Back at the Helm

I still recall with unseasoned distaste the demise of the Townswomen’s Federation following their Treasurer’s mishandling of the Bring ‘n’ Buy stall’s profits.  The village fête remained tainted for some while thereafter.  For not only did the débâcle end in the sad decline of said organisation but also the demise from polite society of the woman who, having been charged with overseeing takings, could barely resist fondling the funds.  Indeed, her downfall prompted the eventual closure of the group.

Although at the time engaged with the overhaul of my colonnade, such disarray in the community necessitated the need for an alternative professional organisation and I delayed my personal itinerary for the greater good.

Hence the founding of the Women’s Guild in whose establishment I played an integral role.  Indeed I led by example, taking on the inaugural post of Chair and only stepping aside when a number of members reminded me that I had surpassed the three year maximum tenure permitted by the Constitution.

In the intervening period I have refrained from active involvement.  Yet various shortcomings have been all too obvious and I have become increasingly disenchanted by wavering standards.  It was with some relief, therefore, when I learned of the forthcoming Chair vacancy. I duly registered my interest.  Regardless of copious commitments, I will do my utmost to restore the Guild’s status.

Voting will take place imminently.  There is little doubt about the outcome, however, and my plans for future organisational enhancement are already in hand.

Several new Committee appointments are to be confirmed imminently.  A couple of women whom, I understand, expressed an interest in my position but clearly lack the necessary leadership qualities, will ideally suit the more minor roles of Refreshments Monitor and Stationery Officer.  I sincerely hope my suggestions will be unopposed at next week’s gathering. I would not want petty infighting to taint proceedings.

Once the formality of elections is completed, I shall concentrate on rearranging this year’s programme.  My numerous contacts will enable me to entice an abundance of speakers to address our group, speakers capable of generating a more proficient air to proceedings.  Local do-gooders may experience a frisson of excitement at imparting their limited knowledge of bland topics such as flower arranging, stamp collecting and the like, but public speaking hardly falls into the same league as floristry and philately.  Hobbies such as these, I suggest, are best savoured within the confines of one’s home.

The Women’s Guild is of utmost significance to the village and I will ensure its profile is rekindled accordingly.  I expect other members will share my aspirations.

What joy to be back at the helm.

 

 

 

New Year, New Under Butler

A fundamental aversion to embrace responsibilities is prevalent in Farthing Hall forcing me to contemplate whether the handsome salary increases I sanctioned just prior to the Millennium were made in error. Indeed, I once again find myself recalling my dear Papa’s perspective: service is a calling, he frequently asserted, and the standards of anyone who prioritises financial gain or personal values over their station will eventually plummet to depths more usually associated with the lower classes.

To be specific, I have been compelled to begin the New Year with the rather distasteful yet, under the circumstances, wholly obligatory, act of dismissing the Under Butler.

His ethics were called into question during our recent Gosworthy-Pringle Gala Dinner.  All was progressing to plan: my hors d’oeuvres selection – initially frowned upon by Cook in a quite unnecessary burst of culinary uncertainty – were much enjoyed, if not commended, by guests whilst the temperature of my welcoming Manzanilla Pasada sherry remained faultless. 

Yet, despite such accomplishments, I will be forever tainted with the discomfiture of witnessing Baronetess Beauchamp Beauford-Beaumont. As she took her place at the mahogany dining table my parents commissioned during the second month of their honeymoon tour of The Continent, I was on the point of sharing my utilisation of smilax fern amongst the flower arrangements when I noted her gaze drawn to a tarnished bouillon spoon. 

Composure never left her visage. I would expect no less. My own horror at the public appearance of flawed silver cutlery, however, ruined my pleasure of this annual occasion.

The following morning I summoned said Under Butler.  He proffered various excuses, as one might expect: the pantry boy had distracted him by seeking help to locate the condiments; a smear on his lower livery required urgent attention. 

The more he vocally floundered, the more I resolved that Farthing Hall would benefit from his absence. Indeed, I have always found the act of grovelling rather unsettling so I somewhat generously offered to provide a reference – modest, of course - then sent him on his way.

The fact that the Staff for the Aristocracy Agency remained closed until well into the New Year caused me some irritation. (Do they truly believe employment issues plunge into dormancy during the holiday season?) I left several succinct messages on their answering machine which I followed up with a hand written letter. At least they troubled to call me immediately upon reopening for business.

The Agency is forwarding to me the personal details of a brace of worthy candidates. 

Meantime, I have set aside next week for interviews. Fosdyke, our septuagenarian Butler, is keen to oversee the appointments, as is part of his remit. However, in order to avoid any further mishaps, I have notified him of my intention to personally decide the final appointment.

Festive Obligations

 

With the festive season upon us, I am in the throes of my annual round of pre Christmas, early evening drinks gatherings. For once again it is my duty to entertain local groups and dignitaries at The Hall.

Indeed, my hostess commitments, I note, increase on an annual basis. This is mainly due to the many institutions whose inauguration I continue to initiate, of course. And whilst it is true that some such bodies take a while to gain momentum, I have always found a correctly worded, hand delivered epistle or two stimulates sufficient interest.

This year I was obliged to commence social arrangements earlier than usual as I have been frantically busy of late organising Christmas gift parcels for the needy. Not that everything went to plan, a lack of efficiency being far too commonplace in my experience. Yet despite my remonstrations there has still been a lengthy delay in delivering the shoe polish and brush leather bound gift sets for those needy people around the globe. I simply cannot imagine their distress! Belated presents are no more acceptable than under starched linen. Next year I will acquire my offerings from other, more reliable, sources.

            In the meantime I have decided to call upon my wine merchant in order to sample his wares and choose an acceptable selection of sherry for our New Year’s Eve cocktail party. Being preoccupied with an Extraordinary General Meeting of the Haberdashery Society last year, I foolishly left the choice to the manager of said establishment. My disappointment, nay surprise, at his assortment warranted a stern rebuke. He clearly is as unfamiliar with the notion of Vintage as he is unwilling to extend his education. New World, I remonstrated, equates to inferior quality. The latter has no place at Farthing Hall.

Whilst on the premises, I will also take the opportunity to request a deliverer who shows a little more diligence than their previous employee. It has taken the housemaid months to eliminate a brace of scuff marks from my watercolour infused cellar walls following last December’s fiasco. Not that the youth displayed any regret for his carelessness. Indeed, I am still astonished he was permitted to visit valuable customers without first scrubbing his soiled digits.

To think he could have fingered my aperitif.

Seasonal Duties

Whilst the duty of purchasing provisions customarily falls within Cook’s remit, each November I savour the prospect of a trip to the village when I personally acquire ingredients for my Christmas puddings. Preparation begins on Stir Up Sunday, a ritual that has long been a Gosworthy-Pringle tradition. As an impressionable young girl, indeed, this was the one time of year when Mama granted me permission to access the bowels of Farthing Hall. There I assisted Cook in washing and picking over bowls of currants and sultanas before stoning a pound or two of raisins. How I recall my euphoria when first handling a cleaver. Several ounces of mixed peel had never before been so uniformly chopped.                       

(Such is my fondness for the custom that the precious annual details are ritually transferred to my calfskin monogrammed diary each New Year.)                  

Before embarking upon my mission, I listed the necessary items. Heavens, their familiarity requires little prompting yet the act of transcribing inevitably provokes an invigorating level of exhilaration.                   

My shopping assignment, however, served more to stem my enthusiasm than swell my dried fruit. Suet was stocked neither in the ageing delicatessen nor boutique of a food emporium that is more rustic superficiality than functional containers of ripened ovaries of seed bearing plants. Nutmeg, I was assured, is only available in powder form within small jars. Similarly, almonds are pre ground. Since one of my pleasures is to crush said drupes to my required consistency, my disappointment was tangible.                               

Such an unacceptable situation cannot be allowed to flourish.  Hence, whilst striding back to The Hall, I determined to summon a meeting of the Parish Council to discuss villagers’ requirements and retailers’ priorities.                               

Meanwhile I handed over responsibility of acquiring pudding components to Cook, though that is by no means the end of my involvement.

                In an outreach gesture, I have decreed that mastication of my delightful Christmas puddings will no longer be limited to seasonal Farthing Hall guests. Members of The Promotion of Classic Garments in a Society of Falling Standards Association are to benefit from the donation of more modest (in size, quality is to remain unaffected) versions. Although the community was, initially, a little tardy in embracing this recent haute couture initiative, my skills of persuasion have since resulted in several housewives joining. In addition, I am compiling a growing list of others who must be approached for I sense a spot of encouragement is required. Members of the lower classes are, after all, rarely forthcoming in admitting their flaws. It is likely that such women, whilst devoid of any tailoring instinct, are equally failing in home economics. My input, therefore, will inevitably enhance their lives on both levels.  

Tricking and Treating

The season approaches when an astonishingly popular, yet somewhat unnecessary, import from one of our ex colonies will once again infiltrate village life.

I do not subscribe to this annual pastime known as, I believe, Tricking and Treating. Indeed, only last month I lobbied the Parish Council to actively deter outdoor pursuits during the hours of darkness when youths should be in their drawing rooms perusing textbooks. Whilst the PC’s negative response was disappointing, it is undoubtedly indicative of a universal attitude designed to appease youngsters. Sadly, my vocal dissent was as solitary as it was earnest. That is not to say my opinions weren’t shared by others, of course, only that some residents were probably precluded from taking up the cause due to a lack of standing in society.

So, given Halloween’s prevalence amongst the younger generation, I feel it is incumbent upon me to lead the way. At least this will proffer me the opportunity to raise standards. No doubt the local children will revel in a rare opportunity to over indulge in boiled sweets and peppermints.

Hence, following my exchange with Cook - during which I made one or two amendments to supper arrangements - I ventured into the village to purchase a supply of edible treats. The purveyor of the sweet shop – a girl of modest years and immodest hemline - seemed a little taken aback at my preference and suggested the addition of a few chocolates might enhance my batch. So I selected a quarter of dark almond truffles - a particular favourite of my dear mother.

Upon returning to Farthing Hall and reminding Cook, yet again, that accurate seasoning is the make or break of a béchamel sauce, thence headed for the orangery to indulge my design instincts. The resulting pastel sketch is quite delightful and will adorn the oak notice board adjacent to the lodge. It clearly states the availability of treats is limited to between afternoon tea and six o’clock.

I see no reason for this frightful foreign ritual to pervade an evening I have assigned to tapestry work. The church kneelers are crying out for attention and some strategically placed needlepoint will surely satisfy the Vicar.

My insistence that youngsters should be dissuaded from roaming the locality for treats has still not received the backing it deserves. No matter. I have instead taken it upon myself to ensure that quality confectionery is available via the servants' entrance at tea time. Along with freshly starched linen napkins, of course.

Harvest Offerings

Local produce. Surely the prospect of a brace of double syllables being misconstrued is negligible? Yet villagers continue to bombard me with queries that attest to what I have long believed: their knowledge of freshly grown foodstuff is in indirect proportion to their enthusiasm for inhaling tobacco. Not to mention alcohol consumption at a nearby hostelry, a venue which adheres little to the licensing laws. It is a crisis I will be taking up with the Leader of the Council when his schedule eventually permits him to join me for afternoon tea.

In the meantime, I continue to advise, ‘local’ does indeed refer to our community. In addition, ‘produce’ denotes nutritionally ripe fare. My efforts are in aid of Harvest Festival which will take place in the Parish Church. For the past year or two the Vicar has restricted donations to tinned goods which have thereafter been shipped across the world to nations which, with a little more diligence, should be perfectly capable of cultivating their own rations. Lengthy transportation was never part of the tradition of Harvest Festival hence my insistence that beneficiaries should this season reside within the county. I used the opportunity of my monthly morning coffee (a Sumatra and Java blend my importer was persuaded to mix) with the clergy to mention the proposal.  Rarely has discomfort so invaded Farthing Hall. Yet never before have I witnessed a Vicar hovering on the periphery of hysteria. Intellectually, geographically and emotionally, I pointed out - my natural calmness a vehicle for restoring harmony - my proposal had merit. Yet some moments passed before my idea was accepted. How I wish it had been embraced with a little more gusto. Instead, I was left with the distasteful conviction that sighing is but a reflection of immaturity.

Nevertheless, the elderly of our community will benefit. A plethora of vitamins and minerals will surely meet their requirements. Cleansing products and hygiene accessories would not go amiss, it is true, but that is a challenge to be tackled on another occasion.

I have selected a retirement home - The Final Phase - whose residents, I observe from my occasional ventures into the village, make a modicum of sartorial effort though I doubt this includes changing for dinner. A diary note for next month will prompt me to speak to the Manager on this latter point though for now my efforts are focussed upon food donations.

One of my still life paintings, I have decided, will make the perfect backdrop to the food collection at the Harvest Festival service. The Vicar uttered some minor objection based on health and safety foolishness yet I hardly see how a gilt frame could constitute a threat. Farthing Hall's Maintenance Manager will see that it is mounted on an easel designed for such proportions. I cannot wait to see my artichoke and quince with spinach backdrop nestling on Spode’s Delamere Rural atop the altar. It will, of course, be the talking point of this year’s Harvest.         

Bunting

I can barely describe my euphoria at the proliferation of bunting adorning the village this season. Doubtless on other occasions such decor could well incite accusations of unnecessary flamboyance. And rightly so. Yet this year patriotic emphasis is a must. I concur with the local view that a fervent display of nationalism is quite in order.

            Not that those elected to oversee village jubilations were originally quite so focused. When I first perused the minutes of the Parish Council’s Extraordinary General Meeting – despite stepping down from said body last year I have insisted the Secretary forwards a copy of all paperwork – in which our elected members debated public beautification, I was somewhat alarmed at the initial proposals. I mean, really, window stickers! As I frequently insisted when chairing this vital body, the ability to access excessive quantities of inferior objects at minimal rates does not make said articles an acceptable choice. My hastily compiled – though simultaneously concise - epistle reminded my ex colleagues of this most obvious fact.

            Thankfully, the Councillors took little persuasion to my proposals and I am obliged to concede that my timely intervention prevented a public calamity. For with minimal delay I was asked to assume the sourcing of alternative regalia obliging me to rekindle the flagging Haberdashery Guild with my bespoke bunting initiative. A most satisfying task. I confess my imported silks rather extended the original, ridiculously modest, budget. Yet as I indicated to the High Sheriff while declining a slice of mass produced cherry sponge at the Recycling for the Over Eighties Awards, to be restricted by price is to renounce quality.

            Since then the village hall has overflowed with bobbins and fabric. Indeed, I have been quite astonished at how the whirring of sewing machines has rekindled fond memories of Nanny. How I used to revel in the dexterity of her fingers when she laboured over the outfits I annually designed for my china doll collection.  

            I am gratified to note that even those less creative ladies of the village have, with a degree of direction, contributed to the production. Some, admittedly, have been restricted to administration. Nevertheless, box labelling is a necessity if we are to keep track of bunting distribution.

            I have not been in a position to personally take on all quality control. Pressing domestic commitments at Farthing Hall have taken precedence. A couple of the helpers, however, once fully trained and instructed in acceptable stitching techniques, have proved, well, acceptably useful.

            Just a few hundred yards more and the agreed requisition will be complete.