By P. G. Wodehouse
Along with his overbearing sister, woman Constance, and the ill-tempered Alaric, Duke of Dunstable, approximately to descend upon Blandings fortress, Lord Elmsworth calls in his brother, Sir Galahad Threepwood, for ethical aid. but if Dunstable indicates up with a arguable portrait of a nude lady, Blandings erupts in chaos. each eccentric visitor turns out to need the portray, and for extraordinarily varied reasons—Wilbur Trout since it seems like his ex-wife, and Lord Elmsworth simply because it's a ringer for his puppy pig! How on this planet will Gally variety this mess out?
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Extra resources for A Pelican at Blandings (Blandings Castle, Book 11)
Bizeet, bizeet, bizeet, his camera sang as he took three quick and ingeniously identical photographs of Deirdre and me in conversation. ” I persisted. “You take a kind of miniature surfboard and paddle out into the sea where you catch a big wave and ride it back to shore. It’s easy. ” I asked uneasily. “Oh, there’s hardly any sharks here. ” “Oh, ages,” Glenn said, considering. ” I squeaked. “At least. Sharks are way overrated as a danger,” Glenn added. “Way overrated. ” He returned to taking pictures.
Oh, there’s hardly any sharks here. ” “Oh, ages,” Glenn said, considering. ” I squeaked. “At least. Sharks are way overrated as a danger,” Glenn added. “Way overrated. ” He returned to taking pictures. ” “Underwater currents that run at an angle to the shore and sometimes carry people out to sea,” Deirdre explained. “But don’t worry. ” She smiled serenely, drained her cup, and reminded us that we needed to keep moving. THREE HOURS LATER, our other activities completed, we stood on a remote-seeming strand at a place called Freshwater Beach, near Manly.
My thinking is that there ought to be one person outside Australia who knows. But then Australia is such a difficult country to keep track of. On my first visit, some years ago, I passed the time on the long flight reading a history of Australian politics in the twentieth century, wherein I encountered the startling fact that in 1967 the prime minister, Harold Holt, was strolling along a beach in Victoria when he plunged into the surf and vanished. No trace of the poor man was ever seen again. This seemed doubly astounding to me—first that Australia could just lose a prime minister (I mean, come on) and second that news of this had never reached me.