The Professor Peregrine Papers

Walking back from an agreeable lunch in that fine hostelry “The Trumpet and Monocycle”, the Professor and I engaged in a labyrinthine discussion on the merits of pickled eggs and Breton's use of the phrase “le jeu n'en vaut pas la chandelle” in the first Surrealist Manifesto.  We came to no firm conclusions.  This was due, in part, to my umbrella bursting into flames.

The Professor's reputation as a connoisseur of fine food is entirely justified and recently it was my privilege to accompany this refined gourmet to a delightful lunch at one of his favourite restaurants - Starvin' Stu's Snack Bar, located on the edge of the Wilmot's Pool Academicals' training ground. We feasted on a panoply of unfamiliar and enticing dishes as the waiter played selections from the works of Erik Satie on a xylophone.  The Professor graciously insisted that I should pay the grossly inflated bill. Truly, a red letter day. 

While assisting with the cataloguing of the Professor's extensive archive, I came across a photograph of a slice of toast. The Professor poured himself a small glass of Beaumont Cranfield Memorial Scrumpy Cider, settled into his favourite armchair and began to explain: “One summer many years ago, I found myself acting as the captain of a benighted team of academics and other ne'er-do-wells in a rain-shortened match at Whitchurch Canonicorum. Having won the toss, I decided to bat second. It was a thoroughgoing disaster.  At breakfast the next day, the face of W.G. Grace appeared on my toast as if to mock me. What you see before you is a photographic representation of that slice of toast. At least, I think it's W.G., although some have expressed the belief that it may, in fact, be Dame Edith Sitwell; herself a fine orthodox left-arm spinner.” The Professor stared wistfully into his empty glass and continued in a solemn tone, “I ate the toast with marmalade. It's what W.G....