Randolph Holstershire the Third arrived in a coach precisely on time. He stepped out and tipped the driver ten percent to the penny- an amount which he had calculated using the abacus he was so rarely parted from. The abacus had been given to him as a gift by a Chinaman he had kept in his employ whilst he was on sabbatical in the Eastern Lands.  Randolph couldn’t recall the name of his servant, but he did recall how best to use the abacus- for tipping. He also recalled a torrid night in Afghanistan, just he and his servant, naked and clinging to each other to create enough body heat to survive a mountain storm. It was that night he’d learned the secrets of the abacus,  and more he would rarely say. Calculating a square root by hand takes dextrous fingers and delicate instruction to say the least, but thoughts of this kind were not relevant to his visit to Petticoat Manor.

He was ushered into the drawing room of Petticoat Manor by a grim looking butler named Hensley. Hensley had the marks of years of service, but also the marks of severe third degree burns he received whilst attempting to give his lover, and several others, a Londonderry Kazoo. It was, in fact, Hensly’s own grotesque scarification which caused the manouvre to be banned by Her Majesty, who could only remark “Some things are best left to the Gauls”.

Randolph was announced to Lady Petticoat, and she curtsied politely in a well practiced fashion. She was obviously a woman of some sophistication which fell just short of distracting from a cloying zephyr of scent Randolph couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“Lord Holstershire,” said Lady Petticoat, “I’d like to keep formalities to a minimum, these are busy times in Her Majesty’s Empire, and I see no need to dwell on the intricacies of etiquette.”.

“Hardly worth mentioning.” Said Holstershire, seating himself in a leather covered wingback chair opposite an identical chair occupied by Lady Petticoat.

For a moment their eyes locked, and the unspeakable acts they had engaged in together spoke for them through the silence like a speaking lion might speak if he were not speaking, but then decided rather suddenly to do so. It was very much like that lion thing indeed, only with two souls not speaking but having their speech spoken for them by their history in a sort of non verbal way, but lionesque.

Hensley arived with their tea and served it gingerly, with the deft and practiced hand of a faithful butler, but also the deft and practiced hand of a man who had been injured rigging the necessary ropes and pulleys to accomplish a full Londonderry Kazoo. It was the boiling cauldron of lubricant from the very Londonderry Kazoo in which Hensley had overseen for the participation of Lady Petticoat, Lord Holstershire and himself, as well as all the boatswains of Her Majesty’s Royal Navy, and the denizens of prison ship for the mentally unstable headed for the colonies that had been the cause of Hensley’s burns.

Hensley left the two alone in the room to consider their history together.

Randolph sipped his tea, and sat long in silence before he offered this: “Lovely weather.” he managed.

Lady Petticoat swallowed her sip of tea delicately and replied: “Indeed, the farmers at the market tell me there will be more cucumbers than ever this year.”

Randolph waited. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.” Lady Petticoat replied.

Suddenly the full heat of Randoph’s Victorian passion overwhelmed him. Such was the life in Victorian England, with so much hidden in the emotional cellars, and with such careful constructions of society atop them.

Randolph, without warning, stood up. “My Lady,” he said “Thank you for the tea, I must be going.”

Lady Petticoat rose as well. “By all means, it has been a pleasure”.

The two burning suns of passion that could be extinguished only with the height of civility, and also the very heights of Wuthering, were contained within a moment of their emergence.

Randolph Holstershire departed swiftly, wishing only that he had mustered the courage to ask what it was that smelled like cunt in there.

(The following is a true account of Correctness correspondent TBinns and his bride on their honeymoon as they tackle the Met in New York City. Between this and his recent Shakespeare post, we feel he is steering toward real culture instead of pop culture. The Correctness has taken him aside and spoken very sternly to him, and he assured us that he is still working on his 100 page thesis on why Transformers should not have testicles.)

After spending a few days kicking around Times Square, which, fun though it may be, can also be compared to having your eyeballs gang raped by advertisers, my new bride and I decided to take our honeymoon up a cultural notch and go to Metropolitan Museum to take in one of the world’s great art collections. I offer the following as a guide and also a cautionary tale. Losing your way in the Met is not unlike getting lost in the woods, sure it looks gorgeous, but when the finger pointing, bickering and aching feet start, you’ll begin to wish one of you brought along a map and a compass.

We went in with a plan…we definitely wanted to see the visiting Rembrandt exhibition, some Ancient Greek and Roman stuff, and some Impressionists. Then we’d be out in time for our dinner reservations and off to the Great White Way to see Spring Awakening. The plan breaks down almost immediately.

10:35 am

We take our traveling companion; a beanie baby sloth named Frederick, and place him on a pedestal next to an exquisite 20000 year old Herme. Other tourists giggle as we snap photos. I’m shocked that no one attempts to stop us. I make a mental note to put Frederick in the thinker pose if we stumble across a Rodin today.

11:15 am

The nerd in me lingers far too long looking at medieval weapons and armor. My wife punishes me by making sure for the rest of the day she reads every single placard at every single exhibit.. Twice.

12:20 pm

Lunch on the steps, hot dog and pretzels. Depending on one’s tolerance for pigeons this is a much better option than the overpriced museum food.

1:08 pm

The sloping glass wall that overlooks Central Park in the heart of the Egyptian exhibit looks familiar to me. Then I remember where I saw it from. I share this knowledge with my wife through the power of annoying movie quotes.

“Waiter…there is too much peppaaar in my Paprikash….but I would be proud to partake of your pecan pie….peeeecaaaan pieeee” I say with a grin. The wife continues to reread a placard. I try again
“I think hieroglyphics are just an ancient comic strip about a character named “Sphinxy”.

Nothing.

“It’s from…”

“I got it.” She says moving onward.

2:12 pm

The Rembrandt exhibit is jammed. It seems that when there’s a visiting exhibit the native New Yorkers turn up as well, making it very difficult to get near the surprisingly small paintings. I did manage to display my profound ignorance by pointing to Rembrandts famous self portrait and proclaiming “Hey, it’s the guy from the Masterpiece game. Check underneath, it might be a forgery.” I seem to recall running into similar problems when I embarrassed my sister at the National gallery in London by cheerfully pointing out which of the paintings had been used in various Terry Gilliam cartoons on Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

3:35 pm

A wrong turn at furniture has led us to a large area that looks like storage space. I’m not even sure we are supposed to be here. It looks like a Costco filled with fine art and antiques. The afternoon wears on and The Impressionists continue to be elusive.

4:06 pm

My wife is no longer speaking to me. The warehouse area goes on and on. In desperation I squint at a portrait, in the hopes that it would look more impressionist painting. For the record, it doesn’t.

4:25 pm

We finally emerge into what looks more like an area we are meant to be in, right next to a gigantic portrait of Washington crossing the Delaware. We sit for a bit, not out of any misplaced patriotic fervor for Washington and his famous whitewater rafting trip, but because we needed to get off our feet. This was the first painting we recognized in awhile, and dammit we were going to get our moneys worth out of it.

5:15 pm

Neither of us have any idea how we ended up back at Ancient Egypt. I forgo the joke I was going to make comparing the mummy we have now seen twice to Nicole Ritchie. We opt for the “Hail a cab” exhibit outside the main doors so we can make dinner and curtain..

8:35 pm

Midway through Act 1 of Spring Awakening, a rock musical set in the 1800’s where the characters all hold microphones and make anachronistic references, I realize that I had last found a little bit of impressionist art in New York. And it was even better when I squinted.

This woman is married to 1/3 of the Correctness. Weep for her