Monday, 24 December 2012
Peas on Earth, Gouda wheel, two old men
Christmas Update No.3 ...
Well the good news is that the reindeer have been freed off without significant damage to the ice sculptures and most of the cabbages have been reduced to Brussels sprouts ready for tomorrow. The gassing of the Christmas tree in the hallway yielded eighteen squirrels, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge that really, really should more properly have settled in a pear tree. The staff will be eating like kings. Or queens in the case of three of the footmen and Tarquin, the Estate blacksmith. Ooh yeah, like a tigerrrrrr.
Even better, the Colonel has married his Social Worker and moved to Tonga, so there's no danger that he'll be expecting to play Father Christmas and we won't have to put bromide in his tea or courier the cctv footage to the police investigating the Savile debacle.
On a slightly less positive note, Cook is proposing to begin lunch tomorrow with Hippo's famous signature dish; Dancing primate on a hot-plate. She's planning to use culinary poetic licence viz Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family and Genus by substituting some of the spare pandas from the Estate zoo for primates. The problem is that she seriously expects everyone to eat with chopsticks. Chopsticks are not going to go down well with the more conservative guests, even if they are distracted by fresh baby pandas dancing in their own juices.
Worse yet, she intends to follow up with reindeer penis in aspic and quite how just six of those are going to be enough for fifty guests is beyond me, even with the addition of a very generous cabbage-sprout trimming salad.
The builders appear to have re-fitted the dome over the stairs upside down and now that it's raining heavily it's like having a twelve-thousand gallon goldfish bowl developing over the tree. There's no answer from the builder's mobile phones and two swans seem to have made it home already. I'm sure it won't be a problem, but I just hope that no more than six of the geese lay.
Brian May has arrived and been fitted to the battlements. According to the instructions that came with him he'll need a couple of hours of tuning up and then he'll be playing carols and stuff up there until either New Year or until we unplug his electric guitar. He seems keen. Stupid, but keen.
Christmas is really coming together!
I've soaked this year's socks off and am now in front of the roaring fire in my winter dressing-room, in the rocker with one foot each in two buckets of warm Johnson & Johnson lavender floorwax. Later on my batman is bringing in his medical-support team and we're going to see if we can't get me into some fresh whalebone longjohns ready for the "festivities" and my new-found role as Father Christmas (when I'll be distributing presents and summary dismissal notices to some of the more elderly staff - before they qualify for pension rights or anything expensive).
Just enough time now before drinky-poos to wrap the final few presents for special people. I'm giving Norfolk to my literary agent, even though I have no idea how to wrap it. I may just have bows put on the road signs.
Well, ding dong for now my little weiner-schnitzen kerflumpen-strudel shnorterz - must fly (I have Business Class Air Wick tickets to the Orangery, wherever the hell that is - I haven't been to that part of the house for years. Dry sherry is about to be served with stilton and pineapple on cocktail sticks stuck in foil-wrapped potato hedgehogs. From experience it only takes a couple of bottles before Her Maj starts lighting farts, and this year I do have a camera.
Toodle-pip and TTFN.