No, it’s not another blog.  It’s the book written in 1892 by the London brothers, George and Weedon Grossmith who

aspired in their youth to be a barrister and a portrait painter respectively, but … became professional comedians.

It’s also the perfect riposte to the Kindle and the iPad which I knew must exist somewhere.   A darling little book, gilt edges, monogrammed end papers, sketches by the author, sweet font with paragraph indents and a ruby red satin bookmark.

Isn’t it sweet?  It’s also the book that launched a thousand English characters, from Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced “Bou — kaaaay”, don’t you know?) to David Brent of The Office, courtesy of one Mr Charles Pooter, yes, he of “being Pooterish” and “so-and-so has a Pooterish character” and many other mysteries unsolved till now.

Poor old Pooter is like Bertie Wooster minus the money, with one or two extra brain cells. It’s those one or two extra that lead him astray on every page.  Friend of Cummings and Gowing (geddit?), husband of Carrie, head clerk for Mr Perkupp, Pooter spends his days standing on his dignity and being summarily dispossessed of it.

He complains of the junior clerks being late for work, and it’s on the first and only morning Pooter himself is late that Mr Perkupp descends.  He gets on a painting jag with red enamel paint (my Dad used to do similar with dark green) and paints everything in sight including the bath, with awful consequences when the hot water hits.  He mulls over his jokes in bed

I never was so immensely tickled by anything I had ever said before.

And plots his umbrage at the steady stream of imaginary slights received from friends, butchers’ boys, ironmongers, inanimate objects, newspapers and colleagues:

When it got dark I wrote to Cummings and Gowing (who neither called, for a wonder, perhaps they were ashamed of themselves) about yesterday’s adventure at the Cow and Hedge.  Afterwards made up my mind not to write yet.

In the latest entry he’s ordering a new pair of trousers at the tailor.

… told them not to cut them so loose over the boot; the last pair being so loose and also tight at the knee, looked like a sailor’s, and I heard Pitt, that objectionable youth at the office, call out ‘Hornpipe’ as I passed …

It’s all great fun and adorable, and of course, there’s a Pooter in all of us.  As the man himself would say,

Give me a Pooter over a com-pooter anyday!

*****