Up The Workers, Jeeves.

It was with a heavy heart that I groped blindly for the bell and summoned Jeeves. He sashayed in, in that way of his.
“Morning, Jeeves.”
“Morning, Sir.”
With the formalities out of the way I could see that it was time to get down to business, to whit: the Wooster head (hammering therein).

“I say Jeeves, I rather think I’m in need of one of your restoratives.”
“Very good, sir,” he said, and sashayed out again.
I propped the old frame up on the pillows as best as I could, and tried to blink. Normally one finds it triflingly easy to blink, in fact I have often remarked to the chaps at the Drones how I seem to be able to do it without even thinking. This morning, however, it defeated me, sorry to say. Presently, however, Jeeves entered, magic elixir in hand.

Have you ever been struck by the number 10 bus from Basingstoke to Clapham whilst holding half a dozen eggs in one hand and a fruitbat in the other? Neither have I, but that’s about the only way one could possibly describe the effect of Jeeves’ tissue-restorer. In a trice, I was clear-headed and, happy to admit, blinking freely once more.

Refreshed, I turned my attention to the matters of the day.
“Tea, Jeeves,” I told the faithful retainer.
“Certainly sir.”
Once the herbal infusions had been gained, I realized that something was amiss.
“I say, Jeeves,” I said, as he was laying out my brown suit for the day’s perambulation, “was there a paper today?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
I was aghast.
“No paper?”
“No, sir.”
There was – and I believe this is the correct term – a pregnant pause.
 “A new age of social upheaval has begun, sir, in which heroes are made o’er the ramparts, and the cannon sounds the barking charnels of slaughter.”

“All sounds rather ghastly if you ask me. What do these ramparts have to do with my bally paper?”
I believe the revolution has rather led to an interruption in the media, for the time being.”
“Er, revolution, Jeeves?”
“Yes sir. The worker’s uprising, I believe the popular press has been calling it for some days now.”
“I see. Dashed inconvenient, what?”
“I believe, sir, with all due respect, that the working classes deem it more important that they have bread to eat than you have a paper to read.”

I eyed the man warily over the china rim of the teacup. “You’ve been reading Marx again, haven’t you?”
“Just as you say, sir.”
“I knew I should have gotten you that Spinosa for Christmas instead.”
“Indeed, sir.”
I sipped a moody cupful.
“I say, Jeeves,”
“Yes, sir?”
“This tea tastes very strongly of almonds.”
“Indeed, sir?”