Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3826/Another Innocent Victim of the War
Sir,—Will you grant me the hospitality of your columns for the exposure of a grievance? The rest of the Press, which until recent months have welcomed my communications, seem to have become indifferent to matters affecting the health and comfort of the intellectual classes.
I am a professional man. For the past five-and-twenty years, with only one exception (the year following the Diamond Jubilee of the late Queen Victoria), I have fallen a victim during the first days of November to an attack of bronchial catarrh. In this distressing complaint, as you may be aware, an early symptom is a fit of sneezing, with other manifest discomfort which I need not here particularise.
For the past twenty-five years (with the one exception to which I have alluded) my first sneeze has been the signal for alarm among the women-folk of my household. My elder sister goes quietly upstairs for the bottle of ammoniated quinine; my younger sister explores the recesses of a cupboard for the piece of red flannel to which I have been accustomed; and Emily, the maid, without being instructed, puts the kettle on the gas- stove. Any lady visitor there may be in the house is ready with suggestions of alternative remedies, recalling numerous interesting and instructive examples. Light and nourishing dishes are prepared for my dinner; a hot-water bottle is placed in my bed; and in the bedroom a fire is lit. I retire to rest at 9.30, and, having disrobed and covered myself with an augmented supply of blankets, I am brought a glass of hot milk by one of my sisters, who gently places my dressing-gown round my shoulders while I drink it. Afterwards I lie down to sleep, with the bell-push within reach. A tap at the door wakes me next morning. "May I bring in a cup of tea, dear Septimus?" asks my other sister. I am implored to remain in bed for the day, and swift arrangements are made with the butcher, when he calls, to telephone a message to the office. Emily refrains from singing while washing up, and wears felt slippers during her duties about the house.
Such, Sir, has been the routine attending this practically annual event for the past five-and-twenty years. But I regret to inform you that a secret and sinister change has been at work in our domestic relations. The first sneeze of this year's attack took place last evening. My once attentive sisters, immersed in wool and flannel of all shades, took no notice; Miss Annistay, an old family friend, alone remarked upon my condition, stating that colds were very prevalent, and adding somewhat irrelevantly that it must be terrible in the trenches this weather. For dinner I had nothing more sustaining than our customary fare, and when I asked for hot milk at bedtime my sisters inquired, "Whatever for, Septimus?" I sought my chamber, only to find, on enquiry, that my dressing-gown, my extra blankets and my hot-water bottle had disappeared—gone, I understand, to a local hospital. And, far from remaining in bed to-day, I am writing this from my office, an exceedingly draughty apartment.
Yours cordially,
Septimus Coddell.
P.S.—Of course I thoroughly approve of the idea that we must all make sacrifices in time of war; but, as I tell my household, these sacrifices should be personal and not vicarious.