The Best Medicine

One of the unexpected things about writing a blog (but, come to think of it, there wasn’t much I expected from writing a blog (well other than that I expected that very few people would actually read these musings), so I am not sure what it means to say that any particular thing was unexpected when if the reverse had happened it also would have been unexpected (and, come to think of it, is it a proper use of the word “unexpected’ to describe an event about which there were no prior expectations at all?  Does it make sense that the same word can mean “Something about which there were no expectations has occurred” and “The opposite of what was expected has occurred.”  Surely those two things merit two different words.) (And the preceding utterly useless parenthetical aside to a parenthetical aside is an example of why I expected that nobody would actually read these musings (but, people do read them (and, no, it isn’t just my family that reads them (in fact my wife and kids never read this blog, and my mother still has not discovered that it exists))))) is that (is what?  What do you mean, you have no idea what is going on in this sentence?) it is difficult to write a review of each P.G. Wodehouse novel I read.  I just read The Mating Season.  I’ve read it before.  But I had to get half-way through the book before I was certain I had read it before because one of the very many (very many) wonderful things about Wodehouse is that every single novel is the same.  And that remarkably pleasant feature makes it hard to review the novels.  The Mating Season is just like every other Jeeves and Wooster book—and every one of them is marvelously good, provides more insight into the human condition than almost every other book, and is hysterically funny. 

So, rather than attempt a review of the book (this way I can save the review of a Wodehouse book for the next Wodehouse book), I’ll relate an anecdote.  I was reading this book one night in the living room.  Clara was with me.  We read together often.  Since I was reading Wodehouse, I would periodically start laughing out loud.  Wodehouse is funny.  He makes me do that.  It annoys Clara.  Clara hates it when I read Wodehouse.  So, she told me to stop laughing.  I said I couldn’t; Wodehouse is funny.  She said that I should pretend I was in church.  I was puzzled.  I said that I’d laugh if I was reading this in church too.  Clara said that I should pretend I was reading it during the sermon.  I said I’d laugh then too.  She said I wouldn’t.  She said that if I was reading this book during the middle of a sermon, I wouldn’t laugh.  I noted that if in the middle of a sermon I pulled out a copy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel and started reading it while the pastor was preaching, then in the highly improbable event of doing exactly that, I would most certainly laugh out loud.  Clara insisted I would do no such thing.  I have been trying got figure out if I should find out which one of us is right.  Should I bring a copy of Wodehouse to church, and start reading it in the middle of a sermon just to see if I actually do laugh out loud?  And if I did end up laughing out loud, would the fact that I was performing a scientific experiment be enough to mollify my wife?