Page 23 - The Gluckman Occasonal Number Nine

Bertie: So, the condemned man at least gets his last meal. All this
intellectual talk has made me hungry. Bring me my breakfast.

Jeeves: I’m sorry, sir. We’re quite out of victuals.

Bertie: But—but: how can that be?

Jeeves: Your preferred items are no longer available, sir. They were all
imported goods, and barely within your household allowance.

Bertie: Imported, Jeeves? My English breakfast?

Jeeves: The jam is made in Estrovia. The ham from Moldovakia.
Sausages from Gerolstein. Oranges grown and cheese produced in
South Panglia. Your “English” breakfast tea is, course, grown in
Karistan and transshipped via Zarkovia.

Bertie: All of it gone? Lock, stock and barrel?

Jeeves: I’m afraid that when cook left last night she took the
remainder of the larder with her as sustenance for her journey back
to her homeland, Andalasia.

Bertie: Well, then, how about whipping up a bowl of that oatmeal
you give me once a month to keep me regular?

Jeeves: Quite impossible, sir—at least until the Republic of Ireland
comes to a new agreement about trade and tariffs.

Bertie: This is too much, Jeeves! All frightfully un-British! I need a
drink. How about glass of that wine I like so much? You know, the
stuff the gang drinks at the Drones Club.

Jeeves: That, too, sir, used to come across the Channel.

Bertie: Have we no domestic vintage?

Jeeves: None, sir—unless you count the rather inferior half-bottle of
Chateau Thames Embankment used in cooking.

Bertie: I’ll hold my nose and drink it, Jeeves.