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 ...
Faux-greats, Faux-hoorays are of course related to faux-hunting. Elemental my dear Holmes a Court.
ReplyDeleteAh, if only they were faux-charges but alack and alas, I fear 'twill be a brief custodial sojourn at Her Majesty's pleasure for Owl Towers - the police do so frown upon the spontaneous borrowing of police helmets. Belmarsh, possibly, although a cell with a southerly aspect in Dartmoor at this time of year offers some certain unexpected charm.
DeleteI suppose with so many faux, they could start a band. Or should that be banned?
DeleteI love your description of the fox hunt aficionados. Humanity might be better served if they would run down and hunt each other.
ReplyDeleteOf course, the dogs would make short work of the chase and there's not much sport in that either. It sounds like you had a nice very nice Christmas in spite of it all.
G'Day Ms Sparrow! The local hunts here seem to think that they own everything and everywhere, they and their "followers" can be very intimidating. I simply disapprove (absolutely) now but in my youth I used to take part in hunt sabbing, laying false trails and general disruption - I gave that up when the Hunt and Hunt supporters got too violent.
DeleteThey look magnificent, but what a bunch of wallys! Last time they came throught the village they allowed the pack get away from them and the place was awash with unsupervised hounds for fifteen minutes, through every gate and hedge, over every fence - woe betide kids, cats and chickens. Numpties.
Me thinks your auntie Joan has sent you some illegal substances for chrimbo
ReplyDeleteIndeed Sir, I am shocked - shocked to the core by your intimation!
DeleteHave at you Sir, it will be silk handkerchiefs at dawn!
I remember those Wolseley cars having small lit oval logo lights on the top of the radiator. Wasn't that 'stylish'; I'm amazed no-one's copied it... or maybe they have.
ReplyDeleteI fear that any such today would have to be lit with "Essex LEDs" or fluorescents, and would probably have to flash in tune with the stereo!
DeleteThey were very nice vehicles though (unless they were chasing you).
Yesterday I was in your neck of the woods. Clinton, my new American chauffeur, got us lost on the way to Sandringham. We found ourselves in the village of Aby and stopped for refreshment at "The Railway Tavern". I imagine you are familiar with this hostelry? As there were no subtitles it was difficult to understand the guttural expostulations of the agricultural "yellowbelly" clientelle but we managed to purchase a carafe of sauvignon blanc and a bowl of lampreys from the grill. The busty barmaid assumed that we had come from the "big shindig at the posh geezer's gaffe up't road" which I interpreted to be your own unexceptional Xmas event. Naturally, I corrected her and with fresh directions soon continued on our journey to Norfolk.
ReplyDeleteI do wish I had known that you would be passing through, so to speak - it can be advantageous to have letters of introduction and so forth at the Village Border-posts.
DeleteAh, Norfolk, Norfolk - smack it around a bit and put an affectionate knife-blade between its ribs for me, would you? I have such, er, such, well "memories" of the place.
The Railway Tavern is indeed the local hostelry - it has just celebrated ten continuous years of opening as a village pub, surely in these times some sort of world record. I hope that the clientelle weren't too smelly - they can get that awful damp dog smell at this time of year.
Dark here. Something to do with the time. Number one son has just suggested we go for a walk. Brilliant. Let's go and play hopscotch amongst the snakes. If we avoid being bitten, we can at least enjoy Malaria.
ReplyDeleteI remember Wolseley's, including the illuminated radiator mascot. If two of Her Majesties finest are to press your face into upholstery while they transport you to temporary accommodation, why shouldn't it be hand stitched English leather?
I honestly can't see what all the fuss is about foxes. I rode with the Quorn once (I did) but found it a damn sight easier to put out a bowl of dog food and pot them with a .22 from the verandah. Hunt saboteurs were always a trickier but more gratifying shot.
We have darkness here too. My best theory is that it is something to do with the rotation of the sun around England, with possible seasonal variations due to cricket matches and the axial tilt of the monarchy (British monarchy, of course).
DeleteI never owned a Wolseley. Briefly had an Austin 1800, but that didn't have the little radiator grill light. Could start it with a twig though, anything that fitted into the ignition key slot would do, didn't necessarily have to a key. In monsoon season my heartbeat used to slow down to about twenty beats a minute - to match the windscreen wipers on "high speed". Splendid beastie, splendid.