What a frightfully bad start
to the day! For once, I do not refer to the latest cutlery fiasco. Though it
remains a mystery to me how the correct placement of butter knives should prove
such an ongoing dilemma.
No, on this
occasion the error was infinitely more basic. For I was greeted at breakfast by
my late Victorian, pink peacock, gilt-edged, fluted vase awash with mismatched
peonies of a migraine-inducing variety of tones. I confess to momentary
speechlessness. Indeed, it was not until after the silverware had been cleared
away that I regained sufficient composure to enable me to take the
recently-appointed housemaid aside to instruct her in some basic rules of
flower arranging. She listened; indeed that much is true. Yet she managed to do
so without portraying a hint of deference.
To relieve my frustrations, I walked the estate
accompanying the hounds for their morning perambulation. Whence, refreshed and
de-robed of my waxed and waterproof garments (which provided excellent coverage
during a plethora of summer showers) I was attending to my daily epistle duty
when a tradesman distracted me by peering into my front entrance. The servants’ access is
clearly indicated so I can only assume the delivery boy’s command of
written English is as inferior as his apparel. Old School standards are as rare
as seamed 10 deniers it seems. Even in the Shires.
Nor did my day’s challenges end there. For subsequently I
was faced with a further trial during luncheon. The new Vicar had joined me for
a local society debrief and organic soup (I believe, despite the Revd
contributing little to our social intercourse, that he enjoyed both in equal
measure) when my sight was drawn to a misalignment of the condiments.
Thankfully my guest failed to notice the faux pas and the young
attendant was summoned immediately upon the Minister’s departure and informed
of her error. To my horror she remained singularly unperturbed.
How I yearn for a healthy smattering of subservience
amongst the staff.
