Ponkleton, dear friend!

I have finally returned to the stillness of the manor from a seemingly endless series of debaucheries in Dublin. I just finished reading both of your two letters, which Cieco was so kind to put on my writing table (actually, he misplaced them on the floor right next to the writing table, but who can blame a half-blind man, really?). First off, what a remarkable thing! Lord Jamés married! I suppose this means I owe you some money, seeing that I countered your bet with the presumption that we would indeed see airborne pigs before Jamés ever carried one of those rings. However, I am not at all surprised to hear that Bosie is taking it hard. After all, when has Bosie ever not taken anything hard? I think it’s about time old Bosie settled down with one of those stout, short-haired women he seems to surround himself with.

And speaking of women, I completely agree that ladies are not courted as well these days as they used to be. We are a dying breed, you and I, and I am deeply ashamed of the depravity that can be observed amongst today’s young men. The gentleman is a vanishing phenomenon and I fear that the world we leave our children will be one bereft of taste and style. A man could drink himself to death for less…

But let’s not delve all too deep in such sombre thoughts. I must tell you of my trip to Dublin! I knew that the news story would find its way into the Corriere, and you will understand why very soon. You see, aside of taking strolls around Trinity College and having delightful meals with the city’s intellectuals, I did happen to end up in a brothel – against my will! I had just finished a rather tasteful pint of bitter at The Duke when I was suddenly intercepted by none other than my old rival, Humphrey Mabbitt!

Being a gentleman who would never insult his enemies by not offering him courtesies, I greeted Humphrey upon his arrival by withdrawing the bar stool from under his bottom. This proved to only to fuel his anger further…

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…so you see, the young lord in the Corriere headlines was not me but rather grumpy old Humphrey Mabbitt! And while everything seemed to solve itself in the end – for me in particular! – I do suspect the Italian journalist was very surprised when he found the nun’s robes inside his very own luggage!

Now, you must pardon me for not sharing any further thoughts, but I do have an appointment with a delightful lady and some canvas, even though I expect my hands to tend the lady more than the canvas.

Stay healthy and insultingly creative.

Toodles,

Lord Boyling

Boyling!

I have an appointment to beat the dastardly locals at a “friendly” game of cricket this afternoon, so I’m afraid I must keep this brief. (The little German inside of you will appreciate that last sentence, I’m sure.)

You will never believe what has happened. Yesterday Lord Jamés got married! We all knew that this day would come, but that it would arrive so soon makes one feel rather old, does it not? I am nowhere near even pondering to relinquish the liberties of bachelordom and I can scarcely imagine such a drastic change in my persona taking place any time soon. Lord Jamés, however, I am pleased to announce, is now married to the great love of his life - Lady Bea (now Lady Bea-Jamés, hyphenated) - and they have already begun enjoying the rest of their lives together.

This blissful undertaking has not been without its casualties, though. This morning I was awoken by a heartbroken Bosie. No, he did not summon me on the telephonic apparatus in my drawing-room, nor did he dispatch a messenger to break down my door. That’s right, he came here in person. Lord knows how young Giddy-Gaylord managed to transport his well-dressed self all the way to Venice in so short a time, but there he was, standing in a corner of my room and biting his manicured nails as though it would somehow numb the pain in his soul. I’m sure you can imagine my despair as I woke up and covered my naked private parts with the closest thing at hand (in this case, the equally naked young lady beside me). I cringe at the thought of him standing there. Who knows how long he had been there before I awoke?!

In any event, he confirmed what I already knew. Lord Jamés was no longer available, not even on the faintest of metaphysical plains. I really hate seeing Bosie in such a state. He even sobbed all through my morning cup of tea. Reading the paper, as I am prone to do during my breakfast, was nearly impossible with all the noises he was emitting. Don’t worry, Boyling. It pleases me to tell you that I at least caught this morning’s main headlines.

But how I digress… As you know, Bosie has been bombarding Lord Jamés with sonnets the past handful of years, much to the dismay of the Lord in question. I can now officially report that this compulsion has finally come to an end. In fact, Bosie was even reluctant to send his final sonnet to the County of NewNose, as he had spent all night writing it in the salty ink of his woes. Instead, he gave it to me and made me swear not to show it to anyone. Boyling, you must promise me not to tell him that I have attached a copy of it for your anxious eyes in this very envelope…

Now I must be off to demonstrate the true use of pitch and wickets.

In the meantime, let us rejoice for Lord and Lady Jamés! May they live happily ever after!

Write me back soon and tell me of your exploits.

Pip-Pip,

Ponkleton