Bisby

Never was a footman like my footman Bisby. Why, Bisby's the last of a breed of servant the likes of which we'll see no more.

I remember once - it was during the war years, rationing and all, couldn't lay your hands on a decent ham sandwich - the cook was at her wits end trying to come up with new recipes involving caviar and fois gras, which was all that was left in the cellars. Well, besides the wine. Anyhow, Bisby, whose duties, of course, did not extend to the kitchen, took it upon himself to call upon his cousin, who happened to be groundskeeper at the Filchmont estate. and who had recently nabbed a poacher who had purloined a bevy of quail in the lower quadrant. The deal led to an outstanding partnership beneficial to all but those snotty Filchmonts. It was all timing with Bisby.

Like the time Bisby in '56 was filling in for Reginald, my valet, who was off burying his mum in Kent. Well, some occasion occurred that called for my formal attire, only Reginald, unbeknownst to us, had sent the entire contents of my armoire to laundress and tailor, leaving me with nary a stitch. Did Bisby panic? He did not. Bisby rang his brother, a lorry driver, who just the night before happened upon an abandoned shipment of the most "dapper of duds," as his brother phrased it. Another deal was struck and I was vestured superbly.

Ah, Bisby, Bisby. He's been in Wandsworth for the last thirty years. We really must visit him one day.