Godfather Aristotle and Josiah Wedgwood

There is no doubt my ongoing exuberance for the delightful craftsmanship spawned by Josiah Wedgwood Esquire and his porcelain empire is as fervent as ever. Dear Godfather Aristotle initially introduced me to the white on saxon blue design. Indeed, it was he who presented me with my first piece. The occasion, as I recall, being a modest celebration following completion of my inaugural watercolour of Farthing Hall. The gilt framed artwork still hangs in the Library where Papa proudly unveiled The Masterpiece (as it become known, despite my protestations) before - notwithstanding my tender years - permitting me a sip of champagne.Such a gay aura infused the Hall that evening.

Over the intervening decades my Godfather oftentimes related the tale behind this purchase. Apparently, whilst journeying through Staffordshire - not a regular route for him though a passion for his property portfolio occasionally took him to less familiar counties - he offchance came upon

the pottery premises. Eager to honour me with a keepsake from a most successful trip, he insisted on acquiring what became one of my most precious jewellery items.

 

Not surprisingly, the Classic Pin Head has remained in my affection ever since.

Such a munificent act was typical of my Godfather, of course. He exuded refined taste. Though that is no more than one would expect from a gentleman with connections to European aristocracy.

Only recently, whilst spending a satisfying morning perusing those contents nestling in the velvet lined mahogany jewellery box I inherited from my maternal grandmother, I came upon yet another cherished gift: a Classic Muse Brooch ensemble. For Godfather Aristotle ensured he took an annual trip to the aforementioned county, always returning from said journeys with a keepsake for his favourite Goddaughter. 

His demise a year or two ago sadly resulted in the stagnation of my collection. In a bid to revive it, however, the other day over a smoked salmon luncheon accompanied by the most delightful Chablis which we imported from our vineyard in France last year, I speculated as to the possibility of The Master contemplating a northern trip. Unfortunately, he explained, what with his business commitments in the Capital and obligations to his Club, opportunities to fit in random shopping expeditions to unfamiliar counties simply do not arise.

Dust Sheet Debacle

 

The presence of tradesmen in Farthing Hall – a frequent occurrence since preserving standards is imperative - inevitably generates challenges, I find. This morning offers a fine example. As I was exiting my Jewellery Room, having selected my favourite ruby ensemble which complements my chosen jersey twin set with such clarity, I spotted an overalled youth wandering the corridor. Given that he was some considerable distance from the refurbishment area, I confronted him aside the aspidistra.

He justified his presence by insisting he’d lost his bearings whilst negotiating the west wing. I directed him to the servants’ staircase, made a mental note to dissuade Cook from being so generous to labourers and headed for the gift wrapping room.

As I crossed the threshold, however, I was overcome with displeasure. Indeed a lingering aroma of hand printed wallpaper and bespoke paint did imply a measure of progress. Yet instead of appreciating newly honed décor, my gaze was drawn to swathes of unacceptably filthy fabric which coated my weave, my bureau and my custom-made walnut with suede inlay shelving. Curled edges of said fabric revealed a multitude of stains on both sides.

The function of dust sheets is to offer a resting place on which the result of labour can accumulate. Yet what I fail to understand is their lack of cleanliness. Surely regular removal of grime is crucial? For otherwise dirt is merely left to infuse those very items the fabric is designed to protect.

This preponderance of filth and air borne particles ingratiating themselves upon my belongings induced much angst on my part. In truth, a resolution to personally purchase fresh ones came perilously close. Yet this is far from my responsibility.

Meantime, a brace of workers acknowledged my presence. The more responsible of the two (though, in all honesty, the difference was marginal) engaged his listening skills when I vocalised my disaste of dirt riddled equipment. Yet his subsequent incomprehension at my grievance prompted a ripple of angst the like of which I have not experienced since a chandelier restorer attempted to convince me he could cleanse my finials for a mere three figure sum.

                Who knows, I emphasised, what germs could be invading Farthing Hall and smearing my treasures with infested grime.

                I went on to suggest, in as authoritative manner as I could summon, the provision of new cotton calico or, at the very least, the laundering of the present supply, before the continuation of further work.

                The boy’s disdain was barely credible. The business, he enlightened me, is unable to produce unsullied kit for every customer.

                I took a moment to remind him of the value of my patronage. His mother’s position on the Embroidery Federation Committee and the local Council vacancy to which his father publicly aspires was also mentioned.

                Pristine dust sheets, he murmured, will be in situ tomorrow morning.

Unkempts Herbs and Lady Garden Undergrowth

 

            How I adore pottering around my raised beds when the sun’s rays adorn my lawns. Rodgers, our ageing Head Gardener, has done a splendid job over the years though I cannot help but notice the herbaceous borders are in danger of overshadowing my forking larkspur. Upon further, more detailed inspection, indeed, I note the shabbiness of my lady garden; it has clearly been denied periodic trimming.  

            My disappointment, momentarily abated by the evocative call of a lone mistle thrush, returns with vigour when I observe that the bird baths not only lack fresh water but reveal a somewhat unkempt exterior.

Yet matters further deteriorate when I venture beyond the box hedges. Really! I must take Rodgers to task for allowing the herbs to proliferate in such an unstructured fashion.

Being a kitchen garden is no excuse for disarray. Indeed, it is of no surprise that Cook’s new assistant was unable to locate the oregano on Saturday evening. Though how she could have selected borage as an acceptable substitute, I cannot imagine. It is hardly to be wondered that the beef failed to reach an acceptable standard. Thankfully, my guests - local dignitaries from the Enterprise Award Scheme – were not blessed with the most sophisticated of palettes and therefore remained unaware of the herbal mishap. (They may have originated from the lower end of the social strata, but I am grateful they limited their use of napkins to the correct facial function. I still recall that ghastly incident last year when a despicable representative from the Mayor’s Office blew his wretched nose on my starched linen.)  

In the meantime Cook must take her supervisory role a little more seriously. We have another dinner engagement a week hence and I do not want a repeat of this culinary débâcle. Indeed I will see to it that she details to her young charge both the location and merits of our wide range of free range herbs. 

            As far as the gardens are concerned, this shameful situation cannot be allowed to continue. I shall invite Rodgers to partake of a pot of coffee with me in the orangery tomorrow morning and use the occasion to air my increasing unease over my foliage and his commitment. The standards of Farthing Hall’s gardens, I will stress, are not negotiable. The simple question is whether or not he has the desire to retain the responsibility of managing my undergrowth.

 

Blemishes and Tarnishing

Frankly, I am most disappointed. Standards are slipping and I have had to call on all my reserves as an employer and archetypal mistress of the house to retain a modicum of sanity.

In short, my silverware has never been so tarnished. The candelabra are overrun with fingerprints, giving the family heirlooms an aura of common bric-a-brac. Such slackness should have been avoided. Each member of the cleaning staff is given clear and concise instructions at the onset of their employ as to my requirements, cotton gloves to be worn whilst dusting being one of the most imperative.

Who knows what damage a young girl’s pasty digits have caused to my beloved father’s wine stopper? His demise is almost a blessing given that he is unable to witness such second rate values.

Revised instructions will be compiled and posted prominently in the servant quarters and in the meantime extra duties are paramount. I expect my silver salvers to be gleaming by the end of the week.

The debacle prompts me to examine the main guest quarters where the brass with mother of pearl inlay fountain pen holder has clearly received no more than a cursory wipe and now appears decidedly second rate. Thank heavens no influential visitors have required an overnight stay since my last in-depth inspection.

Of course, if I had not been lately so preoccupied with charity matters, I would surely have noticed the blemishes. I make a diary note to continue with regular, though unannounced, assessments until I am satisfied that buffing levels are of an acceptable standard.

Ideals and Expectations

That references form an integral prerequisite of the recruitment process is a given. Never have I employed a member of staff - even one below stairs - without first availing myself of their moral standards, willingness to adhere to rules and personal principles via a preceding employer. Should a prospective Chambermaid harbour any distasteful flaws, or Under Housekeeper endeavour to conceal a dishonest defect or two, then I expect to unearth such transgressions for, doubtless, such minutiae will play an important role in influencing my decision whether or not to offer the candidate a coveted position at Farthing Hall.

A lack of referees accompanying a job application, therefore, invokes an air of suspicion on my part. I am, you see, in the process of replacing a Scullery Maid. The previous occupant fulfilled her obligations admirably but has decided on an adjustment to her career. The Antipodes beckons, apparently. The notion of journeying with little more than a rucksack was touched upon during her exit interview for why any young lady would choose to voyage without the assurance of a silk lined leather trunk and hotel in which afternoon tea takes precedence over bar based entertainment, eludes me.

Still, her decision made, I at once contacted Quality Appointments to The Gentry Agency. Disappointingly, their initial candidates bordered on mediocre. Clearly my demand for someone with experience went unnoticed. Cleansing and scouring may, to the unversed, be unskilled tasks but I venture that attention to detail, not to mention physical robustness, is essential in fulfilling my expectations.

A second batch did, I confess, reflect a modicum of improvement, at least in terms of basic competence. Yet I note several Curriculum Vitae failed to list referees.

Should such a transgression prompt me to conclude this to be their first such appointment or, rather, that a prior role was so inadequately executed to deny the appearance of a testimonial?

Further calls to the Agency proved to be unduly lengthy and simultaneously frustrating.  I insisted I had no intention of inviting candidates for interview without prior sight of a hand written endorsement. Twice during our exchange the telephone line clicked into inaction forcing me to redial whilst making a mental note to contact the Telephone Exchange. I will report the fault later.

Meanwhile, this negative encounter has impelled me to bypass agencies. Instead, I will rely on my society equals. Hopefully they will either recommend an alternative organisation - one which still prides itself on established values - or even be in a position to personally recommend a replacement.

If there is one thing that this debacle has proved, it is that ideals and expectations rarely infiltrate the class divide.

Bentley, Marmande tomatoes and top shelf magazines

My Bentley is undergoing a spot of maintenance work today.  Only after extensive deliberation did I resolve to permit a nearby, independent enterprise to undertake the labour.  Previously, our London dealer has undertaken any necessary overhaul of our vehicles but with the economy under sufferance - at least according to gossip I overheard at a recent Demise of Subservience Discussion Group - I am eager to declare my support of local businesses. I trust their professionalism matches their eagerness.

            The proprietor appreciated my commission and, indeed, offered to dispatch an underling to collect the vehicle. Unwilling to allow an adolescent in oily overalls to indulge in a motoring experience way beyond his calling, however, I drove the car to the garage this morning.

On my meander back to Farthing Hall I took the opportunity to call upon several retail outlets in the village. A rare but thoughtful gesture and one much appreciated, no doubt, by those shopkeepers whose products I procured. Yet not all the choices on offer fully met my expectations.

In the bakery, for instance, I purchased a granary batch ‘baked on the premises’ though heaven knows where it else it could have been cooked. The adjacent trader, a greengrocery, was also singularly unimpressive. Being most unhappy with the original choice of Marmande tomatoes made by the owner, I determined to handpick a pound and a half from the more succulent selection tucked away at the rear of the counter. I trust my reprimand will prevent the reoccurrence of this display débâcle.

My final destination was a crowded news agency. And a most distressing visit this turned out to be. For I was forced to suppress my shock at the sight of a number of top shelf magazines which must surely be illegal imports and certainly warrant a stern letter to my MP whence I returned to the Hall. 

Nevertheless, undeterred, and having composed myself aside the broadsheets, I chose a number of quality glossy journals which I hand delivered to the surgery. The alarmingly youthful looking GP accepted my donation. Such a pity he demonstrated marginal distress at being called away from a patient. Given the ageing and inferior array of periodicals in the waiting area, I’m astonished he didn’t show more gratitude.

Following an afternoon of intense correspondence, at 4pm, just as a fragrant tisane moistened my lips, I received a telephone call from a young apprentice informing me that my motor vehicle would be returned to me within the hour. Only if the manager himself is behind the wheel, I insisted.

Ongoing Duties

 

I have begun the New Year with a much needed assessment of my Charity and Community Commitments.  Given the demands upon my time - ongoing and relentless committee obligations not to mention the occasional lecture for how unselfishly eager I am to share my skills with less knowledgeable villagers - I have taken on the duty of monitoring my diary. Further clashes are to be avoided at all costs.  How grateful I was for The Master’s forgiveness when his post Boxing Day shoot conflicted with the raking of my internal labyrinth.

The débacle would never have arisen, of course, but for the inefficiency of my junior administrator. Had I not repeatedly told her to distinguish between mine and The Master’s duties? Why, I even purchased two tones of writing implement. Such a shoddy attitude has been noted in her personnel records and henceforth I will mastermind my own diary entries.

Meanwhile I have taken to compiling several lists. The first consists of organisations whose function would be unfeasible without my guidance (Rub and Buff for the Inexperienced – an ongoing series of workshops revolving around brass maintenance) and The League of Traditional Housewifery to name but two). A second inventory is devoted to institutions such as the Parish Council and Church. I have, for some years, provided each with a backbone in terms of well informed opinion and refreshments (though I will no longer waste imported Jasmine tea on individuals whose preference is rationed to powdered leaves confined within what I can only describe as flimsy packaging). Whilst yet another inventory contains those societies whose practical assistance is matched only by my determination to raise standards. Some improvements were recorded towards the end of last year. On one unannounced inspection of porches, for instance, I was pleased to witness the majority had recently been swept if not washed. A written reminder posted through a number of letterboxes prompted somewhat belated action in the remaining households.

After weighing up my commitments, however, I am currently nursing a dilemma. Although I had probed the notion of stepping down from one or two organisations, how could I possibly abandon my duties without stimulating an unnecessary plummeting of values? The core of village life cannot be abandoned. I will, therefore, retain all my committee roles, doubtless to the infinite gratification of the community.

 

Gift Wrapping for the Unskilled

Never could I have predicted such shockingly shoddy dexterity. Why, some of my learners could barely rule a straight baseline let alone finger their broad edged nib with a tangible degree of care and competency. Only one hour into my Gift Wrapping for the Unskilled and there was no denying my meticulously planned workshop required modification.  

            I had anticipated that calligraphy endorsed gift tags would provide a stimulating opening to the day’s proceedings. I even opted for the Foundational Alphabet which is not only one of the calligraphic basics, its name would surely provide a psychological incentive to those unused to handling delicate writing implements. Such a pity the group failed to rise to my expectations.

            I suggested an early tea break and beckoned my kitchen helpers – over indulging in village gossip aside the urn to the detriment of their duties – to bring forward the Earl Grey and Garibaldis. Perhaps an infusion of refreshments might rouse an element of creativity.

            When everyone was finally persuaded to reconvene (thank heavens for my last minute decision to bring a servants’ bell) I chose the moment to launch into a mini lecture about sanitation. Treat your nibs well, I advised, delay not in flushing out your reservoirs and palettes must also be thoroughly cleansed after use. I had rather hoped to witness a profusion of note taking. Presumably, however, the attendees committed my advice to memory.

            I then exposed the women to a selection of quality wrap. Embossed with seasonal icons, the customised paper included my personal monogram though I pointed out the ease with which anyone present could design a bespoke style to reflect their own heritage adding that all orders would result in a percentage being donated to The Christmas Luncheon Fund. Some of the elderly villagers, I recently discovered, rarely mobilise their ranges these days. Of course, such inexcusable lethargy should not be encouraged yet, with the season of goodwill upon us, I was resolute in my desire to help these indolent individuals.

            Post Cook’s asparagus quiche and rocket with rosemary infused dressing (some delegates brought sandwiches which was acceptable; crisp trails and resulting odour were not) heralded the start of the practical segment of the afternoon. I demonstrated gift wrapping techniques and ribbon decor with unencumbered joy for only my annual period in the west facing Gift Wrapping Room could surpass such gratification. Finally, an hour was put aside for individual mentoring and consultation; not only an opportunity to encourage personal growth but, for me, the pleasure of sharing my expert knowledge.

            A successful day, I concluded, despite persistent chitchat which forced me to deliver several rebukes. Nevertheless, I am confident that my ladies will henceforth enhance their Christmas gifts with uniquely stylish presentation. Indeed, I may consider making this workshop an annual event. For it would be irresponsible of me not to share my skills.

Sparklers and Canapes

Celebrating the demise of that outrageous fellow, Guido Fawkes, has been a Gosworthy-Pringle ritual since my early childhood. Mama, in her wisdom, annually turned a blind eye to my sneaking out of bed in order to view the distant beacon from the balcony of my suite. For, like her, it stirred an enthusiasm in history. Indeed, I would have chosen to study the subject if my Boarding School's curriculum hadn't insisted upon other priorities. Regrettable, perhaps, yet I wager the Humanities could never have offered as much valuable and practical application as have Needlepoint and Deportment during the intervening decades.

 
Still, the interest spawned during my formative years continues prompting me to coordinate the reintroduction of more traditional revelry.

Firstly, as I insisted at our initial Village Committee meeting - to which all the local dignitaries I had summoned turned up with the exception of the Parish Council Deputy Chair; I highlighted said absence via the Flower Arranging Guild's Autumn Newsletter - the modern term Bonfire Night reflects neither the quality nor gravitas of our festivity. It is right, therefore, to rekindle Guy Fawkes Night.

Although there was considerable pressure exerted upon me to host this year's event at Farthing Hall, clearly the Master would never tolerate commoners trampling his precious lawns. We have, therefore, defaulted to the village green, an area familiar to the working class community where they will undoubtedly feel more at home than in the grounds of such a prestigious residence.

 

The venue being settled, I took it upon myself to draw up some rules. Groups of youths are to be discouraged. In particular, I suggest there should be no congregating around the soft drinks kiosk since this could, so easily, engender unruly behaviour.

In addition, sparklers will be limited to one packet per person. Heaven knows, I harbour no desire to be responsible for over excited adolescents.

The entry fee, I decided - and my colleagues, unable to propose a viable alternative, soon concurred - should be by donation to a charitable venture. And what better recipient than the nearby Residence for Retired Butlers which was, I am proud to confess, founded by my paternal grandfather? He was such a visionary.

Other tasks are in hand. I have ordered a plentiful supply of Catherine Wheels and Rockets. I just hope the local dairy is able to donate sufficient milk bottles to cope with demand for they seemed genuinely perplexed at my request. Meantime, one of my fellow Committee members has been dispatched to purchase matches while Cook has kindly offered to contribute a selection of canapes.

I am, I confess, overjoyed at the prospect of such merriment. Given the success it will, of course, be, I expect to continue organising such events for the foreseeable future.

Harvest Memories

This is the time of year that evokes one of my dearest childhood memories – that of Cook permitting me to pop beribboned containers of homemade grouse paté into the bespoke hamper mother annually donated to The Home for Fallen Women and their Subsequently Disadvantaged Status. Harvest Festival has ranked highly in my affection ever since.

            Yet, as the seasonal celebration approaches, I am experiencing an unequivocal quandary. And one, in all probability, I am surely honour bound to resolve. For The Parish Church’s imminent service leads me to recall with acute dismay last autumn’s offerings which, frankly, were barely tolerable. Indeed, I recall remonstrating with the newly appointed Vicar, enlightening her of my sure knowledge that a number of local families had the ability, though clearly not the desire, to delve a little deeper into their larders, as well as their wallets.

So, determined as I am to ensure the debacle is not repeated, I will shortly indulge in a spot of casual canvassing in order to prompt a more acceptable level of generosity around the Parish. A tiresome task, encouraging donations, but nevertheless one I feel compelled to undertake.

            I mentioned my calling to the Vicar yesterday following her somewhat belated acceptance of my invitation to morning coffee. Though a demanding schedule precluded her from staying little more than eleven and a half minutes, I used the time effectively by airing my discord concerning her pulpit plea for non perishable goods. Surely, I implored, given the obvious need for vitamins amongst the deprived classes, more attention should be focussed on freshly edible offerings. Her politeness warranted praise though her doggedness in refusing to take on board my unquestionable familiarity with village life less so.

            I shall, therefore, plough my own field this year as I have no more intention of contributing packaged food than I would venture from the privacy of my private quarters without pearls.

Meanwhile, I have despatched Rodgers to call upon a number of purveyors since a supply of sturdy boxes is paramount. With a multitude of fruit ripening in the orchard, robust containers will ensure my award winning heritage pears remain blemish-free until their delivery to, and consumption by, the needy.

Only then will my Harvest wishes be sated.

Academic Duties

A few months ago when I mentioned to the Vice Chair of our Village Action Group my desire to further extend my influence in the community, according to a diary reference I have just now located, I anticipated an imminent opportunity. It is not in my nature to dwell upon delayed prospects, of course. Not to mention inexplicable tardiness. Yet such a belated response to an overwhelmingly generous proposition is mightily discouraging. My numerous commitments encroach upon a significant amount of my time and I do not make such offers lightly. Nevertheless, I am pleased to have - albeit belatedly - joined the Board of Governors of the village school. My aspirations extend to the position of Chair, of course.

Although I have so far attended but an initial meeting, there is clearly a wealth of issues to tackle. The slovenly attitude of the outgoing Governor is no loss and, if my fellow Governors care to follow my paradigm of energy and enthusiasm, I am convinced the establishment has the capability of enhancing its existing, somewhat average, reputation. I sincerely hope so.

During our gathering - to which I took a quantity of Cook's excellent shortbread together with some elderflower tisane, the former rapidly consumed while the latter was disregarded in favour of excessively sweetened tea - I suggested utilising the opportunity to share a brace of proposals which I have been cultivating during the summer months.

Sadly, the agenda did not specifically permit the discussion of such far reaching proposals as the advantages of installing an adult presence at the school gates in order to deter lunchtime absondence. Heaven knows what tempts the youths to leave the school premises what with a plethora of stimulating activities available. On which subject I would be delighted to organise an intensive Conduct and Deportment Workshop for those young ladies who need to learn that skirt length is intrinsically linked to academic achievement.

Yet my innovative suggestions were not particularly welcome. Indeed, by the end of our intercourse I was a trifle suspicious that my colleagues were displaying a degree of reticence about endorsing new initiatives. A little lobbying via my legendary Farthing Hall morning coffee gatherings should, however, furnish me with the appropriate juncture to persuade them to adopt my principles.

In the meantime, word has reached me of mutterings encompassing an outrageous rule which restricts Governor appointments to ex pupils. Such a preposterous notion! Having attended the finest boarding school in the land my demeanour and protocol far exceed those of my working class associates who clearly lurched through their precious State education system only to emerge with barely the rudiments of social etiquette.

Horticulture

Plans are afoot to expose my rear access. Frankly, this was not part of my initial aspiration when I offered Farthing Hall as a venue for a pioneering village horticultural event. Yet the growing possibility of the local community scrutinizing my main entrance was simply too much to bear. I may be of some standing in the area and, as such, willing to host the Show (the first of an undoubtedly regular summer occasion), but I do not wish my private approach to be on public display.

            Hence the decision to steer visitors along one of the previously defunct tradesmen’s routes. This will not provide as stunning a vista as when perambulating the cedar lined drive, admittedly, though I trust an appropriate willingness to contain disappointment will be in order.

Of course, the refurbishment is in danger of bestowing undue burden upon my gardening contingent. I have therefore selected an additional workforce to offer assistance. Terms of temporary employment have been agreed. Once satisfactory references are within my safekeeping, the recruits will be under instruction to revive the entrance used by delivery boys of old. It has become remarkably unkempt of late and I refuse to stint on first impressions. After all, a fine floral display is paramount in order to reflect the quality of the inaugural event.

            Meanwhile, I have invited representatives from a nearby printing establishment to visit me at noon today in order to discuss the programme design. In point of fact, a draft schedule has already been compiled.  This includes one of my rather charming pencil sketches of the magnificent magnolia grandiflora which I frequently appreciate from the parterre. Admittedly, I did not invest much time on said illustration. My schedule simply precludes such luxuries. I hardly need add, however, that it reflects my usual artistic standard and will, therefore, make an excellent front cover.

            From mutterings below stairs, of which I became aware only this morning, I learn that a youth of a reporter from our regional newspaper has got wind of my project. That is all well and good, but I will not have a fledgling journalist exploiting either my premises or horticultural exhibition to further his career. I have assured the company’s Group Director, whose wife I fleetingly encountered at a recent sherry decanting workshop, that I will not only submit my own article covering the day’s activities, but will ensure it is delivered to the Editor. By hand, of course.

Backhanders, Havannas and Double Handed Lobs

My passion for, and commitment to, that most quintessential English celebration which infuses my diary at this time of year is well documented. And rightly so. I have been a regular attendee of The All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club since Papa first settled me on a velvet seat in the Royal Box. He may have momentarily popped down to the locker room to partake of a hand rolled Havanna or two with HRH, but his absence was sufficiently lengthy for me to cultivate what quickly became a lifelong ardor for backhanders.

            Yet despite my obligations, I have been obliged to return to The Hall where, with more than a soupçon of displeasure, I find myself undertaking crucial work for the Village Fête. It is all quite intolerable at such a late stage. Indeed, the event may have been my inspiration but, really, despite an initial and healthy burst of enthusiasm from the ladies of the village, the Committee has dwindled to myself (Chair), the Deputy Librarian who rarely attends our weekly meetings despite my frequent postal reminders, and the local Meals on Wheels representative, who turns out to be more mince and mash than scones and cream.

            With the celebration a mere two weeks hence, planning time is now of the essence.

            Immediately after perusing today’s luncheon menu, therefore, I contacted a number of potential benefactors to persuade them of our need for both quality and copious raffle prizes.  I look forward to the arrival of appropriate deliveries from my chosen donors. Heaven knows, if the county’s Care Home is to stand the remotest chance of replacing those blemished mattresses, generosity is paramount.      

            My subsequent task involved penning a note to the village school Headmistress requesting further details of her somewhat courageous suggestion of a fancy dress competition. There were mutterings, reported to me by Cook, that a cluster of senior girls, overflowing with unregulated hormones, were contemplating transforming the event into something akin to a St Trinians débacle. Clearly, there is no room in village life for such outlandish behaviour. I shall do my utmost to ensure both skirt lengths and conduct remain within the boundaries of polite society.

            As far as catering is concerned, Farthing Hall will, of course, lead the way.  The kitchen staff are fully aware of my expectations.

            After a somewhat exhausting day, reasonable headway in both marquee décor and ticket design has, I believe, been achieved. Barring any unforeseen hitches, I shall return to the Championships after breakfast tomorrow. The Master is likely to accompany me. After all, there’s nothing that satisfies him more than the occasional double handed lob.

 

Arts Extravaganza

Farthing Hall’s Arts Extravaganza is under threat of infiltration by crocheted paper handkerchief box covers of insipid hues. Such blandness wreaks of charity shop status. Indeed, so does the telltale odour.

I might well have anticipated such influx. For recently, whilst ordering a tin of ointment for The Master’s furuncle which has yet again surrendered to unregulated distension, my attention in the pharmacy was diverted by nearby mention of yarn remnants. I glanced around to witness a couple of helpers from the Tea for the Retired Afternoon Club who were rather too loudly vocalising their views. If only they embraced their washing up duties with such verve. The topic of their excitement soon became apparent: Caring for The County’s Women of Disrepute outlet’s box of random skeins. Leftovers from indeterminate origins, I would say. The wool, if not those females whose morals have long since deserted them.

            It seems a number of other villagers have also been making similar purchases. Their resultant lilac, pastel pink and sky blue offerings are now littering my orangery. How they clash with the Italian marble décor! I cannot imagine anyone yearning to purchase these items. Yet nevertheless I am honour bound to coordinate a display. A discreet position will be found where they will not distract those attendees - and there will be a profusion - expecting quality works of art created by professional exhibitors.

            To this end, I have been in touch with creative groups throughout the county. Doubtless they are all eager to be included in my exposition. The inspiration first presented itself during one of our weekly Arts for the Gifted masterclasses, an initiative I established after experiencing undue frustration on a previous course which, had I realised it came under the jurisdiction of the Local Authority, would have been disinclined to attend.  However, at the aforementioned masterclass, over a cup of Earl Grey with an accompanying Rich Tea biscuit during a break in finalising my latest landscape, the Arts Extravaganza notion presented itself.

            I delayed not in undertaking the organisation. A number of colleagues of similar artistic enthusiasm – though inferior execution - were recruited.

            I, of course, have undertaken the bulk of the work. Catering and decor, sherry and canapés fall within my jurisdiction. Artists and their agents similarly liaise directly with me. That my pre dinner drinks were last night disturbed by a query over easel positioning matters not. A little persuasion to call at a more reasonable time - avoiding morning coffee, luncheon and afternoon tea – will surely be met with consideration. That is, if they wish to remain part of this most prestigious event.

Swearing In

 

What an invigorating day and one culminating in equal measures of exhilaration and reward.  Not only to me personally. I believe society will also benefit.

I refer, of course, to the Swearing-In of the new High Sheriff. He will prove to be a most worthy appointment, of that I am certain, hence my unshakable backing of his tenure.

It is high time a traditionalist returned to office. Last year some do-gooder more akin to left wing shenanigans than solemnity and duty took on this historic role. Indeed, I can still barely believe that the incumbent was of female variety. Thank heavens society’s equilibrium has now been restored.

In addition, I am also pleased that the new High Sheriff acted upon my recommendation of a military tailor. True, the premises of the custom clothier, being on the far side of the county, involved a lengthy journey but, frankly, the resulting velvet jacket and breeches, gauntlet cuffs, three pointed pocket flaps and black hose were worth every mile. HS cut quite a dashing figure, in fact. His choice of gloves - cotton in preference to kid - I will continue to question, yet he kept a firm hand on his cocked hat so I could ask for no more.

The County Assizes based ceremony was brief by official standards.Thankfully the weather proved loyal for the town parade which followed. Some citizens unfortunately appeared to regard the procession as nothing more than an opportunity to stare without restraint or respect. I understand such behaviour is quite commonplace nowadays.

By way of support to our new High Sheriff, I insisted on offering Farthing Hall as a venue for the obligatory Reception which followed. Members of the judiciary were in attendance, along with the Under Sheriff, one or two of our more respectable Councillors, several business entrepreneurs with a leaning to charity affiliation and the Editor-in-Chief of our local newspaper consortium. I trust the latter will carry front page coverage of the event in next week’s edition. 

Despite HS’s suggestion for a casual gathering, he eventually relented at my proposal of a formal luncheon. These occasions should, after all, be marked appropriately. As I pointed out, it is not within everyone’s capability to juggle canapés and drinks whilst conversing in intellectual dialogue. Particularly if they have failed to benefit from attendance at Finishing School.

The afternoon concluded with a speech from the High Sheriff. He really is rather eloquent, a point I mentioned to him prior to my suggestion for regular monthly gatherings. I would, after all, be pleased to retain my association with, and offer guidance to, this figurehead of our community. 

He appeared delighted at my proposal. Yet being such early days he currently felt unable to commit to a date.

Easter Treats

Much as I yearn for an era when children associated Easter with spiritual matters rather than culinary intake, I have decided to impart a measure of cheer to local, less privileged offspring. I believe there are quite a number. No doubt the limited incomes of their parents regularly stretch to procuring copious quantities of tobacco and alcohol, of course, but then not everyone’s priorities are correctly aligned. Perhaps the Chancellor’s recent budgetary announcements may in some way positively influence the moral outlook of those parents who doubtless took on the role with little forethought and even less planning.

            To this end I have advised the Vicar to include a modicum of financial guidance in his Easter Sunday address. Such revelations might even be transferred to printed pamphlets and popped through the letterboxes of those properties displaying nicotine stained net curtains.  Outreach at its basic level, I believe. The Reverend assures me he is considering my proposal.

            But to return to my hitherto mentioned project. I have already summoned a number of retailers to Farthing Hall where, to my delight, they assented to donate chocolate eggs. True, I was dissuaded from my initial suggestion of distribution via means testing. Yet how I would have found the time to undertake this task I cannot imagine what with my preoccupation collaborating with a courier company. I trust the chosen driver is now en route to the south coast where a shipment of Swiss chocolates is awaiting delivery to The Hall. 

            In addition I rang the Headmistress of the village school this morning and suggested that, as part of their Domestic Science syllabus, children make and decorate their own chocolate eggs then arrange them in hand woven baskets. This turned out to be a remarkably difficult conversation. To have reached such a lofty position in charge of a school – albeit a State one - without appreciating the negative impact of confrontation is incomprehensible. I do hope she extends more politeness to her charges than she did to me.

            And now to my other seasonal duties. I have instructed the Housekeeper to acquire fragrant soaps and towels. It is all very well for the elderly to turn up for their ritual Maundy Thursday foot cleansing, but the Vicar cannot be expected to sully his hands on grubby callouses.