Aunt Azalea complains that I let my robotic valet run my life. Well, what I say is: Why not? Says right on the box, he's smarter than Einstein, Aristotle, and that Stephen fellow — Fry, I believe — all rolled up together, and my position is, if you've got a brain like that, you'd be a dashed fool not to use it.

I call him Jeeves, after the bright Johnnie in that Wodehouse book.

It was my relatives that purchased Jeeves. The family agreed ages ago that I shouldn't be allowed out without a keeper, so they engaged Simmons. It turned out he had too nervous a disposition. I always say that if a bloke can't tolerate a banjolele another bloke plays in the bath, the first bloke ruddy well ought to make that clear before moving in, but I suppose one can't expect everyone to be considerate.

After Simmons did his runner, I had a few of my old pals in to celebrate — Plum, Dogsmeat, and young Bertie — and we'd done well by a round dozen of the best. That next morning, I was staring blearily at a bobby's helmet on my nightstand when Jeeves shimmered into being nearby.

"Something to clear the head, sir?" he enquired politely. Until then I'd thought him just another morning-after delusion, and he gave me quite a start by speaking. I tried to respond using syllables but failed.

"Very good, sir," he replied, and evaporated. I could hear him rattling about in the kitchen, and then he returned bearing something on a tray. I heard fizzing and smoke rolled off the glass, but anyone who's had a really dreadful hangover will know that just then death holds no terrors. I drank it off at a gulp.

I don't know if you've ever happened to swallow a tactical nuclear warhead in the process of detonating. If so, you'd recognize the sensation. However, once the mushroom cloud cleared and I could hear again, I could think more or less sensibly.

"You're hired!" I said. It was only afterward that I realized my new valet was of the mechanical persuasion, all shiny chrome and plastic face. I wasn't sure how best to bring it up; after all, it isn't the sort of topic one runs into in casual conversation. "I say, I've noticed you're a bit robotic," hardly flows trippingly off the tongue, as the fellow said.

But a gentleman has his pride. If he wasn't going to mention it, dashed if I would. And so matters stood, or would have, had I not again chanced to notice that unfortunate object on my nightstand.

"I say, there appears to be a bobby's helmet here," I mentioned, as one does, you know.

"Indeed. Yours, sir?"

I made the mistake of attempting wit. "Unless I joined during last night's party—"

"I could enquire, sir."

Well, I mean, really. What?

"I think not," was the best I could manage. "Just dispose of it, there's a good chap."

"Perhaps I should prepare breakfast and draw Sir a bath?"

That sounded a capitol idea and I said as much.

That's how I found myself champing toast in the tub when Dogsmeat burst in. "The old Bill's nabbed Bertie!" he cried, stealing my bacon and perching on the porcelain.

Now, I'm as generous as the next fellow and hospitable to a fault, but this seemed a bit much. I started to explain this, but Dogsmeat cut me off.

"Never mind that, old man. Get dressed and help me out with Bertie!"

"Oh, Jeeves," I called. He did his materialization trick again, rather to Dogsmeat's startlement.

"See to Mr. Phipps-Potter's breakfast needs in the dining room, will you, and fetch some more bacon. He appears to be choking on mine. Go with him, Dogsmeat, there's a good chap."

One must draw the line somewhere, and mine is dressing with an audience.

A minute later, Jeeves entered bearing bacon and rendered a timely assist with the old four-in-hand. "I took the liberty of enquiring about Bertie," he said.

"Mrrh frmlhw?" I asked through the bacon.

"Indeed, sir. It seems he's been apprehended on a charge of stealing a policeman's helmet, and, being unable to return it, faces a sentence of thirty days."

"Simple enough," I said. "Send it round to him via Dogsmeat."

Despite his plastic features, Jeeves somehow contrived to look pained. "Alas, sir, I had already disposed of it by the time Mr. Phipps-Potter arrived."

"Ah. Permanently, you mean?"

"Disintegrated, sir. I do apologize."

I waved that aside. "You were merely doing as instructed. No shame attaches. But the situation, as they say, remains."

"Indeed, sir."

"Well," I began, then, finding I had nothing else to say, picked up my banjolele and started strumming. There's not much that cheers a fellow up more than a bit of banjolele.

Jeeves evidently didn't have the same attitude. I don't know if you've ever seen a robot wince before. It's not for the faint of heart.

"I shall just plug myself in and recharge," he said, and did. A good thing, too, because otherwise he wouldn't have been free to bail us out later.

"We needed a bobby's helmet, you see, and the only way was to pinch another one," I found myself explaining to him.

"Very good, sir. Did it answer?"

"Well, we got young Bertie off, but now Dogsmeat and I are for it."

"You can explain that you already turned in the helmet," suggested Jeeves, and we did. Worked a treat; we were let off with a five pound fine and a warning not to do it again. Jeeves paid and we were free.

"I say, Jeeves?"

"Sir?"

"Where did you get the funds to pay our fines?"

His expression is painted on, but I could swear the corner of his mouth edged up a little. "I took the liberty of selling your banjolele, sir."

Well, I mean, really. What?

I sighed. Some sacrifices, one must make. "Right ho, Jeeves."

"Very good, sir."