Thursday, 27 December 2012
Gravel rash and turkey sandwiches
Ruddy solicitor turns out to be in custody himself (somewhere in Thailand on charges of attempting to smuggle Renée Zellweger out of the country or somethin') so damned me if the rozzers didn't keep the lot of us banged up until this morning. At least they took me home and slowed down a little as they pushed me out of the Wolseley. Jéeves almost got caught out but not quite. He's of Frenchie origin but speaks almost fluent Servant with just a trace of an accent. As I rolled to my knees on the gravel the staff looked a little flustered but they were all lined up to greet me. The footmen waved my hand in salute as they dragged me past the line-up and into a large brandy and fresh tweeds.
Someone had tied a yellow ribbon to the old oak tree by the stables; probably one of the horses.
Missed the local Boxin' Day hunt of course which means that I shall have to protest all the harder during the year to convince these faux-hooray ignoramii quarter-wits of the error of their blood-thirsty ways. Lovely spectacle until you focus and realise that it consists mainly of portly lumps of highly unproductive protoplasm supported by less-than-bright wannabees: the ordinarily inelegant in pursuit of the fictitious inedibility problem (and, yes, I've lived on mixed farms for the past decade and a half, have eyes, ears and an IQ sufficient to run them both at the same time while also standing upright - huntin' with dogs serves diddly-squat, da nada, zero useful purpose other than for the great-great-great-great-greats of the once faux-greats to reclaim a little of that master-servant m'lord-peasant feeling ...).
Guests have mostly left of course, all that's left over is a few helicopters that failed to start and the odd theatrical agent wandering the corridors like the ghost of clients lost, arms outstretched and muttering "hmmm contraccctssss - must have fresh reality tv contraccccctttttssss". Staff with fame-throwers are tidying them up now.
Apologies - typo, I meant of course "flame-throwers".
So, that's Christmas done for another year. Must issue orders to have the decorations burned in the boiler-firebox and Brian May taken down from the roof. Might get a last giggle by mixing those two up. Endless ruddy lobster and caviar sandwiches it will be for the next two weeks, eaten to the background beat of the g-nephew and g-niece playing with their toys.
Do you really think "toddler" is a little young for a Harley? He seems to be managing well enough. The g-niece of course is still high-chair bound but she seems to be managing her new "Staff Starter Kit for Young Gells" quite nicely; she's already fired one of them for insolence and insubordination. In a couple of years they'll be old enough for presents such as the more usual tea plantations and small aerospace industries, and the house will be too quiet then with just the ticker-ticker-ticker of the teletype machine and the scratch of the scribe's pens. I shall have to organise a house party to see if I can't jolly things up next year.
Now, if you'll please to excuse, I'm going to call for a rug and have a little snooze in front of the fire. We're burning several of the farm cottages today (the accountants insist that it adds buoyancy to the book-values of the others). I rather enjoy bein' wheeled out in my wicker bathchair to point at things with my cane and say "that one next" and "another can of paraffin through the window, I think".
Chin-chin. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz ...