Jingo Little England and the ...

I last ran into young Jingo Little-England in the smoking room of the Senior Secret Service SelfServingOldeMaids' Illiberal Empire Club ...
She was lying back in an arm-chair with her mouth open and a pretty vacant expression in her eyes ... while a grey-haired dame in the middle-spreading distance watched her with such disgust that I concluded Jingo must have pinched her favourite seat.
That's the worse thing of being in a strange club - without intending it, you find yourself constantly trampling on the vested interests of the Elder Inhabitants.
'Hello face!' I cried.
'Cheerio ugly!' she replied.
Despite what she said, I sat down beside her and settled down to have a few quick ones before lunch ...
Background to all this was that once a year the committee of the post-Empire British B's Club decides that the old base could do with a wash and brush up and so they shoo us out, and dump us down for a few weeks in some other institution.  This time we were nesting at the Senior Illiberal, and, personally, [even though it was the one indoor place in Britain where you could still smoke cigarettes and not get prosecuted] I was finding the strain of the [otherwise] reactionary environment pretty fearful. I mean, when you've got used to a club where everything's nice and cheery and easy-going, and where, if you want to attract a girl's attention, you heave a bit of bread at her, it kind of damps you to come to a place where the youngest member is about 87 and it isn't considered good form to talk to anyone unless you went through the such old fashioned ideologically clear-cut Cold War traumas as the Cuban Missile Crisis together. Because of that, in spite of her initial dismissiveness, it was a something of a relief to come across Jingo@SeniorIlliberal ...
After a somewhat pained silence lasting who knows how long, we started to talk in hushed voices.
'This club,' I said, 'is the limit.'
'It's the elephant's backside,' agreed young Jingo. 'I believe the old girl over by the window has been dead for a decade, but I don't like to mention it in case it is considered bad form.'
'Have you lunched here yet?'
'No. Why?'
'They have waitresses instead of waiters.'
'Good golly Mr Woofter! I thought that went out with the closure of Spare Rib!'
Bingo mused on this for a moment, then straightened her dress absently.
'Er ... are they pretty girls?' she conspiratorially.
'No,' I replied deflatingly.
She seemed disappointed, but pulled round.
'I haven't a bean, you know,' she said suddenly.
That startled me into baby-talk:'Hasn't your naughtie-nightie-wearing'nuncle'n'auntie forgiven you yet?'
'Not yet, confound her!'
You see, young Jingo had had a bit of a dust-up with LordyLordyLady Little-Ham, her fabulously rich great trans-gender auntie/uncle, resulting in a siz[e]able portion of her potential family allowance being knocked off.
I was sorry to hear the row was still on, because I had thought it over.
I resolved to do the impoverished little lass well with festive board and scanned the menu with some intentness when the waitress finally rolled up with it.
'How would this do you, Jingo?' I said at length. 'A bowl of jellied eels, battered cod and chips, some cold curry and a splash of gooseberry tart, with a bite of hard cheese to finish, all washed down lashingly with ginger beer, if you get my drift?'
I don't know that I exactly expected Jingo to scream with delight - though I had picked the items I knew to be her pet dishes - but I did expect her to say something. I looked up with surprize when my list of treats to come was met with silence ... and found that her attention was elsewhere ...
Jingo was gazing at the recently arrived waitress with the look of a bitch that has just remembered where her favourite bone is buried.
She was a tallish girl with soft, soulful brown eyes, and some kind of expresso coffee coloured skin . Nice figure and all that also. Rather decent hands too. Impeccably clean.  I did not remember having seen her about before, and I must say she added variety to the mostly off-white, pale and dull Illiberal Club environment.
'How about it lassie?' I said to Jingo, being increasingly peckish myself, and being all for getting the meal order booked and going on to the serious knife-and-fork work.
'Eh?!' said young Jingo absently.
I recited the programme once more.
'Oh, yes, fine, fine' said Jingo. 'Anything, anything!'
The dark waitress pushed off to waitress elsewhere and Jingo turned to me with protruding eyes. 'I thought you said they weren't pretty Gertie Woofter!' she said reproachfully.
'Oh my heavens!' I said. 'You haven't fallen for another have you?! - and a girl you have only just seen!'
'There are times, Gertie,' said young Jingo, 'when one look is enough - when passing through a crowd, we meet someboday's eye and something seems to whisper ...'
As what seemed to be whispered trailed off into Jingo's private spaces, the hors d'oeuvres arrived, and we suspended further remarks in order to swoop on the jellied eels with some vigour ...