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.

Monday, 2 October 2017

Harvest Memories

This is the time of year that evokes one of my dearest childhood memories – that of Cook permitting me to pop beribboned containers of homemade grouse paté into the bespoke hamper mother annually donated to The Home for Fallen Women and their Subsequently Disadvantaged Status. Harvest Festival has ranked highly in my affection ever since.

            Yet, as the seasonal celebration approaches, I am experiencing an unequivocal quandary. And one, in all probability, I am surely honour bound to resolve. For The Parish Church’s imminent service leads me to recall with acute dismay last autumn’s offerings which, frankly, were barely tolerable. Indeed, I recall remonstrating with the newly appointed Vicar, enlightening her of my sure knowledge that a number of local families had the ability, though clearly not the desire, to delve a little deeper into their larders, as well as their wallets.

So, determined as I am to ensure the debacle is not repeated, I will shortly indulge in a spot of casual canvassing in order to prompt a more acceptable level of generosity around the Parish. A tiresome task, encouraging donations, but nevertheless one I feel compelled to undertake.

            I mentioned my calling to the Vicar yesterday following her somewhat belated acceptance of my invitation to morning coffee. Though a demanding schedule precluded her from staying little more than eleven and a half minutes, I used the time effectively by airing my discord concerning her pulpit plea for non perishable goods. Surely, I implored, given the obvious need for vitamins amongst the deprived classes, more attention should be focussed on freshly edible offerings. Her politeness warranted praise though her doggedness in refusing to take on board my unquestionable familiarity with village life less so.

            I shall, therefore, plough my own field this year as I have no more intention of contributing packaged food than I would venture from the privacy of my private quarters without pearls.

Meanwhile, I have despatched Rodgers to call upon a number of purveyors since a supply of sturdy boxes is paramount. With a multitude of fruit ripening in the orchard, robust containers will ensure my award winning heritage pears remain blemish-free until their delivery to, and consumption by, the needy.

Only then will my Harvest wishes be sated.

Friday, 1 September 2017

Academic Duties

A few months ago when I mentioned to the Vice Chair of our Village Action Group my desire to further extend my influence in the community, according to a diary reference I have just now located, I anticipated an imminent opportunity. It is not in my nature to dwell upon delayed prospects, of course. Not to mention inexplicable tardiness. Yet such a belated response to an overwhelmingly generous proposition is mightily discouraging. My numerous commitments encroach upon a significant amount of my time and I do not make such offers lightly. Nevertheless, I am pleased to have - albeit belatedly - joined the Board of Governors of the village school. My aspirations extend to the position of Chair, of course.

Although I have so far attended but an initial meeting, there is clearly a wealth of issues to tackle. The slovenly attitude of the outgoing Governor is no loss and, if my fellow Governors care to follow my paradigm of energy and enthusiasm, I am convinced the establishment has the capability of enhancing its existing, somewhat average, reputation. I sincerely hope so.

During our gathering - to which I took a quantity of Cook's excellent shortbread together with some elderflower tisane, the former rapidly consumed while the latter was disregarded in favour of excessively sweetened tea - I suggested utilising the opportunity to share a brace of proposals which I have been cultivating during the summer months.

Sadly, the agenda did not specifically permit the discussion of such far reaching proposals as the advantages of installing an adult presence at the school gates in order to deter lunchtime absondence. Heaven knows what tempts the youths to leave the school premises what with a plethora of stimulating activities available. On which subject I would be delighted to organise an intensive Conduct and Deportment Workshop for those young ladies who need to learn that skirt length is intrinsically linked to academic achievement.

Yet my innovative suggestions were not particularly welcome. Indeed, by the end of our intercourse I was a trifle suspicious that my colleagues were displaying a degree of reticence about endorsing new initiatives. A little lobbying via my legendary Farthing Hall morning coffee gatherings should, however, furnish me with the appropriate juncture to persuade them to adopt my principles.

In the meantime, word has reached me of mutterings encompassing an outrageous rule which restricts Governor appointments to ex pupils. Such a preposterous notion! Having attended the finest boarding school in the land my demeanour and protocol far exceed those of my working class associates who clearly lurched through their precious State education system only to emerge with barely the rudiments of social etiquette.

Tuesday, 1 August 2017


Plans are afoot to expose my rear access. Frankly, this was not part of my initial aspiration when I offered Farthing Hall as a venue for a pioneering village horticultural event. Yet the growing possibility of the local community scrutinizing my main entrance was simply too much to bear. I may be of some standing in the area and, as such, willing to host the Show (the first of an undoubtedly regular summer occasion), but I do not wish my private approach to be on public display.

            Hence the decision to steer visitors along one of the previously defunct tradesmen’s routes. This will not provide as stunning a vista as when perambulating the cedar lined drive, admittedly, though I trust an appropriate willingness to contain disappointment will be in order.

Of course, the refurbishment is in danger of bestowing undue burden upon my gardening contingent. I have therefore selected an additional workforce to offer assistance. Terms of temporary employment have been agreed. Once satisfactory references are within my safekeeping, the recruits will be under instruction to revive the entrance used by delivery boys of old. It has become remarkably unkempt of late and I refuse to stint on first impressions. After all, a fine floral display is paramount in order to reflect the quality of the inaugural event.

            Meanwhile, I have invited representatives from a nearby printing establishment to visit me at noon today in order to discuss the programme design. In point of fact, a draft schedule has already been compiled.  This includes one of my rather charming pencil sketches of the magnificent magnolia grandiflora which I frequently appreciate from the parterre. Admittedly, I did not invest much time on said illustration. My schedule simply precludes such luxuries. I hardly need add, however, that it reflects my usual artistic standard and will, therefore, make an excellent front cover.

            From mutterings below stairs, of which I became aware only this morning, I learn that a youth of a reporter from our regional newspaper has got wind of my project. That is all well and good, but I will not have a fledgling journalist exploiting either my premises or horticultural exhibition to further his career. I have assured the company’s Group Director, whose wife I fleetingly encountered at a recent sherry decanting workshop, that I will not only submit my own article covering the day’s activities, but will ensure it is delivered to the Editor. By hand, of course.