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4 Feb:
 
‘A little cup, a little frill, look… I see a gorgeous daffodil.’  Anon
 
Thinking of purchasing an antique Front of House desk to place in the Entrance Hall. That way, I can ask to see Mr WH’s credentials each time he passes through, one can never be too careful these days. I’ve told him…if his name's not on the list…(to which he rolled his eyes). This week he fed me some breadcrumbs that were out of date and had weasels in them, which made me feel quite nauseous to be honest. He said that I was mistaken and that they were actually called weevils but I think he's mistaken because I’m pretty certain that weevils are creatures that operate looms in the afternoon because they are too lazy to get up in the morning to do it.
11 Feb:
 
Have taken to using our walkie talkies again as Mr WH keeps forgetting to bring me my afternoon pot of Lady Grey. I sip it slowly whilst nibbling on an English coconut madeline, they have the most delightful sweetened cherry glaze and are utterly scrumptious. What can I say? It keeps one off the sherry, phnar phnar! I have suggested that we get one of those bells that jingle on a wire so he can hear it ding-a-ling when he is professoring in his laboratory. Trouble is, he's usually wearing noise defenders as he has a lot of experiments to do and stuff like that, so, to be truthful, I'm at a complete loss at what to do. If I don't have my afternoon replenishment I start to feel a tad giddy and there are only so many times one can lay themselves down on a chaise longue, holding a cold compress to the forehead. In all honesty, it gets boring, plus it makes my arm ache after a while. There has to be more to life.
 
On the subject of Mr WH, we have recently celebrated his birthday, his special birthday. Apparently, he is now able to travel upon a horseless carriage without having to pay any fare! Bursting with childlike curiosity, we hatched a little plan in order to put this to the test. Together, we idled at the coach stop until it arrived. Then, as he boarded, he inquired what the charge would be to go half a mile and return. Upon hearing the answer, my husband nodded, however, no coins were exchanged as he proudly indicated that he actually had a special pass! Whilst the driver shook his head in apparent annoyance, Mr WH threw a look of satisfaction in my direction. I giggled and waved him off, thinking how brave he could be at times. With a little tear in my eye, I quickly ran back home to board Bluebottle, my trusted old pedal car. Safely securing Chumley and Muttlet into the seat behind me and with the strap of my hard hat fixed correctly under my chin, we set off to catch up with the omnibus. This was something that we all needed to witness; the town car actually turning on its axis to return my husband home? Surely, this would prove to be an unmissable experience… 
 
Unfortunately, the bus did not stop to let him off. It carried on. Mr WH failed to return for several hours and when he finally came through the door, he was somewhat dishevelled and terribly exhausted. Making his way to retire, he called out that there was a little something for me on the hall table. There, in the key bowl, sat a sugar-glass lollipop, bearing the words,‘I ♥️ Blackpool’. Oh dear. We will have to try again, perhaps when he has had a little bit of a rest.
18 Feb:
 
Had a visit from the perilous poseur that is Crispin Tanat-Blythe. Checked out his credentials and let him pass; sat him in The Parlour with an Earl Grey and the last of the Garibaldis. At first blush, one felt somewhat honoured by such an unexpected visitation, however, it turned out that he was only here to meet Letitia ‘Titty’ Cuddleworthy. Titty pops out on a Wednesday, usually around three o’clock, stays here with us just long enough to devour a hot crumpet, swilling it down with a thimbleful of my best gin. Unfortunately, this is often followed by a quick rendition of ‘God Save The King’, which she performs by belching. Now, though this may go down well at The Tavern on a Saturday evening, it is not something that I am particularly keen on for The Parlour. That said, on this occasion, she just sat, silently preening herself like a fussy kitten before calling for a clipper of sherry and a slice of Battenberg. Oddly, she only ate the pink squares, choosing to wrap up the rest in her snotty handkerchief before ramming it into her apron pocket. All whilst still wearing those hideous fingerless gloves. More than a little grubby, it has been said that she never takes them off. I have heard that she wears them in order to hide the blisters which she gets from laboriously dragging along a wooden plough. Tilling is just one part of the active role she plays as a hands-on director on the family homestead.
 
 ‘Cuddleworthy’s Farm’
"Where Carrots n’ Cabbages Get Born n’ Bred, alongside kin. All one big happy family."

 

Wouldn't mind if Crispy had come to see us or to meet with anyone else for that matter, but Titty? She's somewhat known for being a wanton wench here in the village, though I'm not entirely sure what that actually means, is it like Chumley, always wanton another biscuit? Anyway, given that Mr Tanat-Blythe is married to the local magistrate, Pointlessly Portia, we are reluctant to court any more drama; we simply have to keep our heads down since the last incident. Told Mr WH we’ll play no part in any of their future clandestine shenanigans. Barred them both. They won't get past the Front of House desk next time.
Note to self: Locate alternative suppliers of fresh produce…
 
Mr WH said that although he couldn't be certain, he thinks that he had spotted Count Dracula in the local churchyard. He continued to add that some dark, mysterious figure appeared to be removing the stakes used to support the fruit trees. Going to keep an eye out to see if the trees suffer as a consequence. Any problems and I will have to tell the vicar. Pretty sure though, that it was all in my husband's imagination. I think that he thought it was Halloween, when in fact, it was actually Valentine's Day. Mmm, maybe there's a subliminal message there, amongst his clouded confusion…
25 Feb:
 
Sent Mr WH down to ‘Ye Old Bakehouse’ for a well fired crusty bloomer. Staggered back an hour and a half later, stinking of ale, plus he’d exchanged thrippence for someone's well-worn flat cap, which, in all honesty, didn't suit him at all. He also had a repulsive newspaper secured within an armpit and said, ‘Ay up, our lass!’ which is something he has never said to me before, not that I recall anyhow, and, to be frank, I'm not sure that I'm all that keen on it. To top it all off he had caught someone's hiccups, regrettably, bringing them home with him. I suggested that the only way he could get them to stop hopping was to catch each of them individually as they shot out and pop them into a clean glass jar, taking care to screw the lid on tightly. It's an age-old trusted method passed on through generations. Anyway, I left him to it, in The Parlour, albeit it wasn't long before I was caught up in the middle of a most calamitous commotion, for there he stood, beating the life out of the swags and tails with my lacrosse stick. It appeared that one of the hiccups had landed on top of the curtain pelmet and much to my husband’s chagrin, was reluctant to come down. Telephoned old Ephraim to ask for his advice; he being a connoisseur of knowledge and all that. He advised that we place a solitary liquorice comfort on the rim of the bottleneck to entice the hiccup inside, which I'm pleased to say worked an absolute treat! Old Ephraim played a blinder there. All hiccups concerned were soon safely returned to their rightful owner. 
 
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Au revoir, mes amis qui ont un penchant pour les particularités…
~Waves a hand to bid farewell. I'm off to fly my way to March in the hopes that I might see you there~
Mrs WH