Subservience

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.

May Day Festivities

 

Whilst I inevitably adhere to customary national and spiritual pursuits on public junctures, I am mindful, over recent decades, of May Day celebrations being hijacked by left wing elements intent on indulging the work-shy classes.

I have, therefore, decided to restore more traditional pastimes.  Familial entertainment is, after all, the essence of a jolly day out.  A generous portion of Farthing Hall’s grounds - not within sight of my West Wing quarters I might add – has been allotted to the hosting of May Day merriment for village folk. Springtime festivities, dancing and floral displays, together with iced buns and tea, will surely delight the crowds and revive an aura of English gaiety.  

            In true Gosworthy-Pringle style the event has warranted my personal attention.   Indeed my keenness to reproduce an array of authentic stalls and activities led me to instigate some research.  In that regard our local Librarian rather let me down. She not only refused to delve into her archives, but urged me to spend an inordinate amount of my valuable time in front of a computer screen undertaking my own enquiries. Clearly this was an unreasonable proposal. Hence I was forced to insist she request some aged documentation from the nearest substantial Reference section which I perused in the comfort of my pink chintz quarters.

Admittedly, the local florist appeared a trifle overwhelmed at the decorative garlands which I sketched, yet with a little coaxing she delivered the requisite number of circlets.  I only trust the village school has invested in sufficient dance / ribbon rehearsals to guarantee a quality and coordinated display around my recently erected pole. 

The May Queen was selected last week.  This goes against convention for it has been the previous practise for attendees to vote for their chosen Queen on May Day.  However, not trusting those who are unused to making decision, I took on that responsibility.

            The fête has resulted in a little extra work for the staff, of course. The gardening personnel are required to facilitate parking, my maintenance team has been assigned security duties and Cook is such an excellent producer of cakes and pastries, I was obliged to suggest she forego her Public Holiday entitlement. The festival’s inevitable success will, however, placate all members of Farthing Hall’s staff, particularly as my generosity extends to allowing spouses and offspring to attend.  At a generously reduced entrance fee, I should add.

            As to publicity, I have renewed my acquaintance with the local newspaper editor.  I expect that both he and a photographer will bless us with their presence. Several messages have been left on said editor’s office and mobile telephone lines. Such a pity he has, so far, been too busy to return my calls.

Spring Cleaning

Spring is upon us, and not an instant too soon. This winter has summoned an unprecedented level of grumbles and grievances to which I have been needlessly exposed. It seems that certain elements of society are not only challenged by bodily ailments incurred during a spate of frost, and heating bills doubtless due to inefficient budgeting, they insist on vocalising their petty complaints. Even an amble into the village this week was spoilt by a quite unnecessarily public bemoaning. In all likelihood I shall not venture to the Library again for witnessing such negative attitudes at close quarters ruined my day. My book recommendations will henceforth be entrusted with the Royal Mail.

            On a more positive note, the change of season also instigates our annual spring clean. And not before time. When I last embarked upon an impromptu inspection, albeit more exhaustive than usual, of Farthing Hall, I was dismayed to discover that dust mites have infiltrated my crevices to an alarming degree bringing to my formal quarters an unacceptable level of what I am forced to concede is filth.

            However, the staff have now been summoned and assigned their duties and, with a concerted effort by everyone, The Hall should be in tip top condition within the week. I believe I can rely upon their sense of duty, despite their lack of verbal acquiescence.

            Of course, some furnishings - I am referring specifically to those silk drapes which bedeck the White Drawing Room - remain in pristine condition but then I have lavished much personal attention upon them. Given the self imposed task last year of arranging importation of the fabric from those industrious little fellows in the Far East I felt it necessary to maintain and monitor their allure myself. There is nothing more beneficial than regular hand treatment, as The Master frequently testifies.

            Yet it is not my duty to oversee every cleansing and polishing task that encompasses the Gosworthy-Pringle pile. An abundance of my time is already allotted to charity commitments on top of which my numerous social obligations make daily supervision of domestic duties simply impracticable.  

            No, it is beholden upon my employees to respect the standards I prescribe. And for which they are adequately rewarded, I might add. I trust they will put my instructions into practise though I will, however, note all neglected areas and include details of any lapses in the relevant staff appraisals.