On my estate (and I ain’t talking councils), I employ umpteen staff who are paid to maintain the Towers and serve its master. And if you keep on top of ‘em (especially the new stablelass, when she ain’t on the blob, curse her), they do a grand job and can be of real service.
But I noticed from recent inventories that they’d been going through 2 packets of tea-bags a week, which if my mathematics were correct, meant that someone had been supping more than their quota of two teabags per day.
Now, I’m reasonably well-off, what with my inheritance and shady dealings, but teabags don’t grow on trees y’know. Or maybe they do, I haven’t really looked into it. But I think you’ll agree that this was a flagrant disregard of trust, and that whoever was taking the piss must be weeded out and dealt with in the usual style: the giro or the birch, their decision.
So I did the obvious thing and installed a SpyCam in the staff kitchen. Clandestine is my middle name. Or is it Dastardly? I’ll have to consult my Dennis The Menace Fan Club certificate.
Sure enough, come lunchtime (two minutes early, rot them – that’s coming out of their wages) in they all pile and on goes the kettle. Everything seemed in good order, but most were coffee drinkers, which intrigued me still further. Old Simpkins the gardener was seated next to the microphone, so most of the conversation was drowned out by his squirting bowels, which rather put me off my ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Caviar’ sandwiches, I can tell you. It seemed like he was timing it to my every bite.
But I clearly made out the following dialogue featuring Goodacre, who is Simpkins’s understudy, and one of the cleaners (all Filipino –can’t tell ‘em apart).
“Easter holidays are never long enough,” spat the former in his East Cockney whine, “ makes you wish that Jesus’s death had been a painstakingly agonising affair, drawn out over a couple of weeks. Then I could still be at home, rogering the missus.”
Good sentiments those, I’ve seen his missus. Pencilled her in for the next Christmas do. A cert. Couldn’t keep her eyes off me at the Handyman’s Ball when I presented some prizes. Rough around the edges, I’ll grant you that, but curves in all the right places.
“That’s a terrible thing to say” responds whatsherface sourly. A brown-noser, I reckon - she’ll go far. Especially with those poonts.
“Maybe you’re right,” chirps Goodacre, “ ‘Ere though, it’d be a larf if the Guv’nor suffered a long, agonising death, then we’d have as much time off as we like!”
(The Guv’nor being one of the staff’s more affectionate names for yours truly. My personal favourite is Mr. Fascist. Gives me a strange, warm glow. Can’t explain it.)
Well, as you can guess, I felt like giving him a couple of Good-Acres myself, courtesy of the old right boot, but I had to admire his gumption. I’ll have to watch His Nibs closely, thought I, for here’s one after my own heart - and two in one Towers won’t go. And watch him closely I did a little later, when the kitchen emptied leaving our main lead alone - or so he thought. A handful of teabags goes in the jacket pocket and half a packet of Chocolate Digestives in his satchel, almost quicker than sight. I let out a wail, covering my mouth as I noticed his ears suddenly prick, although he couldn’t possibly have heard me as the staff’s quarters are as far as possible from my own. Even so, it was disconcerting enough to make me flick SpyCam over to the female showers, where I watched some fat bint for a while, but my heart wasn’t really in it.
Later that day I called him into the office and could barely disguise my admiration when I offered him a cup of tea and a chocolate digestive, and he accepted readily without a pause, adding that he was both parched and famished after a hard day’s toil.
I’d seen enough and promoted him right there and then on the spot. It’s time Old Simpkins was put to pasture, he’s 80 if he’s a day, and we haven’t seen eye to eye since he
Hahahahah!
Flashman, you're getting stingy don't you think? I personally couldn't exsist on 2 cups of tea per day. I'll remember that next time I consider going into service.
Queenleaf wrote: Hahahahah!
Flashman, you're getting stingy don't you think? I personally couldn't exsist on 2 cups of tea per day. I'll remember that next time I consider going into service.
There could be a position going for you at The Towers for a lady with your talents. Well, quite a few positions actually.
Hope you're lithe.
An update for those avid Flashy fans (all of you, surely - except that berk nobody likes), my valet Hudson has passed on and will now be doing his butling in the big ol' mansion house in the sky.
Don't be too upset, I was going to sack him anyway. He had become quite incontinent and rather senile - and despite my constant berating and kicks to the rear, his condition only worsened. His passing was a blessed relief for all concerned - think of the redundancy money I've saved for starters.
In the meantime, I'm a valet short - a particularly galling situation personally. I can't keep heading off into town in my slippers, but what can one do? I steadfastly refuse to tie my own shoelaces and I have somehow managed to break the trouser press. It was working fine until I threw it out of the bedroom window in a fit of pique, narrowly missing Fat Beryl the cleaner, which took some doing, given the size of her.
This position must be filled sooner rather than later. Any interested applicants out there? I'm not a bad boss when all's said and done. Just so long as you keep on the right side of me.
Underfoot, normally.
Well, I can make you pizza.
If you get holes in your sail, I can patch it
If your eyes go bad, I can make you glasses
and if you're depressed, I can diagnose you with Gluacoma and perscribe marijuana