Boyling, you incredible philanderer!

How and where are you? My nerves are momentarily in shambles and I have had no other choice but to forgo this afternoon’s cricket game against the locals in order to dispatch to you the elegant calligraphy of my refined hand and customised ink. This morning I was awoken by a spastic Tacito, flapping his arms about my chambers and throwing the Corriere in my naked lap. At first I was irate, while the young lady beside me, equally exposed, was mostly flabbergasted and desperately tried to cover her naughty bits from the gaze of my monophonic manservant with whatever object she could find. This happened to be the petite monogrammed handkerchief I keep on my bedside table in case I awake in the middle of the night from a particularly emotionally riveting incubus and should find myself in need of it. (It comes in handy whenever I wake up with a sniffle as well.) Needless to say, I sent both Tacito and my hanky to the cleaners. However, not until I had perused the front page of the gazette did I understand his folly. There it was, in bold lettering, “YOUNG LORD IMPLICATED IN DUBLIN BROTHEL SCANDAL” (here translated from Italian, you understand) and before I regale you with my own exploits I pose the expected question: What on Earth were you up to over there?

Now, as for my life, there are two things I would like to tell you. First of all, that I am perfectly fine. Life is splendid and the drinks a-flowing. Secondly, that concurrently I am severely disillusioned by my presence here. While I live to adore the culture in which I have immersed myself, my greatest disappointment is directly – and solely – related to the indigenous population, a great part of its younger male specimens in particular.

Having come here, dreaming of learning the Italian art of courting, carrying the diary of esteemed libertine G. Casanova in my pocket at all times (a happy burden, Boyling!), and believing myself able to relate to them, and them to me, on the basis of what I dare say the two of us might have in common in terms of living up to this stereotype, I was appalled to find that this is a mere misconception, as far from the truth as any other.

These unkempt, greasy, half-breed oafs’ idea of courtship entails bluntly leaning into a woman’s way, or rather into her face, as to kiss her, regardless of whether she might be likewise inclined or not. I have even found that my presence will not deter the natives from brutally practicing the abovementioned ritual on the Lady whose arm is entwined in mine! Swine! Pardon my harsh language, Boyling, but their blatant lack of respect for women and, more importantly, for gentlemen is a tremendous shock to me. At these instances I was so shocked, in fact, that ere I had managed to produce a glove to challengingly slap across their faces, the perpetrators not only realised that my lady-friend was spoken for (which they did not seem to mind) but also that I was spoken for (by her), and promptly absconded. I no longer remember, Boyling. Were you and I the only ones to court young ladies in a gentlemanly manner? Are our virtues of an era long passed? Am I being naïve and is my disillusionment unjustified? What do you suggest I do?

Ever your friend,

L. T. Ponkleton

P.S.: I shall be paying a visit to the University of Stockholm in a couple of weeks’ time and hope to see you then. More about that over that horrendous telephonic gadget people insist on using nowadays.

P.S. 2: Codename TAT has now moved to The Jamés Estate in NewNose Harbour and I hear he clings to Lord Jamés’ arm like his life depended upon it. Also, Lord Jamés informed me that Mr. Giddy-Gaylord has recommenced his courtship and is once again sending him sonnets. I applaud the gesture. The locals could stand to learn a thing or two from young Bosie…