1.
We have had to let the parlourmaid go
in the wake of the collapse of my husband
’s bicycle repair company. Our straits
are approaching dire, and now we shall
only have the two servants, or three if
you count the gardener’s disabled daughter
whom he is wont to carry around with him
strapped on to his back while he weeds,
and who can sing a song if one desires
a little light entertainment of the working
class music hall and off-key variety. I
suppose getting in a cleaning lady a couple
of times a week is an option: beggars
can’t be choosers, or so I’m led to believe.
2.
My husband says that the country is in
a parlous condition and he blames every
thing on the collapse of moral values. He
’s been a great grouch of late, and not only
because his business has gone under: it
is not the first of his companies to go
to the wall and it won’t be the last. No,
his complaints are the result of the enforced
closure of his favourite massage parlour,
which he says is proof if further proof
were needed that the country is going
to the dogs, and if things go on this way
(“Mark my words! he says, Mark my
words!”) there will be no happy ending.
3.
I came home from the hairdresser’s this
afternoon to find my husband in a state of
collapse on the living room floor. There was
an empty bottle of Cutty Sark whiskey
keeping him company on the carpet. Thank
God it’s the helps’ day off, and Mrs. Potts,
who comes in to cook when our cook
’s not here to cook, was not due until later.
He really needs to pull himself together:
what with having no work to go to, having
had his driving licence taken away from
him, and being unable to track down his
accountant, he’s becoming quite intolerable
and it’s much too late to get a replacement.
.
C. J. Driscoll
Picture Rupert Loydell
.