The Reginald Perrin Omnibus Read Online Free

Sunshine.’
    ‘Ludicrous,’ said Reggie.
    Morris Coates flushed.
    ‘I’m just exploring angles,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a whole team on this. I’m just sounding things out.’
    It wasn’t any use being angry with Morris Coates. It wasn’t his fault. Somebody had to man the third-rate advertising agencies. If it wasn’t him, it would be somebody else.
    ‘What about sex?’ said Morris Coates.
    ‘What about something like, off the top of the head, I like to stroke my nipple with a strawberry and lychee ripple,’ said Reggie.
    Morris Coates turned red. Esther Pigeon examined her finger nails. Tony Webster smiled faintly.
    ‘All right, fair enough, sex is a bum steer,’ said Morris Coates. ‘Perhaps we just go for something plain and factual, with a good up-beat picture. But then you’re up against the fact that an ice cream carton per se doesn’t look up-beat. Just thinking aloud. Sorry.’
    ‘Well I’ll be interested to see what you come up with,’ said Reggie.
    ‘Incidentally,’ said Morris Coates, ‘is the concept of a ripple, in the ice cream sense of the word, fully understood by the public?’
    ‘In the Forest of Dean, in 1967, 97.3% of housewives understood the concept of a ripple in the ice cream sense of the word,’ said Esther Pigeon.
    ‘Does that answer your question?’ said Reggie.
    ‘Yes. Fine,’ said Morris Coates.
    Reggie stood up. The sweat was pouring off him. His pants had stuck to his trousers. He must get rid of them before he said something terrible.
    To his relief they all stood up.
    ‘Well anyway we’ll expect something from you soon, Morris,’ he said. They shook hands. He avoided Morris’s eyes. ‘Fine. We’ll be in touch,’ he said.
    He shook hands with Esther Pigeon.
    ‘Well, thank you again, Miss Pigeon,’ he said, avoiding her eye. ‘That was a very comprehensive and helpful report.’
    ‘This is a potential break-through in the field of quality desserts,’ said Esther Pigeon.
    When Morris Coates and Esther Pigeon had gone, Tony Webster said, ‘I must say how much I admired the way you handled Morris and his third-rate ideas.’
    Reggie looked into Tony’s eyes, searching for hints of sarcasm or sincerity. Tony’s eyes looked back, blue, bright, cold, with no hint of anything whatsoever.
    Reggie couldn’t bear the thought of going to the Feathers for lunch. He must get away. He must be able to breathe.
    It was very hot and sticky. He walked across Waterloo Bridge. It was low tide. A barge was chugging slowly upstream. In the Strand he saw a collision between two cars driven by driving instructors. Both men had sunburnt left arms.
    Reggie realized that he was hungry. He went into an Italian restaurant and sat down at a table near the door. On the wall opposite him there was a huge photograph of Florence.
    The waiter slid up to his table as if on castors and smiled with all the vivacity of sunny Italy. He was wearing a blue-striped jersey. Everything irritated Reggie, the long menu with its English translations, the chianti flasks hanging from the ceiling, the smiling waiter, sautéed in smug servility.
    ‘Ravioli,’ he said.
    ‘Yes sir. And to follow? We have excellent sole today.’
    ‘Ravioli.’
    ‘No main course, sir?’
    ‘Yes. Ravioli. I want ravioli followed by ravioli. I like ravioli.’
    The waiter slid off towards the kitchens. The restaurant was filling up rapidly. Soon Reggie’s ravioli arrived. It was excellent.
    A couple in their mid-thirties joined him at his table. He finished his ravioli. The waiter took it away and brought his ravioli. The couple looked at it with well-bred surprise.
    The second plate of ravioli didn’t taste as good as the first, but Reggie ploughed on gamely. He felt that their table was much too small, and all the tables were too close together. He came out in a prickly sweat. The couple must be staring straight into his revolting, champing jaws.
    They were clearly in love, and they talked animatedly about