An account of Jeeves' trip to Las Vegas latterly in the service of Mr tikay.

Monday

Life has the strangest way of changing your plans when you least expect them. There I was, last night, all packed and ready for the taxi to McCarran. I must admit to a real sense of melancholy. Not because I was saying goodbye to Master Floppy any more, the grieving period for the loss of my noble employer had been mercifully short, and of course deep in my heart I knew he had made the right decision in dispensing with my services. No the source of my melancholy was the prospect of SW19 with Miss Floppina and her chums, an unappetising combination of equine features and mind numbing banality.

I decided, as I had three hours to kill, to venture into a casino and sample some of the atmosphere before I left. I walked into one establishment. All Roman Pillars, waitresses in togas and and the simultaneous sounds of 1,000s of slot machines assaulting my aural senses. Making doubly sure to by-pass the toga clad buxom goddesses I found myself in the card-room. In my younger days I partook of the odd rubber of bridge and cribbage, but poker had somehow passed me by. I could not tell you why, but I found myself registering with Alfonso, the Hispanic card-room manager, for something called a "$20 turbo Razz Sit and go". I was of course new to this game but that did not seem to matter as my "opponents" appeared to be so to.

With one exception. At the far end of the table was a British Man. blonde dyed hair, wrinkled features often breaking into broad smiles, a diminuitive stature that suggested to me likely seasonal employment as an elf at Santa's grotto and a blue shirt on emblazoned with the words "Sky Poker, expert analysis by fish for fish". The British man was kindly, and smart. He was able to not only help the beginners with their Razz games but simultaneously fleece them of their holiday cash. After said fleecing, kindly old man was asked for a few autographs, and the holidaymakers departed seemingly happy and unaware that they had been, to use working class parlance, "mugged".

I heard one thick set grey haired lady from Portland as she left the table for her third dinner of the night

"Jeez the British are so nice. What a lovely man. Isn't it great the British institutions let their inmates out for holidays in Vegas. In Oregon they'd be on death row!"

Soon the British man and I were, what I have come to learn as, "Heads Up". To this point I had studiously avoided the attentions of the Brit, and it was only now that he recognised me as a kindred spirit. After I had beaten him, he repeatedly told me how poor he was in the "mano e mano" form of the game as Alfonso calls it, and he invited me to the Lounge for tea and biscuits.

Some time later I had the most awful fright. We had just discussed our seven greatest world Bridges (four common choices out of seven), the joys of London routemasters and I had listened to how an establishment called DTD led the way in "DTD-Style chops" when I remembered my flight. In a panic I rose, said hurried goodbyes and rushed to get a taxi.

On arrival at Departures my heart sank. "Check-in closed" said the Neon sign. Next flight? Tuesday. I had another night in Vegas, the embarrassment tempered by the certainty now of missing Floppina and Wimbledon. I sent a "text message" to Floppy's father, made my apologies and returned to the Caesar's Palace.

I entered the room again. The elderly gentlemen had another set of blue haired grandmother's on his charming poker leash and I settled back into the lounge, and watched. Thirty minutes later he joined me. I explained, and then he made me the most incredible offer....

"Jeeves, I'm disorganised. I'm three months behind with my invoices, six months behind with my private messages, I haven't been to Tom's for ages, I've got three weeks in Vegas and I need help. Will you help me? Organise me? Tell me where to go and when? When I want to be alone looking at buildings and bird forums will you tell that Emma Crowe I'm unavailable? What do you think? I'm tikay by the way,pleased to meet you"

He offered me his wizened hand. The option was stark. A life of the equine set in the short term, and who knows what long term. Or a life serving this successful gentleman.

I spoke, my decision had not taken long "yes sir, I would be delighted to serve you"

and thus it became so

We booked a room for myself next to tikay's and I retired for the night.

In the morning I awoke early, keen to resume my duties. Slipped under my door was a hand-written note, scrawled on Sky Poker note-paper

It read as follows

Jeeves: Duties

1. I like tea not coffee, two sugars
2. Never serve me green food or any foreign rubbish
3. Daily ironing of all Sky Poker clothing.
4. Darn the insignia of "Sky Poker" into all items of my clothing so unmarked
5. Listen to my train, bridge, bus and bird stories
6. Plan my Scottish trip.
7. Take good photos of buildings.
8. Find House Keys, carry spare hotel room key
9. Plan Vegas trip for October with "close" friends.
10. Work out way to pull wool over Sky Poker's eyes for as long as possible.
11. On fourth reminder answer blonde related e-mails
12. Wait til fifth reminder if it's from TightEnd

The end

Off to Treausre Island now for the Breakfast rebuy comp, please see me in the Red Rock at mid-day for the Omaha turbo

xx

Oh the joy! Firm instructions, clearly given from a man clearly in control of his emotions and his needs.

I was back in business, and this time I would not spurn my opportunity for Manservant rehabilitiation.