Lashings of ginger beer ?
One has recovered somewhat from ones recent incapacity due to raised blood pressure, caused no doubt by some damnable colonial attempting to buy Fortescue Towers and have the whole lot shipped lock, stock and Blenkinsop over to his theme park 'Ye Olde Merrye EnglandeWorlde' somewhere in the swamps. Of course, one saw the bounder off and gave him a damn good thrashing with a riding crop for his crimes against the Queens English and rather unpleasantly loud shirt and shorts combination after which one took up residence in the study with ones Elephant gun in case any other Yankees turned up and tried to make off with the summer house and Sir Percivals folly.
Of course this did ones blood pressure no good at all and ones quack in the village advised one to lay off the Port and take some rest. Infernal cheek, how can one lay off the Port ? Essential when ones chums from the regiment arrive for dinner. Can't be seen to be refusing it when passed. Make one look dashed silly if one has to turn round and say "Sorry old boy, sticking to the old Indian tonic water nowadays!". Look like one of those chaps who bats from the opposite end of the pavilion, rather like ones quack one thinks, can't seem to wait to get the old rubber gloves on, tell one to drop ones trousers and start fiddling about the nether regions.
Anyway, one did take his advice and took the mem' off for a spell at a rather marvellous establishment in Devon. Absolutely splendid, hot and cold running servants, afternoon tea, hotly contested games of Croquet on the lawn and a few rounds of golf with the Arch-Bishop (one rather wonders where he acquired his rather interesting turn of phrase as one does not usually expect a high ranking member of the church to come out with such salty epithets even when struck in the lower reaches by an errant five iron). Aided in ones recovery splendidly and being a rather select establishment one did not have to mix with the usual seaside rabble, beer bellies hanging over their football shorts, down on charabanc trips from their grim industrial towns in the north.
Naturally it brought back memories of ones youth, cycling the roads of Devon with ones chums, Blenkinsops father, Blenkinsop senior bringing up the rear with a hamper filled with scones, jam, clotted cream and lashings of ginger beer balanced across the handlebars of his old boneshaker. Sometimes he would even manage to catch us up before we had been forced to frequent some roadside cafe with its rosy cheeked landlady for our daily ginger beer and cream tea. Of course, him being 83 probably did not help.