Mister Wooster’s mood might best be described as sombre since once again becoming engaged to miss Honoria Glossop. He is constantly saying: ‘Erm... Jeeves...’ and when I ask: ‘Yes, sir?’ he looks distraught and says: ‘Oh... nothing, Jeeves.’ The wound appears to be festering.

'Jeeves?' 'Sir?' 'Oh... nothing, Jeeves' 'Very well, sir' 'Well actually, Jeeves...' 'Yes, sir?' 'Oh, never mind, Jeeves' 'Just so, sir' 'Err... Jeeves...' 'Sir?' 'Nothing, Jeeves' 'Indeed, sir' Experience tells me Mr Wooster may be in the soup once again.

Mr Wooster has been gifted a painting, but it is not to my taste. Too abstract. "Come now, Jeeves, one needs to stand back to appreciate it," he said. "Yes, sir," I agreed. "Preferably at a distance sufficient to test the optical clarity of an astronomical telescope."

With the onset of colder weather a problem has arisen requiring careful handling. Mr Wooster has acquired a bright red garment he’s calling a Puffer Jacket. Turbulent times on the near horizon if I am not mistaken.

“One needs to stand back to appreciate its appeal, Jeeves," said Mr Wooster, commenting on a new painting he purchased for the flat. "Indeed, sir. Perhaps a telescope and a distance of several hundred miles might help." Thankfully, my master does not 'get' irony.

A slice of life in the mansion flat. "Sorry to interrupt, Jeeves." "Not at all, sir." "Reading good old Spinoza, what?" "Indeed, sir." "Worked out whodunnit yet?" "Not yet, sir." "Likely the chap with the knife, eh?" "Possibly, sir." Mr Wooster is amiable but not bright.

Mr Wooster returned earlier from luncheon at his club with a new piece of sheet music. However, after three hours of him hammering at the piano, I fear I have lost any love I may have once had for the song “Sonny Boy”.

For any young gentlemen finding themselves in circumstances were it is necessary to ‘kidnap’ a canine . I recommended a liberal sprinkling of aniseed on the lower portion of the trousers. The odour is most attractive to the animal who will happily follow quietly #JeevesTips

What Monsieur Anatole would say regarding the 5-course tasting menu offered by the somewhat esoteric chef at banquet on #MasterChef heaven alone knows. “These is not proper foods, no by damn. Not in two millions years. I would not cooks this experiments for Mrs Travers.”

Mr Wooster, as is his wont on the day of the annual varsity aquatic contest, met Mr Little at a riverside hostelry in Chiswick. I am now preparing myself for an early morning trip to Bosher St to extricate him from yet another imbroglio #boatrace2023

“I say Jeeves, what are those dashed bright lights in the sky across the square?” “The #NorthernLights or to give them their scientific name, the #Auroraborealis ,sir.” “Thank heavens Jeeves. For an awful moment I feared I might have overdone it at the club this evening. What?”

Several boxes of lime-green and purple socks were delivered this morning when Mr Wooster was out walking. I returned them to sender with a note stating, "not known at this address". Clearly, a friend from his club ordered them as some kind of practical joke.

At breakfast Mr. Wooster sought my opinion on placing a small wager on a horse named Ocean Breeze. I advised against it as my sources tell me "the stable is not sanguine and the animal runs like a sheep with botts." "My advice, sir, is to place the money on Bluebottle," I said.

Looking spooked, Mr Wooster returned home shaking visibly. "Whisky & siphon, Jeeves, and tout de suite if you will." Yet, even after I brought him the fixings, he sat bolt upright in the armchair, gurgling incoherently with eyes darting all around. I diagnose another engagement.

“Why do policemen begin every conversation with ‘ho!’, Jeeves?” “I cannot say, sir.” “Well it’s dashed off-putting, what?” “If I may make a suggestion, sir. Refusing to be so obliging to friends and family in the matter of purloining objects, might ensure you hear it less often?”

As I watch events unfold in America, I am mindful it is not my place to express an opinion on things political. Therefore, perhaps suffice it to say, that for whatever reason, the corner of my mouth has adopted a slight upward aspect today.

Mr Wooster sought my advice in the matter of placing a wager on the horse, Sea Biscuit. I advised against such a course of action as my sources suggested: “The stable is not sanguine and the animal’s current form suggests it would struggle to win against a snail with lumbago.”

"You need to stand back to appreciate its appeal, Jeeves" said Mr Wooster, extolling the virtues of a new spot of art, recently purchased for the flat. "Indeed, sir. To my mind the further back the better." "Absolutely, Jeeves." Thankfully, my master does not 'get' irony.

Mr Wooster was finding lockdown quite stressful, so to alleviate his fear I presented him with a 20-piece jigsaw to attempt. That was two hours ago, and although I have heard several cries of anguish, I will look in soon to see how he’s progressing and help him complete his task.

Mr G. D’Arcy Cheesewright called at the flat seeking an urgent consultation with Mr Wooster. I do not normally jump to conclusions easily, but taking into account that Mr Cheesewright practically ground every single tooth to dust, then I am glad my master was not at home.

I hear several volumes of the Ganymede's book have gone missing again, with repeated attempts to contact Bingley failing. I must pick my moment to apprise Mr Wooster, as to all intents and purposes, and being the book's star turn, the news may cause him a degree of trepidation.