The Library | Write to Sir Charles | Cast of Characters | Credits | This Week

7 April, 1995

Although in general the tone of the letters this week has improved for the better, one finds that one still has one's detractors. Faugh, one cries to them, and dismisses them as one has done below. For one is certainly Above it all, and undoubtedly Sir Charles Wumpus writes: Dear Sir Charles: Last week you got that hurtful hurtful letter from my 'Toast Point' . . . I was wounded to the quick at his remarks! Please good sir, let me present MY side. I'm finally buying my dream home and can decorate it to my heart's content, but 'Toast Point' wants to move in and bring all his TACKY furniture and knick-knacks. I tried "accidentally" breaking one of his little statuette-things, but he threw a diva fit and made me buy another one! Me! In that horrible Hallmark store! How can I keep him happy and still keep my new home the pristine tasteful glory I deserve? Wumpus in Wabash Sir Charles replies: O one of tepid interest: One could listen to the pair of you argue until the dinner chimes ring (no earlier than eight by the clock in polite circles). What is obvious, however, is that you both deserve each other's company. One advises you both move into a cheap efficiency flat, eat from (I shudder to say the word) Tupperware, and watch 'Punky Brewster' reruns until your horrid little lives come to (we can but hope) an abrupt and whimpering end. With best wishes, one remains, Sir Charles Bewildered writes: Dear Sir Charles: I am writing to you in my time of trouble, for I adamantly hold to the strand of faith that you are the only one who might have the advice necessary to alleviate the dilemma I now find myself mixed up in. You see, as things often happen, my husband took it upon himself to invite some boys from the local country club over for a light dinner. Normally, this would be little to no trouble, but this case was much different. As it turns out, one of the gentlemen which my husband offered hospitality to turned out to be my former escort to my debutante ball! Now I hadn't seen dear Winston in upwards of twenty years, but when our eyes once again met, I believe that a spark was rekindled. I couldn't take my eyes off the man for hours, and when he helped me to wipe the spilled soup from my blouse . . . well . . . all that I might say is that the chowder wasn't the only hot item in our dining chamber! I find myself now faced with a terrible problem what with the re-emergence of dear Winston. Those eyes . . . those hands . . . those lips, and, most important . . . the RAT still owes me $50 for the horse drawn carriage ride which we took after the ball. And I believed he was short on cash . . . what a FOOL I was! So I need to know the proper way to bring the subject back up. Or should I perhaps just feed him some poisoned chocolate mousse? Bewildered in Boston Sir Charles replies: Distressed One: Although one is appalled by the base insistence you have placed upon things monetary, one can understand that a woman forced to marry below her station (as you must surely be, as I deduce by the fact your husband belongs to a country club and not, as your humble correspondent, a hunt club) must pay attention to such things. To address your problem, therefore, one has the following advice: Dame Etiquette demands you address the cad forthrightly, as a lady of your diminished station and dignity is wont to do. Demand back the filthy lucre, with interest, of course. If he refuses (and one feels certain he will, if he associates with that brute of a husband of yours), you may then poison him and you will have fulfilled your obligation to Etiquette and Good Manners. Although chocolate mousse would seem to be the method of delivery of choice, it would seem a terrible waste of good mousse. Doubly so when Big Macs are to be had so cheaply, and your declasse friend Winston would probably choke it down and not notice the difference. Hoping you will no longer refer to lips in a letter to a stranger, one remains, Sir Charles Penitent writes: Dear Sir Charles: While strolling through the galleries of the Louvre, I was rudely interrupted in my reverie by the frightfully loud voice of a self-appointed art guide. Whenever he stopped at a painting, he would loudly mention to his companion that so-and-so painted this in such-and-such a time. The crux of the matter, Sir Charles, is that he was mindwrenchingly wrong each time! It pained me to hear such beautiful creations being distorted by this Neanderthal! When he mistook the Rubens for a Rembrandt, I could take it no longer. I walked up to him and politely mentioned to his companion that it was indeed a Rembrandt. Then, I took a few minutes out of my afternoon to educate them on the other paintings which he had so recklessly misrepresented. I write to you Sir Charles, because I fear I felt a little smug after I had done this and now the guilt assails me. Please tell me, Sir, ought I to have flaunted my superior knowledge of art? Penitent in Paris Sir Charles replies: Madame: One is utterly disgusted by the tide of filth that floods the streets in this sad and diminished age. Furthermore, one is disappointed to learn that the backwash has apparently leaked into even the finest of cultural establishments. But feel no guilt, Noble Muse (for you have inspired your humble servant, Sir Charles himself)! Although the time you took to enlighten these boors is time wasted (for the lower classes will not learn, and are so dull that they respond only to strong sensations such a good horse-whipping), you have elicited one's admiration, and that, surely, is the greatest reward one can be granted this side of Paradise itself. Admiringly yours, Sir Charles Cheesed writes: Dear Sir Charles: Who the hell do you think you are? You stink!!!!!!!!!! Cheesed (Editor's note: No return address, but undoubtedly some execrable residence) Sir Charles replies: Dear Sirrah or Madame: As a lad, one was granted by one's parents, Sir Theodore and Lady Frederica (known as 'Teddy and Freddy' among the vulgar press, until the Mater and Pater bought them all), an education unsurpassed in all of history. One's tutors, recruited from universities across the world, unfailing drilled one in letters, including and especially the classics, in mathematics, in the use of globes (including those astronomical), in philosophy, and in the practical management of one's estate. One was presented at the tender age of nine, upon whence one became a favorite at court for many years until the unfortunate Gammonsford Incident. Even now, the royal family begs one's forgiveness in letter after tiresome letter, though one suspects they wish an association with one to lend that fallen family 'tone.' As if one would stoop that low. One has traveled; one has seen the world from camelback, from yachtside, and from the back seat of one's Rolls. One has learned languages both modern and ancient. Some claim that one has led a sheltered life, but one disagrees; one has learned enough of the vulgar patois known as modern English to offer the following well-meant and cheerful advice: Please do sod off. Hoping you have learned your lesson, one manfully remains Sir Charles Grandiose