Letting Loose One’s Heir

Our local sage, wit and bon viveur, Sir Stuarte Vivir has permitted his spare a solo jaunt around the back streets of Bath this very morn. He has debated whether to send his manservant on the young chaps trail in order to prevent him falling into mischief.

I remonstrated with Sir Stuarte that such a course of action would not be required. One must let ones heir a free reign to enjoy the temptations of the adult world at the earliest possible age. The local blacksmith happily sends his three year old up a chimney so that a turnip can be put upon his table, so should not a small chap with good blood be given the liberty to enjoy the good things that only a city can confer?

I happily recounted to Sir Stuarte my first experience of being let loose in the seedy enclaves of Bath. Within minutes, I managed to sniff out Miss Tinkle’s establishment. I had a rare old time and had experiences that still bring a smile to one’s face. The experience has put be in good stead ever since and set me on my way to enjoy a long night out without the need to fall into the gutter.

The Evils of Temperance

It is rare that I concern myself with the well being of others. However, I was unable to pass into a peaceful slumber last night such is my anxiety over Canon Coch’s future sanity.

It is well known that the Canon’s dedication to converting his flock to the ways of the Lord is somewhat haphazard. The chap can easily be sidetracked from his calling by a small flutter on the steeplechase, or by catching a fleeting glimpse of a pretty frock, or the sound of a claret bottle being uncorked.

His inattentiveness to his congregation has so far escaped censure from the Bishop. The Canon is adept at delegating tiresome tasks such as writing sermons or visiting the needy to his conscientious curate.

However, the Bishop has now declared that the Canon is simply not fulfilling his duties and is in danger of being defrocked unless he can prove that he is faithful to the Holy Sacrament. He has therefore ordered the Canon to abstain from the soup for a whole month.

Damn it all. This is sacrilegious behaviour from the Bishop. Does he not know the affect such an embargo shall have on the frail mind of the Canon. Without alcohol he can barely string a sentence together. How does the Bishop think the poor chap can ascend to the pulpit and impart his wisdom without a large glug of communal wine? Indeed without his delightful lady, Helena Saint-Even, he would not be able to raise his head from the pillow without her infamous morning tonic.

Of even greater concern, is who shall partner me on a Friday afternoon at The Club? Am I to follow the Canon’s example and pursue temperance for an interminable month. If this be the case, we shall stare at the table in silence, one of us shall occasionally interject with an inane comment of such tedium that we shall look longingly at the bar and wish for salvation from the ennui.

I therefore urge the Bishop to reconsider his edict. For the sake of the poor chaps sanity (and my own). It is inhumane. A whole month of abstinence will leave the poor chap a babbling wreck; knocking on the door of the sanatorium pleading to be let in and be enrobed in a straight jacket.