Just the other day I spied Reginald-now-Lord Fairfax at his usual perch in the smoking room of the club. I greeted Reggie, ordered a brandy, and inquired after his father-in-law Rufus-now-Lord Driscoll, whose alleged dalliance with a domestic has triggered virtue signaling by the wokerati. We were joined by James-now-Lord Harrod and Mark-now-Lord Spencer, and commenced chatting amiably.

Dinner done in the dining room, our lords’ circle grew apace. Soon we were engaged in a right old argy-bargy as to whether the party’s fiscal rules were being applied with commendable stringency by the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

Jacob-now-Lord Roose-Mabbs groused about how much lucre was being spaffed cavalierly on education and health care.

Wallace-now-Lord Tinsdale flushed up (he was on his next brandy). “Alistair-now-Lord Winchester is a safe pair of hands!” he honked. “The Exchequer is well manned and ably steered. I’ll brook no contrary…” and his voice trailed off with a glare.

“Sufficient unto the day is the austerity thereof,” said Jeremy-now-Lord Bentley. “Spare the rod, spoil the commons.”

The generality nodded importantly. Only stout Hugh-now-Lord Mauberly begged to demur, chuntering on in his usual fashion about how fiscal probity was a thing of the past and today’s lot were Tory in name only. “My gamekeeper could operate the NHS more efficiently!” he averred.

“Hear, hear!” chimed Roose-Mabbs.

Wellbred laughter rippled through all and sundry, echoing in the softly lit room.

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