Dapper Flashback

"Dreadful business, this unrelenting grey, wouldn't you agree, Alistair? One rather feels as though the sky has forgotten its primary function is to remain aloft and has decided, quite stubbornly, to settle directly upon the rhododendrons. It’s the sort of damp that manages to bypass the tweed entirely and lodge itself straight into one's marrow. I’d half a mind to summon the Bentley and flee to the coast, but I suspect the fog there is currently thick enough to be served with a dessert spoon."

"Oh, quite right, Barnaby, it is a most discourteous atmosphere. I stepped out for a moment to consult with the head gardener regarding the south lawn, and I felt as though I were inhaling a cold, sodden flannel. It’s remarkably unsporting of the elements; one can hardly appreciate the craftsmanship of a well-tailored brogue when the gravel path has been reduced to a consistency resembling a particularly thin porridge. I suppose we must simply retreat to the library and wait for the heavens to find some semblance of decorum."

"Indeed, the only sensible course of action. I believe I shall instruct Jennings to stoke the fire until it roars with a truly indignant fervor. There is a bottle of the '45 Highland single malt that has been practically crying out for a rainy afternoon such as this. Let the clouds weep as they may; we shall be quite fortified behind two inches of mahogany and a glass of something amber. It’s a pity about the polo match, of course, but there is a certain grim satisfaction in watching the downpour from the vantage point of a velvet armchair.

""A sterling plan, Barnaby, though I do fear for the topiary; the boxwood looks positively despondent under such a deluge. One rather misses those few days in July when the sun actually made a brief, albeit startled, appearance. Now, we are back to this perpetual state of 'mizzle'—that wretched hybrid of mist and drizzle that serves no purpose other than to ruin a perfectly good silk necktie. It’s the sort of weather that makes one contemplate whether the Empire was simply an elaborate excuse to find a decent spot of sunshine."

​"Spot on, Alistair, spot on. The British climate is nothing if not a character-building exercise in disappointment. Even the Labradors have staged a sort of silent protest by the AGA, refusing to budge for anything less than a prime cut of sirloin. Still, there is a silver lining to this gloom; it provides the ideal justification for avoiding that dreadful charity gala at the manor. One simply cannot be expected to navigate the driveway when it has transitioned into a minor tributary of the Thames, can one?"