I have more than once opined on the uneven butling of my man, Finial Pádraig Horan, but, in extremis, he’s the very chap you want on side. Last night was a case-in-point. My cat’s eye cigar cutter has gone missing resulting in a postprandial crisis of profound proportion as you can imagine. The whole of New Bellevue House was in an uproar - maids wailing, underbutlers tut-tutting and gun dogs barking. Imagine if Julian Fellows got into the cooking sherry and slipped his lead. Finial worked through the night hunting the elusive cutter, which I purchased at James J Fox’s Cigar Shop, 19 St James’s, London, which open in 1787. Downstairs therein is a diminutive museum containing the proudest heirlooms, including vintage cigars (among them a box made in 1851 for the Great Exhibition), antique accessories, old photographs and a collection of memorabilia associated with illustrious customers, including Churchill, Oscar Wilde and numerous royals. This brings us, quite naturally, to the Conestoga wagon for reasons I now elucidate.
© 2024 John Oliver
Substack is the home for great culture