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.

Rhyme and Rhythm

My decision to hand over Programme Coordinator responsibilities will, forever, rankle. Tasked as I was with catering necessities and dressing room decor, however, the impossibility of monitoring the minutiae of performers was beyond even my legendary capabilities. Yet my regrets remain manifold. The Poetry Evening was well attended, it is true, resulting in sufficient takings to bolster the flagging coffers of the Church’s bank account. Frittering away money on the Vicar’s penchant for organic bread must not be tolerated when superior collecting receptacles are needed. I will mention my priorities during our next impromptu morning coffee Tuesday hence at ten o’clock. Indeed, I might even promote the idea of the Embroidery Guild taking on the task of creating velvet pouches: rectangular ones to encourage banknotes and round ones for coinage, the latter for those unfortunate members of the congregation whose generosity is lacking.

Another positive result of the event was the take up of flyers for my Tippet Tying Instruction. A number, I noticed, drifted into the wastepaper basket though, judging by the sartorial inelegance evident during the evening, I am confident of the need for accessory management.

Nevertheless such misdemeanours are comparatively peripheral. My original suggestion of a Poetry Evening encompassed honouring the delights of Walter De La Mare and William Wordsworth. I should have known better when a local youth tendered his organisational skills. It seems his offer to source poets was no more than literary hijacking.

With an appearance more gypsy than gent, the long haired man I had witnessed loitering outside the Village Hall and whom I was considering reporting to the local constabulary if not for being sidetracked by wilting canapés (hardly surprising given the kitchen staff’s inattention to sunlit surfaces) appeared on stage and, with excessive verve, delivered the most racy language I have ever encountered. Equally shocking was the audience’s enthusiastic response. There was but one saving grace: many attendees I failed to recognise, having clearly journeyed from neighbouring estates (not the landed variety).

Hourly tisanes of peppermint tea throughout the event neutralised my trauma. Performance poetry is a medium to which I had never previously been exposed; I will ensure that I never am again.

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.