and have to go work at Dairy Queen instead of finishing my major in British History. I'm going to miss those parties we gals had in the sorority house, though . . . having pillow fights in our white bras and panties until the sprinkler system went off! Sigh.
Sir Charles replies:
One is not totally unaware of one's weaknesses. Oh no. It may surprise some of one's readers to read the confession that one has weaknesses at all. But one sighs deeply and admits to having, in the past, a soft heart for a young damsel in distress.
However, the correspondent has attempted a ruse so transparent that even oneself is not fooled by it. She thinks that by summoning images of nubile young girls bouncing about in their tight, white foundation garments made nearly transparent by mists of water that one will immediately write a cheque made out to the university in question. She thinks that one's better judgment will leave one, the moment one espies the 'cheerleading' costume in question. A costume comprised merely of a flimsy excuse of tartan plaid skirt and a bodice that leaves nothing to the imagination. A bodice so tight, so revealing, clinging to every mysterious curve, every tantalizing hint of womanhood, that one could imagine the smooth, silky feel of the flesh beneath it, flesh that goosepimples to a man's touch, flesh that begs to be stroked and . . . ah, where was one?
Well, 'Miss Gal,' one is here to inform you that the ruse will not work. One is a man, a baronet, by gum!, in complete possession of his faculties and reason. One is not ruled by carnal desires! One will not respond with the lustful instincts of a wolf on the prowl at the sight of these dozen eight by eleven glossy photographs . . . these photographs that kept one awake for most of the night previous, appalled at the egregious display of feminine flesh, outraged at the flagrant way in which the correspondent stretches her limbs in an athletic, unfeminine manner . . . so wide! So confident! So flexible and soft, yet with a smile that hints of pleasures uncounted within her sweet embraces . . . her hair the color of cornsilk, yet softer than wings of a thousand butterflies, and sweeter-smelling than a lilac in bloom. . . . ahem. No, one will not be taken in!
Quickly reaching for one's cheques, one remains,
Dear Sir Charles,
My neighbour, a young lady of twenty years, is overfond of exercise. Oh, most assuredly it does her good. Why, in less than a year she has gone from a rather chubby lass to a fetching young wench of ample proportions. One merely finds that, after watching her stretch, and relax, and stretch, and relax, and flex, and bend, and flex, and bend, and spread, and spread, and spread, and then to repetitively build the general area of her bosom, all while wearing a scanty tunic . . . well, after several hours of gazing out one's back window into her garden, where she performs these eye-catching gyrations, one finds that one has simply frittered the day away.
How can I solve this problem?
Distressed in Downlevy
Sir Charles replies:
One man's distraction is another man's boredom. That is, without further corroborative proof, one cannot adequately determine whether the young lady in question is genuinely the cause of the correspondent's mesmerization, or whether the correspondent is merely a gormless, randy old clot. Accordingly, if the correspondent will forward to oneself the address of the tunic-wearing seductress, one will spend a morning--two, if necessary--observing her and her flexible limbs, in order to draw a more accurate assessment of the true situation. Nay, do not thank one. One has a duty, in these matters.
Always obliged to help those in true nude--er, that is, need,