Our regular west Oxfordshire correspondent, the esteemed Dr Small Beds, celebrated his thirty-fifth birthday yesterday. This grand old man of letters spent the day with friends at several locations in the city of Oxford, concluding with drinks at the residence of an old friend and one-time colleague.
While the young children of his co-celebrants frolicked blithely at his feet during luncheon, Dr Beds found his table piled high with tributes from his followers, admirers and colleagues, congratulating him on both his advanced years and his steadfast resolve to speak truth unto power, even at such a time as it is considered neither profitable nor popular.
His academic and autodidactic achievements, of no little merit as they undoubtedly are, prompted the generous staff of the Ashmolean Museum to admit him and select members of his entourage with open arms to their restricted-access Print Room. In this location the coterie, consisting as it did of many of the country’s finest intellectuals, eschewed the rather showy Rembrandts and Michaelangelos in favour of the more complex and subtle “Oxford sepias” of Palmer.
A lively function took place in the evening. Dr Beds, cutting an imposing yet modish figure in the slim lines of his elegantly tailored suit, received guests at a highly regarded eating establishment, before retiring to his gentleman’s club for much sport and genial conversation. The company then present partook of much refreshment until well into the night.
At the time of going to press, word has reached us from his household that the esteemed doctor is spending today resting and gathering his strength. Despite his robust constitution, he has been unexpectedly afflicted with a sudden weakness. We wish the doctor a speedy recovery, and hope that our happy nation, waking up to the gravity and now urgency of the situation, bestows upon him those honours to which a man of his stature and achievements &c. &c.