When Frying Pans Meet Fire

What Ho Proles!

Perhaps bright Monday mornings in October aren’t the best time for quoting my favourite dour Scot, but on this particular day, I put myself in the shoes of the old ruin and came to the conclusion that ‘if it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly’… In other words, I took a moment to have a quick word with Mrs. My Man regarding their damn adoption of this Malawian child.

She took my advice surprisingly well and the subject quickly moved on to a discussion of the dogs. To be honest, I had lain awake last night wondered what need have Dobermans for rubber bands, but her explanation left me feeling a little light headed. I always thought the beasts looked a bit highly strung whenever I’ve seen them running across the lawn. They often pick a fight with the ornamental fountain beneath my bedroom window. Now I know why. The sound of tricking water must drive them positively crazy. I know it would turn me into a monster, should I be faced with their predicament.

Anyway, the adoption matter is settled and I need not make any apologies. The mystery of the rubber bands is also solved.

After two such snappy and effortless successes, I thought I’d make use of the first day back on my feet to take a walk into the village. It’s not often I venture beyond the estate’s electrified fence without my Bentley, but I thought the air would do me some good, get the heart pumping, and rid me of any of the more resilient bugs that have yet to heed the eviction notice telling them to leave my system or face the consequences.

The little village of C----- N---- is typical of all English shire towns that have escaped property developers, yahoo councilors, and local action groups demanding drop-in centers for everything from unwed mothers to doped-up Bulgarian hitmen on sabbaticals from the KGB. This is mainly thanks to the manner in which we have retained something of the old feudal system here, where men, such as I, rule with fists dressed in well pressed iron. It also means that we can expect a certain respect whenever we deign in to mix with those of the low brows and hairy knuckles.

My cheeks responded admirably to the walk, emitting a healthy glow, yet even as I pondered whether things are finally turning in my favour, I had a lurking suspicion that I should have listened to My Man’s warning of yesterday. My worst fears were conformed when I nipped into The Boar’s Tusk to steel my weakened system with a quick sherry (on the house, naturally). It was there that I heard some quite disquieting news about Professor Kipling. It would appear that she’s taken rooms at the inn and devoted her whole weekend to inspecting parish records in the company of the local rector with whom, it is said, she has struck up an immediate friendship. According to one heavily browed local, 'they seem to get on like a house on fire on account of some shared interest'.

Think of that one for a moment. Kipling and the vicar in cahoots? As you might remember, the Reverend and I do not always see eye to eye, most recently over the subject of his son’s devotion to my apples, and I can well imagine the pleasure he will take in reopening old wounds.

I can see this matter may end up in the hands of my lawyers. It’s making me a nervous wreck and I’m seeing Yorkshire men lurking around every corner. I nearly choked on my sherry when I though I heard somebody say ‘nowt’ in the bar.

Keeping the faith.