Any gentleman, I believe, would be justifiably astonished to wake and find himself being tooled around town in a spanking new barouche, surrounded by strange sights and stranger personages. I myself was even more astonished to learn that my servants had been so insightful as to realize I was in need of a carriage at all - and I could scarcely believe (after painful past experiences) that they had chosen such an elegant one for my conveyance. Perhaps my aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had condescended to lend them her advice in the matter.

I am informed that the purpose of today's expedition was for my servants to register my name and my birth (the highest, of course) with the social leaders of this town. I assume that a guest book must have been signed, and proper introductions made - alas, I slept through the ceremonies, lulled by the strong drink my servants had provided beforehand. (Evidence of scheming on their part, perhaps? I shudder to think what lapses in propriety might have taken place without my oversight.) However, I was not too inebriated, despite all their precautions, to note: in the establishment that was visited directly after my registration, a variety of exotic delights were on offer, from coffee in the Italian mode to Eastern breads and steaming Viennese pastries.

And none of them were offered to me.

Next time I venture out in my barouche, things will go quite differently.