The door to the suite opened and in walked Master, ever so gingerly and bent slightly double
"Jeeves, help. I have just eaten a turkey burger, a pizza, a plate of chips, 2 chocolate eclairs, a vanilla slice, & an ice cream. Any ideas why I feel ill?"
My eyes rolled upwards and I lay Master down on the bed and went to his Medicine Trunk to source Rennies and a cold compress, and took the defibrillator pads out just in case.
I let him be. The strain of running bad and playing worse was beginning to tell and now he had taken to comfort eating, which nevertheless made a nice change from comfort abstinence.
A couple of hours later he was back on his feet and he was at one with himself again on emails and checking over the blog I had written for him. I had found a folder on his laptop of old photos. Not password protected, unlike various other folders
The highlight was this
The eagle had clearly landed, and got pressed onto his breast pocket. I wondered what turns Master's life had taken from middle aged respectability, natural hair and the vestiges of fresh faced exuberance to the man I saw before me, a peroxide degenerate struggling with indigestion and HTC desire icons by the dozen
E-Mails clear, we were off to the Venetian again. A heady cocktail of Hold-Em, Omaha and Satellites was on the agenda. My role once more to tweet, stand at a respectful distance and keep Scotty77 from pestering him too much. The boy is keen, but keen can soon turn to arse-licking, as we were finding out.
Midway through the afternoon and things were going rather well. I had just tweeted that Master was up to 44,000 when he beckoned me over.
"Jeeves, I need a wee"
I looked at him. Forgive me dear reader, but my initial thought was that I did not get paid enough for this shit. Nevertheless, some veneers are trained into one, not to be breached
"Yes sir, well the rest room is that way sir" I pointed to the door underneath the giant plasma screen showing Donny and Marie Osmond in concert, to which master had been strangely transfixed for some time
"Can't leave the table Jeeves. Might miss a hand"
Ignoring the maxim that sometimes butlers should be like small children, seen but not heard, I blurted out
"You haven't played one for 53 minutes sir, it won't matter"
and was met by an icy glare, a point at the chip stack and a nod of defiance
"Jeeves, get me a bottle"
"Sir, you get a one round orbit penalty for stacking your chips wrong, what do you think the penalty will be for urinating at the table? You know what these Scottish TDs are like"
Master pondered, and evidently thought better of the bottle idea. Only to mutter
"Jeeves fetch the bag. Bottom of the medicine trunk. Be quick"
"Sir, yes sir"
I was not sure that the Venetian's rules would cover the fitting of a colostomy bag at the table but I did as I was asked
Returning to the table some fifteen minutes later with said bag and protuding pipes shrouded under a pillowcase for the sake of appearances I was told
"It's ok Jeeves, take it back. Couldn't wait. Missed a hand"
My relief was palpable, much like Master's bladder it seemed
Later that night, our thought sturned to the imminent arrival.
Never ones to see eye to eye, I would soon be tikay's cock to her tikay's hen. A role to which I would normally be most suited if she would only let me do my job, organise Master and not interfere.
I fear there is trouble ahead, if the 23 page e-mailed itinerary sent from Mother Hen's Osterley office is anything to go by. If she thinks I am going to dress up as a giant Chocolate eclair whilst carrying 18 changes of clothes for my Master in 100 degree heat whilst he does take after take of interminable links about the eating habits of tourists at Vegas buffets, to be shown at 3am to the insomniacs watching Channel 865, she has a rude awakening in store. Yet there it is in black and white, page 17, midday on the 6th July.
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