What Ho!
"Timpson, where's the old feudal spirit? Now then, if I choose to wear a sprightly pink shirt to aid my mood, a sprightly pink shirt is what I shall wear."
Timpson's leathery face contorts into a disdainful nonchalance. "Suit yerself. It's yer funeral. Sir."
Truer words were oft ne'er spoken, you reflect as you walk with leaden feet down to the breakfast chamber. Still, you do look magna cum spiff, and if that's the only victory you can enjoy on this wretched day, then you will gratefully seize said spiritual balm with both hands.
Following the scent of lightly seasoned sustenance, you arrive upon the scene. Perched at one end of the feast table is the diptych of Old Ghastley and MacG, engaged in horticultural raconteuring. Midway is a glowering Fatty, attacking his eggs with a decidedly vicious stabbing motion.
And at the end closest to you, is your blushing bride, Miss Winifred MacGillicuddy, soon to be known as Mrs. Peter Postletwaite. You shudder in horror.
She leaps up and mangles your hands in hers. "Oooooh Petey-wetey, I'm sooooo glad you're finally awake! I told you you need a caretaker." She smiles indulgently. "But here you are now! Oh Daddy!"
"Eh?" says the MacG, pasuing for the nonce in mid-sentence.
"Petey asked me to marry him yesterday!" she beams.
He peers at you over his rimless glasses. "Oh?" Cuddy plants an elbow in the ribs.
"Ah yes," you say, gasping for breath. "Rather. That is to say..." Your throat constricts and Cuddy taps her foot. "I mean, someone had to marry her, what?" Cuddy's jaw clenches, then relaxes as she contemplates her future training regime for you.
MacG nods absently. "Oh, sure. Very good. Happiness to the both of you. Now, Astley, about this African Begonia you speak of....." he dives back into a heated discussion about some fungus that Sir Bob has brought back from Africa.
Fatty continues mutilating his eggs. He looks up at you darkly "Well, I wish you the best of luck, Postletwaite," he says with a peculiar emphasis. Fatty gropes for the milk jug. "Dash it! Blasted thing is dry!"
Trying to mend the rift, you gallantly seize the prized Rococo period porcelain dinner bell. "Never worry, old chap, Peter Postletwaite will have that pitcher topped up in no time!"
You give the bell a deft shake. You pause and fail to see the cook with milk. The pause continues, then you realize a more artful ring might be in order. You swing your arm in a wide circle, much like those olympic discus lobbing chappies, all the while executing a delicate tremulo with the wrist. The bell flys from your grasp and impacts on the wall above Ghastley's head.
A good deal of fruitless accusation and heated words ensue, but while you defend yourself from the slings and arrows, Fatty stands up in a excessively irritated manner.
"I'll get the d----d milk. Margueritte always comes through." With this last comment, he starts skipping to the kitchen door like a puppy after a ball.
Timpson's leathery face contorts into a disdainful nonchalance. "Suit yerself. It's yer funeral. Sir."
Truer words were oft ne'er spoken, you reflect as you walk with leaden feet down to the breakfast chamber. Still, you do look magna cum spiff, and if that's the only victory you can enjoy on this wretched day, then you will gratefully seize said spiritual balm with both hands.
Following the scent of lightly seasoned sustenance, you arrive upon the scene. Perched at one end of the feast table is the diptych of Old Ghastley and MacG, engaged in horticultural raconteuring. Midway is a glowering Fatty, attacking his eggs with a decidedly vicious stabbing motion.
And at the end closest to you, is your blushing bride, Miss Winifred MacGillicuddy, soon to be known as Mrs. Peter Postletwaite. You shudder in horror.
She leaps up and mangles your hands in hers. "Oooooh Petey-wetey, I'm sooooo glad you're finally awake! I told you you need a caretaker." She smiles indulgently. "But here you are now! Oh Daddy!"
"Eh?" says the MacG, pasuing for the nonce in mid-sentence.
"Petey asked me to marry him yesterday!" she beams.
He peers at you over his rimless glasses. "Oh?" Cuddy plants an elbow in the ribs.
"Ah yes," you say, gasping for breath. "Rather. That is to say..." Your throat constricts and Cuddy taps her foot. "I mean, someone had to marry her, what?" Cuddy's jaw clenches, then relaxes as she contemplates her future training regime for you.
MacG nods absently. "Oh, sure. Very good. Happiness to the both of you. Now, Astley, about this African Begonia you speak of....." he dives back into a heated discussion about some fungus that Sir Bob has brought back from Africa.
Fatty continues mutilating his eggs. He looks up at you darkly "Well, I wish you the best of luck, Postletwaite," he says with a peculiar emphasis. Fatty gropes for the milk jug. "Dash it! Blasted thing is dry!"
Trying to mend the rift, you gallantly seize the prized Rococo period porcelain dinner bell. "Never worry, old chap, Peter Postletwaite will have that pitcher topped up in no time!"
You give the bell a deft shake. You pause and fail to see the cook with milk. The pause continues, then you realize a more artful ring might be in order. You swing your arm in a wide circle, much like those olympic discus lobbing chappies, all the while executing a delicate tremulo with the wrist. The bell flys from your grasp and impacts on the wall above Ghastley's head.
A good deal of fruitless accusation and heated words ensue, but while you defend yourself from the slings and arrows, Fatty stands up in a excessively irritated manner.
"I'll get the d----d milk. Margueritte always comes through." With this last comment, he starts skipping to the kitchen door like a puppy after a ball.