Coucou - y’a quelqu’un?

7 April:

Ordered Mr WH to trim his toe nails as they are beginning to curl and yellow. To be frank, I am weary from having to spend my precious leisure time darning his socks and repairing the bed linen. He said he'll pop it on his ‘bucket list’ of things to do. Now that the weather is warming a little, he can sit outside and manicure them to his heart's content, albeit the wild birds need to be warned to stay well out of the way. Either that or they should pop on some protective headgear, perhaps hard hats and goggles would be the way to go. I wonder if they have a foreman to whom I could drop a little notelet, as to be forewarned is also to be forearmed.

Booked a crossing to France in the summer. Whilst trying not to dwell on the thought of pirates and offshore skullduggery, we are both looking very much forward to visiting our distant relatives, hoping perchance, to take a little light refreshment with the ancestors of King Louis XIV. I shall have to locate my silver wig and white face powder. I asked Mr WH if he would remember to remind me to dab a little black mole onto my face. He appeared somewhat taken aback, saying it was a hideous idea as moles are covered in soil. Furthermore, he was particularly concerned for the mole’s well-being after the shock of being manhandled. “The poor thing would undoubtedly be freaked out by the whole situation, my dear. Think of the mess on your beautiful gown. They won't let you into The Palace looking like a peasant, though you could get cast as an extra in ‘Les Miserables’.” As that is my absolute favourite musical, it would be an honour.

In preparation for this voyage across the sea, Mr WH has spent some time in his study practising a minuet. He simply adores The Wombles; ‘Minuetto Allegretto’ is in his top five songs of all time. That said, the practice proved to be quite painful for him as he is suffering from a rather nasty flare up of gout. Told him to rest upon his chaise longue and listen to his Clodagh Rogers album; she has the most calming effect on him which helps to reduce (not eliminate) his suffering. Such a top gal and, in our opinion, she was robbed of that Eurovision win.

On the subject of relatives, Cousin Beauregard has written requesting that she might pay us a visitation. We don't mind her calling on us at all, it's just that little Muttlet won't stop snapping at her. He doesn't nip or anything, he just snaps at her nylons and we are at a total loss as to why; though we have a strong feeling it is because he has taken a dislike to the way that they wrinkle around her joints. In truth, one could be forgiven for comparing her kneecaps to walnuts. Poor Modesty, she can barely sit still for a second when he's around, even when seated she appears to be dancing some sort of fever-induced gavotte. I hasten to add, one that is sadly devoid of any elegance, having no association whatsoever to The Baroque. We have tried to keep him in the washroom but as soon as he gets an opportunity he absconds and sniffs her out. On one occasion his assault was so instantaneous that it caused her to spill sweet tea and cherry pie all over the darn Chesterfield and, as a consequence of her liking for sugar dollops, we suffered with sticky buttons for weeks. I guess there's nothing wrong with asking Violetta to take him for the day…he does love her so, though I am pretty sure it's because she feeds him macarons…

21 April:

The potager has begun to dry out from the amount of rain that we have endured these past few months and as colourful umbrellas hang upside downwards in The Glass House, they serve to remind me that I should arrange a film night for friends where, after feasting on cassoulet and puddings we could comfy-on-down and watch ‘The Umbrellas of Cherbourg’.

Back to the potager, shoots are appearing and we have recently created an archway for which to grow ivy up and over. As one passes through it, they will be drawn along a chequerboard pathway towards ‘The Hatch and The Patch’, in an ‘Alice in Wonderland’ kind of way. The new outdoor camera Mr WH has installed is far better than the previous one, which was sadly rather outdated. Isn't it peculiar how we often stop loving or wanting things when they become old or not fit for purpose anymore. Things can become rather odd given time. Odd things are my absolute favourite things of all. I do hope my husband never stops believing in my peculiarities because I adore him, he is the most splendid person I know and becomes more handsome as he ages. That said, I did on an occasion not so long back, accidentally lock him in the attic.

The Incident With The FAULTY LOCK on the Attic Door

also entitled ‘Get Over it’

 ~~~~~~

My husband had been missing for three whole days and following a conversation I had had with his old friend, Abernethy, I was under the illusion that he had ventured off to join The Crusades; it being something he had always regretted not doing in his younger days. This belief was furthermore strengthened by the fact that his catapult was missing, along with his trusted moth eaten woolly jumper (which we later found to be in Muttlet’s tin bath wrapped around a bit of hairy crumpet). However, it turned out that I had absentmindedly locked him in the attic. Whilst preparing for an up and coming garden party, we had both been in and out of the attic numerous times during that morning. As my husband had disappeared to seek out the croquet set, I suddenly remembered that we had loaned it out to Tilly & Stig, the proprietors of The Old Chapel. They had asked to borrow it for a charity fundraising event earlier last year and, as yet, have failed to return it. Securing the door behind me, I sought to inform my beloved only to get distracted by preparations in The Parlour (we had some lunchtime doings). I completely forgot about him. The poor dear, he had looked so frightfully weary upon his discovery, which, incidentally, only came about because Muttlet had chased a neighbour's kitty up an old oak tree. Our dashing neighbour, Hyatt, (who wishes to remain anonymous but lives next-door in Hyacinth House with his wife Tulip who runs the florists, ‘Rosethorns and Sorefingers’, has two children, a partially resident mother-in-law and a top secret job in national intelligence) bravely sought to rescue little Pomfret whilst watched by his doting twins, the wide-eyed Basil and ever-so-sweet Marjoram. Working his way up the tree like a professional trapeze artist, he was alerted to a tapping sound coming from the direction of our attic window. To his surprise, there was Mr WH, silently mouthing, “PLEASE…LET ME OUT?” Bless him! He insisted that I carry no blame and added that it could happen to anyone at any time, he seemed all tickety-boo and tootled off in search of an experiment but not before I insisted that he suck on a Victory V, for they claim to be ‘forged for strength’. I have to say though, his beard growth made him look even more of a heartthrob, in a filthy swashbuckler kind of way. Prepared him a luncheon tray, a little leftover Welsh rarebit and a strong brandy/coffee liqueur. No gratitude required, it was the least I could do.

Mrs WH