As I was travelling light at the weekend, the P.G. Wodehouse omnibus stayed behind and accordingly I’ve only managed to read a few chapters of Right Ho, Jeeves, by tonight’s Book Group meeting.
To be honest I might have found more time this week, if the initial attempts had captured my imagination more.
There are so many reasons why these books probably are ones I ‘should’ enjoy, but somehow I just can’t get through to the good stuff. The obstacle can be summed up in one word: posh.
Do you have to feel an affectionate warmth for the aristocracy to be able to appreciate these stories? Am I an unbearable inverted snob for not being able to get beyond the superficial trappings?
Who can tell – the fact remains I find myself unable to give a toss about old Bertie and without sympathy, the stories fail to ignite my interest.
This one will return to the bookshelf largely unread I’m afraid.
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