“Do you promise you won’t tell anyone?”
An anxious Mumsie looked up into the flushed face of Boris’ butler, Snetterton. The face she had, for the last ten minutes, been kissing quite indecently.
“Never a soul, my lady,” replied Snetterton, with uncharacteristic vigour. “But… don’t you think the Prime Minister has a right to know?”
Mumsie’s brow crinkled and she sighed, gently releasing herself from the intense embrace of her amour. Snetterton just about managed to veil his disappointment with an expression of most earnest concern.
“No, you’re right,” said Mumsie. “I think we must tell her. I must tell her.”
The previously blistering atmosphere in the pantry had turned a little tepid. Snetterton was most dissatisfied. He had spent the best part of the day trying to track her down and he didn’t want to waste time now. After much searching, he finally came across her in the kitchen. She was basting a raw chicken in butter and it seemed only natural when, coyly announcing that she needed some stuffing, he followed her into the pantry in search of the same. And of course, being a butler, he was an absolute authority on stuffing birds.
After Snetterton had closed the door behind them, a sequence of torrid events unfolded with such practiced aplomb that one would almost think that they had played out many times before. This break in proceedings had occurred at quite an inconvenient moment as far as Snetterton was concerned.
“Yes, but… we don’t need to tell her right this minute, do we? Besides, she isn’t here.”
“Where is she?” asked Mumsie. Snetterton cursed himself for opening up a line of conversation that took him yet further away from his passionate destination.
“Shopping, I think. It doesn’t matter. She’s fine. And as for us…” he stroked Mumsie’s cheek with a sweep of his finger. “Well, we have the pantry all to ourselves.”
Mumsie considered all her options and decided that this was probably a good one. Barley able to contain his desire, Snetterton snatched her once again into his arms.
“Hang on,” said Mumsie, tilting her head to one side. “Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Snetterton was beyond irritated.
But Mumsie was right.
There were voices coming from the kitchen.
“…There’s an awful lot of old balderdash proffered about crime scenes, you know, old boy. These Intelligence Agency chaps are going about it all wrong.” The pompous tone and Oxford lilt were unmistakeable. “I’m King, so I should know. I’ve been reading these cracking books by a fellow named Agatha Christie. He’s bloody brilliant, I tell you. Get’s everything solved and ship-shape in a few hundred pages. Have you seen the bloody reports being churned out by the Wing Commander’s men? Utter piffle! Arse-breakingly bad piffle at that.”
“Surely you know… I mean, Agatha Christie…” The nasal whine could only be duster salesman and ineffectual spy Nigel Farage.
“Quiet, you. Because you see, in these books the police always do things per libro and I tell you – it never ends well for them. It’s always the cunning odd-ball and their plucky side-kick that solve the crime.”
“Hang on,” said Nigel. “Which am I? The cunning odd-ball or the plucky side-kick?”
“Oh good point,” there was a considered silence from Boris. “Being King, the role of side-kick seems rather under par, doesn’t it. And although I am in favour of ‘cunning’, I think I would like it more if I had ‘plucky’ as well.”
“I’ll be the oddball side-kick, then” grumbled Nigel, resigned to his fate. “Although ‘cunning plucky’ sounds bloody obscene to me, for some reason.”
“All the more reason I should adopt it as my cognomen!” Boris guffawed and slapped a thigh. “No, but seriously. Your lord and master has the brains to balls to match any of Christie’s great detectives. Not so much Miss Marple on the balls front, actually. In fact, I can’t really speak for the balls, but the brains are bursting forth, I tell you!”
Nigel very much needed a drink.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve spotted our first clue! Look over there!” Boris thrust a fat finger in the direction of the uncooked chicken, left forlornly on the sideboard, waiting to be stuffed. “See? I bet Tom’s men didn’t spot that. That chicken has been abandoned at some haste – I think we have disturbed a pivotal event!”
“Cooking chicken is rarely a pivotal event, Boris.” Nigel shook his head and began looking in cupboards. “And I don’t think it features heavily in the vicious murders of war criminals, either. Look, I’ve found some sherry.”
“Oh good,” said Boris. “Bring it hence. Now, then – this is the kitchen – the crime scene! So we have to search it for clues. Also maybe for some crisps. I say we start with the pantry…”
oooh surreptitious shenanigans in the pantry!
most excellent!
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I am shocked at Mumsie!! 😮
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I know!
most outrageous behavoiur!
Lead astray by Oxfordian butlers!
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Tut Tut!! These Oxford types are obsessed. No wonder they haven’t got the time to do a proper dictionary, they can barely keep their trousers on!
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It is true, nothing an noone is safe from the onslaught of nudity and trouserlessness!!
I am highly distrustful of the OED that sits on my desk now!
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Thank goodness we Cambridge types know how to conduct ourselves. We should boycott their bloody book on the grounds that it is corrupt.
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we should!!
I should demand work buy me a new one on the grounds of impending nudity!!
I don’t need to mention whose impending nudity…threatening my boss with potentially naked Boris johnson and some dictionary writers seems unfair…
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Gosh, you might start a panic-stricken riot if you mention that!! Although, seeing a workforce prepare themselves for a naked Boris invasion would be super 🙂
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Oh yes…we would have to make an emergency plan and a backup emergency plan and all sorts!!
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Protect the Bernards!!
*FOR THE BERNARDS!!*
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O_O poor Bernards! No nudity in front of the Bernards!!!
*FOR THE BERNARDS!!*
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This is a call to arms for the Bernardeaters- for Bernards and Country!!
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Bernardeaters, your country needs you!
Even reserve bernardeaters need to be on high alert…
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Thank Bernard we had the foresight to set up the Bernard Select Committee or we would be defenceless now.
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you are absolutely right, we would be in disarray with no bernardeaters, just picking random bernards all willy nilly…
you never know what we would end up having to do!!
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Willy nilly Bernards sound quite worrying! Also, no actual Bernards have come forward to be our friend yet. That makes me a bit sad.
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willy nilly Bernards are, indeed very worrying!
Me too…there must be at least one out there!!
this reminds me of a cheese joke…
What cheese can you use to encourage a bernard?
Camembear(nard)
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Hahaha!! A cheese joke that includes Bernards! Perfect 😀 I shall make sure that is included in the Ministerial crackers this Christmas. Bravo!
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hahaha a cheese and cracker joke 😀 😀
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GENIUS!!!
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hehehe 😀
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Yeah, right! And if anybody reading believes THAT, Ms. Brazier, I have acres of swamp land I can sell them — a real deal!
xx,
mgh
(Madelyn Griffith-Haynie – ADDandSoMuchMore dot com)
– ADD Coach Training Field founder; ADD Coaching co-founder –
“It takes a village to transform a world!”
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Teehee! I should at least pretend to be shocked 😉
xx
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And that would be because . . . um, why? xx, mgh
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Good point 😉
xx
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Id scivi! Mater tua et in pincernarum…fornicantes. Nolite contritio pullum!
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Well, you haven’t conjugated the verbs properly but a very good effort, Babbage! Actually fairly impressed.
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Ha! a) what should it read? and b) blame the online translator I used!
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A) I will have to consult my Latin grammar book to be sure. My skills do not match those of Boris. B) I used an online translator to help me write a card for my German friend. She said it was like it was written by a backward child. They cannot be trusted!
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I do know they’re rubbish, but they do come up with some brilliant translations! So you know what it’s meant to say? I think it could work like spy messages; so long as one uses the same translator…probably…
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I think it is – I knew it! Your mother and the Butler are… fornicating. Do not ruin the chicken.
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All those Latin lessons weren’t wasted at all then! I think the translation of ruin is definitely wrong, but the one they gave me was ‘cut off’, and the chicken didn’t need cutting off as it wasn’t even talking at the time.
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Either way, it will be disappointing if that chicken doesn’t get cooked. I’m starving.
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Cooked with strips of streaky bacon layered over it…bubbling in its own juices…
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Mmmmm you can’t beat a bacon lattice. Chuck some spuds in, you’re away.
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That you can’t; since lattice is as you know, from the Latin for bloody yummy!
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Shocked as I am at Mumsie’s behaviour, I am beyond delighted that Nigel the Duster Salesman has been equated with the eternally thick-as-two-planks Hastings! Joy unconfined!
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DON’T BE UNPLEASANT ABOUT THE DELIGHT THAT IS CAPTAIN HASTINGS! But to be fair you have a point. Quite frankly they are both Captain Hastings. But not as wonderful, obviously. Very naughty Mumsie indeed. I hope she gets round to cooking that chicken.
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Frankly, now Boris is in the kitchen I am seriously worried about what is going to happen to that chicken.
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Actually that went through my mind too. Don’t worry, I don’t think I can bring myself to write it. I think we all know only too well what Boris might do a a raw, buttery chicken.
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He was a friend of Cameron’s after all!
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No farmyard animal is safe!
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Possibly the live ones, but there are no guarantees.
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Blair getting shot is clearly the least of our worries.
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If I wanted to lower the tone of this any further, I might suggest that it was a good job he wasn’t a farmyard animal.
But I won’t.
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The tone is pretty low as it is, so probably a good move. Animal, mineral or vegetable – it doesn’t matter to Boris. He will bonk anything.
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Deeply worrying. Still, *brightens up* it’s six o’clock, now! I believe, in my ministerial role, it is time to open a bottle of something delightfully red!
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Hurrah! I think I shall join you, dear chap. Cheers!
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Scheers!
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Good heavens! Mumsie! I’m shocked!!! I do hope they don’t forget to stuff that chicken after all this – unstuffed ones simply aren’t the same…
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Haha! I do love that the main concern for most people is the future of the chicken. I have to say that I agree, that is most likely dinner. Mumsie is setting a very bad example indeed. Canoodling with a butler! Lawks 🙂
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Reblogged this on Secret Diary Of PorterGirl.
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Oh … wonderful today Lucy. Watkins says that he really likes that Snetterton fellow. Watkins has himself stuffed many birds in his time. He had an unfortunate accident stuffing one particular bird which landed him up in A & E. Still … what goes up must come down … eventually.
Your adventure is unfolding in a wonderfully adventurey sort of a way.
Have a great week. Chris.
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Thank you so much, Chris! I do think that Snetterton and Watkins could be the very best of buttling friends. It takes a certain type of man to be a butler, with very specific skills. Have a wonderful week too – I shall keep up the supply of adventures 🙂
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So the party’s nearly under way?
xxx Huge Hugs xxx
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It’s not a party I want to go to… 😉
Xxx Hugs Aplenty xxx
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Reblogged this on firefly465 and commented:
The plot thickens with much stuffing.
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🙂 xx
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This is why all pantries should lock from the inside. I am reeminded of the jelly and jam pantry on the old farm. My. It was s dark in there. 🙂
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After this debacle I think we should be fitting locks on the inside of just about every door in Number Ten! Imagine a pantry filled with Jam and Jelly! I like it. I like it very much 🙂
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Locks are in order. I mean one cannot take a quick slip away without someone smooping around. Oh indeed on the old farm grandmother kept all her homemade jams and jellies in a very dark pantry guarded by a hugs black widow and a slide lock on the out side of the old wooden door, being trapped I’m there has cost me plenty in therapy and meds. 🙂
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That does sound pretty scary – especially the bit about the black widow. They must have been the best protected jams and jellies in the land! 😀
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Well they were quite special. I think there was a hidey place for fermented grapes as well.
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I am liking this pantry very much 🙂
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Lol
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Assignations in a pantry! Assignations of roles, confounded by adjectives! This is fun…
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The Butler certainly thinks it is fun… 😉
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