A Really Good Time by Rudyard Kipling — Read

There are times when one wants to get into pyjamas and stretch and loll, and explain things generally. This is one of those times. It is impossible to stand at ease in London, and the inhabitants are so abominably egotistical that one cannot shout "I, I, I" for two minutes without another man joining in with "Me, too! " Which things are an allegory.[24]

The amusement began with a gentleman of infinite erudition offering to publish my autobiography. I was to write a string of legends -- he would publish them; and would I forward a cheque for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses? " To him I explained that I wanted five guinea cheques myself very much indeed, and that, emboldened by his letter, which gave me a very fair insight into his character, I was even then maturing _his_ autobiography, which I hoped to publish before long with illustrations, and would he forward a cheque for five guineas "to cover incidental expenses? " This brought me an eight-page compilation of contumely. He was grieved to find that he had been mistaken in my character, which he had believed was, at least, elevated. He begged me to remember that the first letter had been written in the strictest confidence, and that if I notated one tittle of the said "repository" he would unkennel the bloodhounds of the law and hunt me down. An autobiography on the lines that I had "so flippantly proposed" was libel without benefit of authorship, and I had better lend him two guineas -- I. O. U. enclosed -- to salve his lacerated feelings. I replied that I had his autobiography by me in manuscript, and would post it to his address, V. P. P., two guineas and one-half. He evidently knew nothing about the V. P. P., and the correspondence stopped. It is really very hard for an Anglo-Indian to get along in London. Besides, my autobiography is not a thing I should care to make public before extensive Bowdlerisation.