The day's play

by A. A. Milne

DEAR CHARLES,—Are you coming up to town this month? If you do we will make a journey into Shepherd's Bush together, and see the Exhibition.

I am afraid I have been doing Shepherd's Bush an injustice all these years. John and I once arranged a system of seven hells, in which we put all the men we hated. Nobody known personally to either of us was eligible (so your name never came up, dear Charles), which meant that they had to be filled with people in the public eye. The seventh division contained two only: one a socialist, who is thought a good deal of—by himself, I mean; the other a novelist who only writes about superior people who drop their "g's." The punishment for this class was simple; perpetual life in an open boat on a choppy sea, smoking Virginian cigarettes—John's idea chiefly, he being a bad sailor. The doom decreed for the unfortunates in the fifth class—now I am coming to the point of this reminiscence—was more subtle: they had to live at Shepherd's Bush, and go to a musical comedy every afternoon.

There were four men in the fifth class. Three of them we need not bother about, but the latest arrival was a certain cleric who advertised a good deal. One day we met somebody who knew him well. We broke the sad news to him gently, and he was much distressed about it. He asked if there was any hope. We replied that if his friend turned over a new leaf, and kept his name out of the papers for a bit, he might in time be promoted into the fourth division—where, every day, you watched Sussex play Essex at Leyton and had mutton sandwiches for lunch. He was so glad to hear this that he made us promise to let him know when any such step was meditated. Accordingly, after a month of perfect quiet on the part of the reverend gentleman we sent his friend a telegram: "Bernard left Shepherd's Bush by the nine o'clock steamer this morning."

And now it looks as if the Bush were much more of a place than we thought.

Every week or so I have an inspiration; and I had one yesterday, when the thought struck me suddenly that it would be a good idea to buy some postcards. You get them at the post office—six stout ones for ninepence. Oh no, that can't be right—nine stout ones for sixpence. I shouldn't think a postcard would ever get too stout—not unpleasantly so, I mean; you hardly ever see an obese postcard. I don't believe I have used one of any dimensions for ten years; yet they are such handy things when you want to say "Right O" or don't quite know whether you are "very truly" or "sincerely." The postcard touch is hereditary. Some families have it, ours hasn't. But now it is going to begin. Tomorrow I buy as many stout ones for sixpence as they will give me.

Talking of buying croquet mallets and things—I went into a little tobacconist's a little while ago (What for? Guess), and while I was there a man came in and ordered a pipe, two ounces of bird's-eye, and a box of matches. I wanted to tell him that you really required a rubber pouch as well, and a little silver thing for pressing down the tobacco. It must want some nerve to start straight off like that, especially at his age—forty or so. I am about to play golf seriously, and I shall certainly get my clubs at different shops—a driver at the Stores, a putter in Piccadilly, a niblick (what's a niblick? Anyhow, I shall have several of them, because of the name)—and several niblicks in Fleet Street. It would be too absurd to buy a dozen assorted clubs, one ball, a jersey and a little red flag all at the same place.

Yes, I should love to come down and play cricket for Castle Bumpbrook, and many thanks for asking me. I don't make runs nowadays, Charles, but if you feel that the mere presence of a gentleman from Lunnon would inspire and, as it were, give tone to the side, then I am at your service. You do say "Lunnon" in the country, don't you, when you mean London? And you say "bain't" too. How jolly! "I bain't a bowler, zur"—and you pronounce the "b-o-w" as if it were a curtsey and not a cravat. "Put Oi——" It's no good. I can't keep it up. Put me in last and I'll make 3 not out, and that will bring me top of the averages. (If you divide 3 by 0 you get an awful lot, you know.) You have an average bat, I suppose? I like them rather light—or I would take the money, whichever would be more convenient.

I have just written myself a letter, pleasantly standoffish, but not haughty. The reason is that I have my doubts about the post office, so I am giving them a test. My address, as you have discovered, is an awkward one. There are nine distinct ways of getting it wrong, and most people try two or three of them. But the letters do get here eventually, after (I expect) a good deal of sickness on the part of the postman. What I am beginning to wonder now is whether a letter with the right address would arrive; I fancy that the chief of the detective department would suspect a trap, and send it somewhere else; and, as I am certain that I have never received one or two letters which I ought to have had, I am writing to myself to see.

It is a great art, that of writing nicely to yourself; to say enough, yet not too much. When John was getting engaged, he wrote to himself every day. Before he started doing this he used to spend hours sitting and wondering whether the postman had been. The few letters he had had from her came by the eight-thirty post. At eight-fifteen he began to look out; nothing happened. An awful quarter of an hour followed. Eight-thirty—no postman's knock; never mind, perhaps he's late. Eight-thirty-five—well, it is rather a busy time; besides he may have fallen down. Eight-forty—one ray of light left; he did come once, you remember, at eight-forty-two. Eight-forty-five—despair. A half-an-hour's agony, you observe, Charles. Then he thought of writing to himself in time for that delivery. The result was that he remained quite calm, knowing that the postman was bound to come. "Ah, there he is. Will there be a letter from her? Yes—no." You see? Your heart in your mouth for five seconds only.

I never saw any of these letters. But I should say that at the beginning they were sympathetic—"Buck up, it's all right"—or hopeful—"Never mind, she'll write to-morrow"; later on they would become cynical—"Done in the eye again. What on earth do you expect?"; and, finally, I expect, insulting—"You silly ass; chuck it." ... Then, of course, she wrote.