4 Aug:
~OH! The elegance of Eleanor~
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Having graciously accepted an invitation to a ‘Charity Summer Ball’ up at Birdfrey Manor, it was obvious that she was going to be there, basking in all her glory, it being her primary residence after all. She being Lady Eleanor Bird, wife of Lord Augustus Bird, whom I have to say is rather a little absurd in ways one finds difficult to describe. Lady Eleanor usually spends this particular month on a yacht somewhere in the French Riviera so it was rather a surprise to receive the invitation earlier this year. Moving on to the event…as you may or may not know, my husband is renowned to be the best dancer in the entire extended locality, thus the lady of the house had to insist that he be her dancing partner for the WHOLE evening. Furthermore, as I have two left feet but acknowledge his passion for dance, particularly the style of dance which requires rhythmical, energetic hip thrusts (synonymous with the Latin American style of dance and my word, do they bring him a lot of attention) one could not stand in his way. I am on egg shells as it is what with Muttlet’s troubles and, as most were aware, she had been a top choreographer who had trained world wide, thus I'm pretty certain other guests would have considered me most selfish had I deprived them of an opportunity to witness her in action. In truth, my husband was in his element all evening which brought me such joy (oh yes it did!) even though she repeatedly threw me smug glances which I freely admit, wound me up…The Lady & My Husband - he, the revered top model & most cleverist of all professors. How did one cope you may ask? Well, I spent the best part of the evening getting tipsy whilst playing poker in the back room. I realised later that no-one had missed me and that I owed a lot of money to people whose names and faces I cannot even remember.
11 Aug:
Mr WH had been in his laboratory for seemingly hours on end, much of that time wearing ear defenders or having classical music blaring in the background. It had reached the point where any communication between us lately was futile. I was busily preparing him a little blue luncheon tin (containing egg sandwiches cut into quarters, a pippin apple and a ginger snap) when I became totally overwhelmed with an urge to ‘peep’. I have been trying desperately not to, dear reader but I simply cannot restrain myself at times. There I was, standing in my kitchen, just staring at the floor mat under my feet and all I could hear were sounds of melodic experiments coupled with compulsory explosive undertones. Having popped down to tap on the door several times, it had been to no avail. Thus, I left the little blue tin outside the door before sliding a notelet underneath. I feel that we are drifting apart…
Recently, I had a dream which I believe carried a message about the consequences of peeping. In this dream I had grown a long pointy beard and, most unfortunately for me, when I peeped it dropped through the hole and became set alight by a Bunsen burner. I’m sure that my chin actually looks sore thus I have been soothing it regularly with a cold compress.
Apparently Chumley has been witnessed relieving himself up against the wheelbarrow of organic vegetables that stands outside ‘Bramble & Parsnip’, the delicatessen. *Note to self: Place an immediate order as a way of saying ‘sorry’. We have enough to concern ourselves with with one dog being incarcerated yet alone another. Violetta and I both agreed that he is probably just upset about Muttlet. Sadly, there is nothing to be done for only dearest Violetta has any visiting rights.
18 Aug:
~Mrs Snippet and her terribly, terrible children~
“No,” I repeated, several times over, but unfortunately to unaudious ears. “I am not a crèche facility and cannot possibly look after your children.” (They are known to be absolute blighters and are distant relatives of The Cuddleworthys, need I say more?) And so, Mrs Snippet cried. Sat herself down on my freshly scrubbed front doorstep, wailing her woebegones until I relented. “One hour, no more. I have work to do.” One of the worst decisions I have ever made…
Those Dreadful Little Urchins And The Top Ten Dramas of Doom:
1.Chumley was bribed to remain in a chair where he was dressed up like a doll, complete with wig and lipstick. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the actress Bette Davis in her film, What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
2.Maisie baked ‘real dead fly’ biscuits proudly offering them to patrons in The Parlour
3.Timmy climbed up onto the roof and attempted to drop all our shoes down the chimney including my new raised clogs
4.Colleen stole Bluebottle, my trusted cart, sinking her into the village duck pond
5.Simeon torched my prize winning dahlias with a blow torch, RIP The Earwig Family
6.Gretel and Digbeth performed an experiment in Mr WH’s laboratory whilst he attempted to instruct, practically blew him up, singed his beautiful, silky hair and everything
7.Muttlet’s tin bath was turned into a war ship. A catapult fired homemade dumplings directly towards my best china tea set which sat proudly displayed upon an antique dresser
8.Edelweiss rang the vicar pretending to be me, suggesting that he consider signing up to Alcoholics Anonymous and that he should definitely address his worsening halitosis
9.One of them opened the taps on the rainwater butts, flooding out The Herb Garden before shooting several arrows at my ceramic garden gnomes
10.All of them joined in a chimp’s tea party where they threw their luncheons at one another, completely ruining some of my most expensive soft furnishings
My husband has said that if this ever happens again, even though it was a consequence of my naivety & kindness, he will seek a divorce. Consequently, I have sought a little professional therapy. Sometimes life throws you lemons and you just have to suck on them, even though they can give you such awful mouth ulcers.
25 Aug:
Had been casually picking fruit on the towpath when I heard the sound of a narrowboat approaching. Recognised the dog at the stern to be our very own Muttlet who had been taken out for the afternoon by dearest Violetta, his sponsor. It was part of his ‘Community Reintroduction Programme’ and as both my husband and I are considered too emotionally involved, we are prohibited from playing any part in the initial stages of this project. Along with her beloved ‘Figgy’, Ferdinand Figgleforth IV, they had borrowed a boat as they were childminding for the weekend and thought the presence of a wee little dog might help to soothe a potentially fretful infant. Sadly the idea failed and enough has been said. (They had initially requested to take Chumley as he's such a cuddly old thing but, as usual, he had taken himself off to the park to overly sniff things). That said, I was rather delighted to see that Muttlet was actually enjoying himself for a change instead of causing mayhem to all and sundry. I stood proudly to observe whilst with a captain’s hat perched precariously upon his little head, he masterfully navigated the boat pretty much single handedly from what I could see, Violetta was attending to the blubbering infant whilst Figgy swigged back a bottle of my popular cider apple scrumpy. Seeing Muttlet taking control like that filled me with such joy, though sadly it appeared that he had failed to recognise me as his very own doting mistress, perhaps it was because we were out of context and, although I cannot be certain, I could swear that he gave me the paw as he chugged past. Violetta mouthed the word ‘sorry’ before they all disappeared around the corner. Nevermind, one had no choice but to carry on regardless for there was jam that needed to be made, afterall, a pantry does not fill itself.
We have been enjoying these balmy evenings of late and found ourselves lounging in the summer garden for far longer than what is generally considered acceptable. Fairy lights flickering, we lingered lazily over plates of delicious Mediterranean style food as we sipped away on sweet summer drinks, at times until we became rather giddy. One night in particular ended with Mr WH tap dancing along the garden wall, illuminated by the moonlight glow from a super blue moon. It reminded me of Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly, the dancing stars of old Hollywood films. Dressed up like a professional, my husband moved his way along the wall with such dexterity, all lean and lithe-like, brylcreem shimmering in his flowing hair whilst his monocle struggled to remain in situ, made my heart swell. And all was well until he tripped on one of Muttlett's old trinkets and landed with a loud thud in the heart of The Stumpery ~Whoosh!~ “Close call there old chap! Watch your head!”~sniggers at memory~ However, the following morning he chose to lock himself away in his laboratory where he stayed for two whole days.
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The season is changing. Bonnets, caps, long coats and mittens will all require a fresh launder or perhaps some new ones might be purchased. On that note, one had better dash so I shall say, “Cheerio! ~Heads off to The Coatroom in order to check through the autumnal wardrobe~
Mrs WH
