I needed more Wimsey, so I am brushing all planned Christmas reading to the side and am currently giggling away at one of the worst undercover-Woosters ever:
"Bredon yawned. ‘I’ve had too much lunch. I don’t think anybody ought to work at half-past two in the afternoon. It’s unnatural.’
‘Everything’s unnatural in this job. Oh, my God! Here’s somebody with something on a tray! Go away! go a-way!’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Miss Parton, brightly, entering with six saucers filled with a grey and steaming mess. ‘But Mr Hankin says, will you please taste these samples of porridge and report upon them?’
‘My dear girl, look at the time!’
‘Yes, I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? They’re numbered A, B and C and here’s the questionnaire paper, and if you’ll let me have the spoons back I’ll get them washed for Mr Copley.’
‘I shall be sick,’ moaned Ingleby. ‘Who’s this? Peabody’s?’
‘Yes – they’re putting out a tinned porridge, “Piper Parritch”. No boiling, no stirring – only heat the tin. Look for the Piper on the label.’
‘Look here,’ said Ingleby, ‘run away and try it on Mr McAllister.’
‘I did, but his report isn’t printable. There’s sugar and salt and a jug of milk.’
‘What we suffer in the service of the public!’ Ingleby attacked the mess with a disgusted sniff and a languid spoon. Bredon solemnly rolled the portions upon his tongue, and detained Miss Parton.
‘Here, take this down while it’s fresh in my mind. Vintage A: Fine, full-bodied, sweet nutty flavour fully matured; a grand masculine porridge. Vintage B: extrasec, refined, delicate character, requiring only—’
Miss Parton emitted a delighted giggle, and Ingleby, who hated gigglers, fled."