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Once upon a time in a misty watercoloured land far away, a mysterious hooded old crone was hobbling along a mysterious little footpath in a mysterious and atmospheric wood, which was filled to the brim with shadowy corners and treacherous thorny bits and a general air of delicious suspense. She stopped. She was an old hand at this sort of lark and knew she would not have long to wait. Sure enough, within minutes mysterious unknown voices echoed in her crinkled and venerable ears.
'So to recapitulate, Jeeves--'
'Yes, sir?'
'Once we have made our way along this shortcut--'
'Is that what we are categorising this route as, sir?'
'Yes I rather think we-- oh really Jeeves, of course it's a shortcut. Tristan Burlington-Smythe told me the way, and when you have stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a chap inkily defending your common room from the wrath of the Lower Fifth, it forges a bond that neither rain nor snow nor gloom of night can ever tear asunder, and in such circs I hardly think he would have given me duff directions.'
'I would not presume to call into question the integrity, or, indeed, the goodwill, of Mr Burlington-Smythe, sir, but when you ventured to ask him for geographical assistance I regret to say the occasion on which that young man set out to visit his great-aunt, who was at the time a resident of Southend-On-Sea, and finished his journey by arriving on the doorstep of a rather confused Devonshire schoolmistress was irresistably drawn to mind, sir.'
'As I was saying, Jeeves, once we have made our way along this shortcut and reached the baker's humble abode, you will present him with the evidence that Mrs Blenkins has been falsifying the post office records, I shall endeavour to purloin this blasted teacup while he is distracted by aforementioned revelation of perfidiousness, Felicity will convey the teacup to its rightful owner when we meet her on the village green under cover of darkness at 0600 hours, and then this whole sorry mess will be resolved and I can finally get my suitcase back.'
At this point the owners of the mysterious unknown voices rounded the corner and came into sight of the mysterious old crone, who judged the time was right to make her move.
'Halt!' she cried in ringing tones, the likes of which the two listeners had not heard since Totleigh-in-the-Wold Amateur Dramatic Society's famous and ill-judged open-air performance of The Duchess of Malfi.
'Do you mind my asking why?' said one, in a rather agitated manner. The other of the pair seemed rather more composed; in fact, the crone felt, he was excessively and possibly irritatingly composed for someone who had just been presented with one of her best entrances yet, if she said so herself.
'None may pass through this wood without answering my riddles three!' she declared, with admirable voice projection. 'Answer correctly, and you will be granted a prize beyond measure. Answer wrongly, and DOOM awaits you.'
There was silence. Unfortunately it did not seem to be of the awed variety, but had a distinct flavour of the slightly nonplussed.
'DOOM', she repeated, but her heart wasn't in it quite as much.
'May I suggest, sir, that we adopt the simple yet efficient solution of walking around the lady in order to continue?'
'Just you try it, sunshine.'
'No, no, a moment, Jeeves! I imagine this is some quaint country tradition which we as big city dashabouts are unaware of, and it won't do to spurn their simple ways and unwittingly make an enemy of the locals. The thing is, my good woman,' he continued, turning to the crone, 'we are in something of a hurry. I won't launch into the whole yarn, but if we aren't on our way soon a whole troop of Boy Scouts are going to be very disappointed, and I shouldn't think anyone in the village wants multitudes of weeping curly-headed tots all over the shop. Perhaps you could whittle it down to your riddles one?' He gave what he probably thought was an ingratiating smile.
She sighed. The quality of questers was really going downhill these days, she thought. She blamed jazz.
'...Very well.'
'Jolly good! Crack on then!' Bertie (for it was he, let us not pretend that anyone didn't know that) beamed expectantly.
'What do women most desire?' she said sulkily. It hardly seemed worth it really.
'Ooh, er, gosh, that's a bit...not really my area of expertise, you know!'
'You don't say. Unimaginable doom it is, then.' She rolled up her sleeves.
'No, hang on a sec, let me think!' He thought. 'Jeeves, any ideas?'
'If, as I suspect is the case, sir, we are operating under traditional folkloric narrative conventions, I imagine the correct answer is...'
He murmered the rest of the sentence in an undertone. His master considered it.
'Well, that sounds about right. I know Aunt Agatha always gets into a devil of a fuss if she doesn't get the final say on the shade of the wallpaper or the dinner menu or her relatives' choices of spouse. Is the answer women most desire to do whatever they want, good lady?'
'It is actually,' said the crone. 'I must say when I first heard you speak I didn't think there was a chance in hell you could answer 'What time is it?' correctly, let alone one of my riddles, but well done anyway.' And with that she transformed in a glittering puff of smoke into an entrancingly beautiful and alluring young lady, draped becomingly in a shimmering golden gown.
'Golly,' said Bertie.
'By answering correctly, brave hero, you have won my hand in marriage.' Her voice was queenly, yet warm, light and melodious, and somehow reminiscent of both an achingly gorgeous symphony and the gentle rippling of a brook over pebbles. Her exquisitely sculpted visage was serene and glowing, as though lit by some unknown hidden grace, even when Bertie muttered something under his breath that may or may not have been 'Oh dash it all, not again'.
'What would happen if I'm not...matrimonially inclined?'
'Oh, unimaginable doom.'
'How bad could it be?'
*
Twelve hours later Bertie slammed shut his bedroom door and turned to his servant, who at the moment rather confusingly was wearing the the vigorously handsome (in his opinion) face Bertie was accustomed to seeing in the mirror every morning.
'So to recapitulate, Jeeves--'
'Please do, sir.'
'After declining that lady's offer of engagement she magically switched our bodies, with the result that the teacup is still at large, the Boy Scouts are drowning their sorrows in toffee, Felicity is never going to speak to her mother again, and everyone in the entire vicinity thinks that both Bertram Wooster Esq. and his trusty valet have run completely mad. And what with all the running about and leaping through windows and fending off angry ex-Servicemen, we haven't had a chance to work out how to undo this bally spell!'
'As to that, sir--'
'Is this going to be folkloric narrative conventions again, Jeeves?'
'Yes, sir.'
'So what is the folkloric narrative convention to break a witch's curse?'
Jeeves showed him. Possibly with tongues.
'Oh.'
And they both lived--
'About that tie, Jeeves.'
'Yes, sir?'
'Throw it to the Scouts.'
'Yes, sir.'
And then they both lived happily ever after.