I returned to the stable block before leaving for my club. I wanted to make it clear to Osborne that he was in charge of the clean-up after yesterday's events. He was moping around - claiming still to be sore from the incident with the gang-mower and the peacock. You can't give in to emotional blackmail. I told him to pull himself together and get on with it.
Fellows dropped me at the nearby railway station and I joined the tired, the flatulent, and the hung-over on the brief Monday morning journey to London. (Why do people insist on blowing out on curry on a Sunday night and then sharing the experience on the train the following morning? I must, again, impress upn the railway company that I would like my own coach re-instated rather than continuing to share these journeys with such uncouth travellers).
The club was quiet. I suppose many members have returned to the country for a Christmas break or gone abroad. It does mean that the gentle drone of snoring, the sibilance of whispered conversation, the creaking of leather as the members adjust their position, and distant tappity-tap of secretaries and their computers is much reduced and affords a more relaxed atmosphere.