The trouble with Jamie is that she likes to think of herself as the Jeeves to my Wooster. While Jamie certainly has her moments of Jeevesian comptence, I am nothing like a Wooster, being neither rich, clueless, or romantically ill-starred. Or gutless. My grandparents were rich, once, but the family's fortunes have declined - indeed, if they hadn't, I would not be here at a public universiy scraping by on an assortment of scholrships and odd jobs, and I would not have met Jamie, and she would not now be trying to get me out of a fix that I wasn't even in. And wouldn't be; I am neither gutless nor clueless.
Jamie frets a lot, too. She has a tendency to twist her hands that, to my credit, I have never once slugged her for. And she shops exclusively at thirft stores - well, so do I, but she doesn't have to; there's something pitiful about it. By conventional standards Jamie is far more beautiful than I am or could ever hope to be.
Convential standards my foot; I have more panache. Which is why it is me attempting to adjust my stockings to let just that right tiny glimpse of thigh show beneath my skirt him, and why it is Jamie brushing my hair for the fifth time and muttering to herself the relevant minimum sentences for grand larceny in California. "Relax," I tell her for about the twentieth time. "I know what I'm doing and so do you. You won't even be in any physical danger."
She wrings her hands. "We really shouldn't be doing this at all," she says, but adds weakly, "but if you think it's for the best, I shaln't argue any longer."
Mike to my Psmith, I will grant.