The ol' what-for

Tell them I'll be along shortly and ask the back barman if he needs any stained wipecloths. I presume this is our problem. I knew if Smithson turned up after the divorce it would turn into this. It smells like a big garden in here. Oberon, fetch the herbal sandal sanitizer. The arch of my slipper looks like a grease monkey's laundry pile. We may require an industrial vacuum. Oh stop it. For all the good it will do you, you may as well waste a fortnight trying to brush the sand off someone's arm damp with seawater. I refuse to let this spoil the inaugural soiree of the season. If I'm not there to keep Kitty from mishandling Col. Lamply's oversexed son, this entire manor will empty quicker than a dog's stomach full of french fries.