It really is most difficult to find a decent butler these days. I mean you would think a butler would know how to cook a pheasant properly. I went out yesterday to give some of my old Jaegar knits to the local charity, and I returned to the ghastly smell of significantly burnt pheasant.
Meanwhile my butler was polishing his balls in the garage. I am referring to his croquet balls.
The silly man had no idea that my little harbour view cottage was minutes away from being set on fire. Honestly. And I had guests that evening.
We all had to go out for a meal which meant I had to rub shoulders with the locals. And I never enjoy doing that. These antipodean restaurants are so noisy. I simply cannot understand why people have to shout all the time. I mean do they think we are all deaf?
Then to make matters worse, there was no pheasant, or even venison on the menu. The waiter didn't even know what venison was. I wondered what kind of a stone he had been living under all his life. So we had to settle for a common chicken dish. Well that was my day. I hope yours was better.
Yours ever faithfully,
Lady Ophelia Austen-Featherbrew
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