What Ho!
You sleep the sleep of the inadvertently innocent. Rising, you are pleased by the sight of a sun well quit of the ground. A lovely aroma of sizzling sausages caresses your nose.
You see that Timpson has layed out your clothes for you. Dressing with little difficulty, you pad down to breakfast.
There, you see that the other inhabitants of Ghastley Manor have already started to tuck in. Fatty is happily occupied with a fluffy omelette, Cuddy is briskly buttering some brown bread whilst whistling, and Sir Bob is applying jam to a heart shaped crumpet using a curiously nasty looking piece of cutlery.
Cuddy turns around. "Geez Petey, you finally got down here! Didn't Timpson wake you at seven like I asked him too?"
Timpson is displaying previously unknown saintlike qualities, you think. "Ah, no, perhaps it slipped his mind."
"Tcha!" she sniffs, thus dismissing all things Timpson. "Well, anyway dear heart, have a seat." She pats the bench next to her energetically.
A not unpleasantly round girl bespecked in flour walks in with a large plate. She steps lightly towards Sir Bob and holds out a tray of crumpets. She starts cooing in a heavy french accent.
"Oolala! Sir Robert, you have finished all of ze crumpets, you hungry little boy. But not to worry, I have more right here. I have made them into ze shape of ze Africa."
Sir Bob dons a heretofore unseen gloopy expression. "Oh, I say there Maggie- dashed kind of you, dashed kind." Fatty grunts and swallows more omelette.
She flutters her eyes at him, then looks around seeming to notice the rest of you for the first time. "Ooh, I should be getting back to ze kitchen now." She skips away. You turn to ask her for a bit of food as well, and are confronted by the horrific sight of the two of them blowing kisses at each other. Screwing your eyes closed to obliterate the scene, you start to get up.
Cuddy's hand is on your arm for some reason. "Oh, Petey, where are you going?"
"To the buffet. It's where those of us who aren't wooing the cook get food."
"Don't trouble yourself, dearie. I already have your breakfast here."
Cuddy proudly produces two meagre slabs of brown bread, barely buttered and utterly unjammed.
"Ah," you say, "that will go well with the omelette."
"Petey, if you think back carefully, you will remember that you had eggs and bacon yesterday."
Your mind reels in confusion. "Well, yes, I believe so. But that was yesterday, what?"
She speaks slowly, as if addressing a simple child. "You know it's not good for you to stuff yourself every day with rich foods. You wouldn't want to end up like SOME gluttonous porkers I know." She rather pointedly glares at Fatty.
Equally pointedly, Fatty silently gets up and walks to the buffet for seconds. You stare in anguish.
But stout is the heart of a Postletwaite. True, today you may be consigned to jamless brown bread, but tonight the begonias will be in Fatty's hands and Cuddy will be back in his arms. Your heart warms with the thought.
True, there is still the little matter of actually obtaining the proper foliage. On the other hand, with last night's reconnoitering, and Sir Bob distracted by strudle pushing damsels, it should be a snap. What could possibly go wrong?
Ghastley staggers in, holding his chest. "My- my begonias!" he gasps. "Someone has stolen my begonias!"
You see that Timpson has layed out your clothes for you. Dressing with little difficulty, you pad down to breakfast.
There, you see that the other inhabitants of Ghastley Manor have already started to tuck in. Fatty is happily occupied with a fluffy omelette, Cuddy is briskly buttering some brown bread whilst whistling, and Sir Bob is applying jam to a heart shaped crumpet using a curiously nasty looking piece of cutlery.
Cuddy turns around. "Geez Petey, you finally got down here! Didn't Timpson wake you at seven like I asked him too?"
Timpson is displaying previously unknown saintlike qualities, you think. "Ah, no, perhaps it slipped his mind."
"Tcha!" she sniffs, thus dismissing all things Timpson. "Well, anyway dear heart, have a seat." She pats the bench next to her energetically.
A not unpleasantly round girl bespecked in flour walks in with a large plate. She steps lightly towards Sir Bob and holds out a tray of crumpets. She starts cooing in a heavy french accent.
"Oolala! Sir Robert, you have finished all of ze crumpets, you hungry little boy. But not to worry, I have more right here. I have made them into ze shape of ze Africa."
Sir Bob dons a heretofore unseen gloopy expression. "Oh, I say there Maggie- dashed kind of you, dashed kind." Fatty grunts and swallows more omelette.
She flutters her eyes at him, then looks around seeming to notice the rest of you for the first time. "Ooh, I should be getting back to ze kitchen now." She skips away. You turn to ask her for a bit of food as well, and are confronted by the horrific sight of the two of them blowing kisses at each other. Screwing your eyes closed to obliterate the scene, you start to get up.
Cuddy's hand is on your arm for some reason. "Oh, Petey, where are you going?"
"To the buffet. It's where those of us who aren't wooing the cook get food."
"Don't trouble yourself, dearie. I already have your breakfast here."
Cuddy proudly produces two meagre slabs of brown bread, barely buttered and utterly unjammed.
"Ah," you say, "that will go well with the omelette."
"Petey, if you think back carefully, you will remember that you had eggs and bacon yesterday."
Your mind reels in confusion. "Well, yes, I believe so. But that was yesterday, what?"
She speaks slowly, as if addressing a simple child. "You know it's not good for you to stuff yourself every day with rich foods. You wouldn't want to end up like SOME gluttonous porkers I know." She rather pointedly glares at Fatty.
Equally pointedly, Fatty silently gets up and walks to the buffet for seconds. You stare in anguish.
But stout is the heart of a Postletwaite. True, today you may be consigned to jamless brown bread, but tonight the begonias will be in Fatty's hands and Cuddy will be back in his arms. Your heart warms with the thought.
True, there is still the little matter of actually obtaining the proper foliage. On the other hand, with last night's reconnoitering, and Sir Bob distracted by strudle pushing damsels, it should be a snap. What could possibly go wrong?
Ghastley staggers in, holding his chest. "My- my begonias!" he gasps. "Someone has stolen my begonias!"