Monday, 30 April 2018

Unkempts Herbs and Lady Garden Undergrowth


            How I adore pottering around my raised beds when the sun’s rays adorn my lawns. Rodgers, our ageing Head Gardener, has done a splendid job over the years though I cannot help but notice the herbaceous borders are in danger of overshadowing my forking larkspur. Upon further, more detailed inspection, indeed, I note the shabbiness of my lady garden; it has clearly been denied periodic trimming.  

            My disappointment, momentarily abated by the evocative call of a lone mistle thrush, returns with vigour when I observe that the bird baths not only lack fresh water but reveal a somewhat unkempt exterior.

Yet matters further deteriorate when I venture beyond the box hedges. Really! I must take Rodgers to task for allowing the herbs to proliferate in such an unstructured fashion.

Being a kitchen garden is no excuse for disarray. Indeed, it is of no surprise that Cook’s new assistant was unable to locate the oregano on Saturday evening. Though how she could have selected borage as an acceptable substitute, I cannot imagine. It is hardly to be wondered that the beef failed to reach an acceptable standard. Thankfully, my guests - local dignitaries from the Enterprise Award Scheme – were not blessed with the most sophisticated of palettes and therefore remained unaware of the herbal mishap. (They may have originated from the lower end of the social strata, but I am grateful they limited their use of napkins to the correct facial function. I still recall that ghastly incident last year when a despicable representative from the Mayor’s Office blew his wretched nose on my starched linen.)  

In the meantime Cook must take her supervisory role a little more seriously. We have another dinner engagement a week hence and I do not want a repeat of this culinary débâcle. Indeed I will see to it that she details to her young charge both the location and merits of our wide range of free range herbs. 

            As far as the gardens are concerned, this shameful situation cannot be allowed to continue. I shall invite Rodgers to partake of a pot of coffee with me in the orangery tomorrow morning and use the occasion to air my increasing unease over my foliage and his commitment. The standards of Farthing Hall’s gardens, I will stress, are not negotiable. The simple question is whether or not he has the desire to retain the responsibility of managing my undergrowth.


Tuesday, 3 April 2018

Blemishes and Tarnishing

Frankly, I am most disappointed. Standards are slipping and I have had to call on all my reserves as an employer and archetypal mistress of the house to retain a modicum of sanity.

In short, my silverware has never been so tarnished. The candelabra are overrun with fingerprints, giving the family heirlooms an aura of common bric-a-brac. Such slackness should have been avoided. Each member of the cleaning staff is given clear and concise instructions at the onset of their employ as to my requirements, cotton gloves to be worn whilst dusting being one of the most imperative.

Who knows what damage a young girl’s pasty digits have caused to my beloved father’s wine stopper? His demise is almost a blessing given that he is unable to witness such second rate values.

Revised instructions will be compiled and posted prominently in the servant quarters and in the meantime extra duties are paramount. I expect my silver salvers to be gleaming by the end of the week.

The debacle prompts me to examine the main guest quarters where the brass with mother of pearl inlay fountain pen holder has clearly received no more than a cursory wipe and now appears decidedly second rate. Thank heavens no influential visitors have required an overnight stay since my last in-depth inspection.

Of course, if I had not been lately so preoccupied with charity matters, I would surely have noticed the blemishes. I make a diary note to continue with regular, though unannounced, assessments until I am satisfied that buffing levels are of an acceptable standard.

Wednesday, 28 February 2018

Ideals and Expectations

That references form an integral prerequisite of the recruitment process is a given. Never have I employed a member of staff - even one below stairs - without first availing myself of their moral standards, willingness to adhere to rules and personal principles via a preceding employer. Should a prospective Chambermaid harbour any distasteful flaws, or Under Housekeeper endeavour to conceal a dishonest defect or two, then I expect to unearth such transgressions for, doubtless, such minutiae will play an important role in influencing my decision whether or not to offer the candidate a coveted position at Farthing Hall.

A lack of referees accompanying a job application, therefore, invokes an air of suspicion on my part. I am, you see, in the process of replacing a Scullery Maid. The previous occupant fulfilled her obligations admirably but has decided on an adjustment to her career. The Antipodes beckons, apparently. The notion of journeying with little more than a rucksack was touched upon during her exit interview for why any young lady would choose to voyage without the assurance of a silk lined leather trunk and hotel in which afternoon tea takes precedence over bar based entertainment, eludes me.

Still, her decision made, I at once contacted Quality Appointments to The Gentry Agency. Disappointingly, their initial candidates bordered on mediocre. Clearly my demand for someone with experience went unnoticed. Cleansing and scouring may, to the unversed, be unskilled tasks but I venture that attention to detail, not to mention physical robustness, is essential in fulfilling my expectations.

A second batch did, I confess, reflect a modicum of improvement, at least in terms of basic competence. Yet I note several Curriculum Vitae failed to list referees.

Should such a transgression prompt me to conclude this to be their first such appointment or, rather, that a prior role was so inadequately executed to deny the appearance of a testimonial?

Further calls to the Agency proved to be unduly lengthy and simultaneously frustrating.  I insisted I had no intention of inviting candidates for interview without prior sight of a hand written endorsement. Twice during our exchange the telephone line clicked into inaction forcing me to redial whilst making a mental note to contact the Telephone Exchange. I will report the fault later.

Meanwhile, this negative encounter has impelled me to bypass agencies. Instead, I will rely on my society equals. Hopefully they will either recommend an alternative organisation - one which still prides itself on established values - or even be in a position to personally recommend a replacement.

If there is one thing that this debacle has proved, it is that ideals and expectations rarely infiltrate the class divide.

Thursday, 1 February 2018

Bentley, Marmande tomatoes and top shelf magazines

My Bentley is undergoing a spot of maintenance work today.  Only after extensive deliberation did I resolve to permit a nearby, independent enterprise to undertake the labour.  Previously, our London dealer has undertaken any necessary overhaul of our vehicles but with the economy under sufferance - at least according to gossip I overheard at a recent Demise of Subservience Discussion Group - I am eager to declare my support of local businesses. I trust their professionalism matches their eagerness.

            The proprietor appreciated my commission and, indeed, offered to dispatch an underling to collect the vehicle. Unwilling to allow an adolescent in oily overalls to indulge in a motoring experience way beyond his calling, however, I drove the car to the garage this morning.

On my meander back to Farthing Hall I took the opportunity to call upon several retail outlets in the village. A rare but thoughtful gesture and one much appreciated, no doubt, by those shopkeepers whose products I procured. Yet not all the choices on offer fully met my expectations.

In the bakery, for instance, I purchased a granary batch ‘baked on the premises’ though heaven knows where it else it could have been cooked. The adjacent trader, a greengrocery, was also singularly unimpressive. Being most unhappy with the original choice of Marmande tomatoes made by the owner, I determined to handpick a pound and a half from the more succulent selection tucked away at the rear of the counter. I trust my reprimand will prevent the reoccurrence of this display débâcle.

My final destination was a crowded news agency. And a most distressing visit this turned out to be. For I was forced to suppress my shock at the sight of a number of top shelf magazines which must surely be illegal imports and certainly warrant a stern letter to my MP whence I returned to the Hall. 

Nevertheless, undeterred, and having composed myself aside the broadsheets, I chose a number of quality glossy journals which I hand delivered to the surgery. The alarmingly youthful looking GP accepted my donation. Such a pity he demonstrated marginal distress at being called away from a patient. Given the ageing and inferior array of periodicals in the waiting area, I’m astonished he didn’t show more gratitude.

Following an afternoon of intense correspondence, at 4pm, just as a fragrant tisane moistened my lips, I received a telephone call from a young apprentice informing me that my motor vehicle would be returned to me within the hour. Only if the manager himself is behind the wheel, I insisted.

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

Ongoing Duties


I have begun the New Year with a much needed assessment of my Charity and Community Commitments.  Given the demands upon my time - ongoing and relentless committee obligations not to mention the occasional lecture for how unselfishly eager I am to share my skills with less knowledgeable villagers - I have taken on the duty of monitoring my diary. Further clashes are to be avoided at all costs.  How grateful I was for The Master’s forgiveness when his post Boxing Day shoot conflicted with the raking of my internal labyrinth.

The débacle would never have arisen, of course, but for the inefficiency of my junior administrator. Had I not repeatedly told her to distinguish between mine and The Master’s duties? Why, I even purchased two tones of writing implement. Such a shoddy attitude has been noted in her personnel records and henceforth I will mastermind my own diary entries.

Meanwhile I have taken to compiling several lists. The first consists of organisations whose function would be unfeasible without my guidance (Rub and Buff for the Inexperienced – an ongoing series of workshops revolving around brass maintenance) and The League of Traditional Housewifery to name but two). A second inventory is devoted to institutions such as the Parish Council and Church. I have, for some years, provided each with a backbone in terms of well informed opinion and refreshments (though I will no longer waste imported Jasmine tea on individuals whose preference is rationed to powdered leaves confined within what I can only describe as flimsy packaging). Whilst yet another inventory contains those societies whose practical assistance is matched only by my determination to raise standards. Some improvements were recorded towards the end of last year. On one unannounced inspection of porches, for instance, I was pleased to witness the majority had recently been swept if not washed. A written reminder posted through a number of letterboxes prompted somewhat belated action in the remaining households.

After weighing up my commitments, however, I am currently nursing a dilemma. Although I had probed the notion of stepping down from one or two organisations, how could I possibly abandon my duties without stimulating an unnecessary plummeting of values? The core of village life cannot be abandoned. I will, therefore, retain all my committee roles, doubtless to the infinite gratification of the community.


Friday, 1 December 2017

Gift Wrapping for the Unskilled

Never could I have predicted such shockingly shoddy dexterity. Why, some of my learners could barely rule a straight baseline let alone finger their broad edged nib with a tangible degree of care and competency. Only one hour into my Gift Wrapping for the Unskilled and there was no denying my meticulously planned workshop required modification.  

            I had anticipated that calligraphy endorsed gift tags would provide a stimulating opening to the day’s proceedings. I even opted for the Foundational Alphabet which is not only one of the calligraphic basics, its name would surely provide a psychological incentive to those unused to handling delicate writing implements. Such a pity the group failed to rise to my expectations.

            I suggested an early tea break and beckoned my kitchen helpers – over indulging in village gossip aside the urn to the detriment of their duties – to bring forward the Earl Grey and Garibaldis. Perhaps an infusion of refreshments might rouse an element of creativity.

            When everyone was finally persuaded to reconvene (thank heavens for my last minute decision to bring a servants’ bell) I chose the moment to launch into a mini lecture about sanitation. Treat your nibs well, I advised, delay not in flushing out your reservoirs and palettes must also be thoroughly cleansed after use. I had rather hoped to witness a profusion of note taking. Presumably, however, the attendees committed my advice to memory.

            I then exposed the women to a selection of quality wrap. Embossed with seasonal icons, the customised paper included my personal monogram though I pointed out the ease with which anyone present could design a bespoke style to reflect their own heritage adding that all orders would result in a percentage being donated to The Christmas Luncheon Fund. Some of the elderly villagers, I recently discovered, rarely mobilise their ranges these days. Of course, such inexcusable lethargy should not be encouraged yet, with the season of goodwill upon us, I was resolute in my desire to help these indolent individuals.

            Post Cook’s asparagus quiche and rocket with rosemary infused dressing (some delegates brought sandwiches which was acceptable; crisp trails and resulting odour were not) heralded the start of the practical segment of the afternoon. I demonstrated gift wrapping techniques and ribbon decor with unencumbered joy for only my annual period in the west facing Gift Wrapping Room could surpass such gratification. Finally, an hour was put aside for individual mentoring and consultation; not only an opportunity to encourage personal growth but, for me, the pleasure of sharing my expert knowledge.

            A successful day, I concluded, despite persistent chitchat which forced me to deliver several rebukes. Nevertheless, I am confident that my ladies will henceforth enhance their Christmas gifts with uniquely stylish presentation. Indeed, I may consider making this workshop an annual event. For it would be irresponsible of me not to share my skills.

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Sparklers and Canapes

Celebrating the demise of that outrageous fellow, Guido Fawkes, has been a Gosworthy-Pringle ritual since my early childhood. Mama, in her wisdom, annually turned a blind eye to my sneaking out of bed in order to view the distant beacon from the balcony of my suite. For, like her, it stirred an enthusiasm in history. Indeed, I would have chosen to study the subject if my Boarding School's curriculum hadn't insisted upon other priorities. Regrettable, perhaps, yet I wager the Humanities could never have offered as much valuable and practical application as have Needlepoint and Deportment during the intervening decades.
Still, the interest spawned during my formative years continues prompting me to coordinate the reintroduction of more traditional revelry.

Firstly, as I insisted at our initial Village Committee meeting - to which all the local dignitaries I had summoned turned up with the exception of the Parish Council Deputy Chair; I highlighted said absence via the Flower Arranging Guild's Autumn Newsletter - the modern term Bonfire Night reflects neither the quality nor gravitas of our festivity. It is right, therefore, to rekindle Guy Fawkes Night.

Although there was considerable pressure exerted upon me to host this year's event at Farthing Hall, clearly the Master would never tolerate commoners trampling his precious lawns. We have, therefore, defaulted to the village green, an area familiar to the working class community where they will undoubtedly feel more at home than in the grounds of such a prestigious residence.
The venue being settled, I took it upon myself to draw up some rules. Groups of youths are to be discouraged. In particular, I suggest there should be no congregating around the soft drinks kiosk since this could, so easily, engender unruly behaviour.

In addition, sparklers will be limited to one packet per person. Heaven knows, I harbour no desire to be responsible for over excited adolescents.

The entry fee, I decided - and my colleagues, unable to propose a viable alternative, soon concurred - should be by donation to a charitable venture. And what better recipient than the nearby Residence for Retired Butlers which was, I am proud to confess, founded by my paternal grandfather? He was such a visionary.

Other tasks are in hand. I have ordered a plentiful supply of Catherine Wheels and Rockets. I just hope the local dairy is able to donate sufficient milk bottles to cope with demand for they seemed genuinely perplexed at my request. Meantime, one of my fellow Committee members has been dispatched to purchase matches while Cook has kindly offered to contribute a selection of canapes.

I am, I confess, overjoyed at the prospect of such merriment. Given the success it will, of course, be, I expect to continue organising such events for the foreseeable future.