On My Exile

What Ho Proles

My self-imposed exile from the world of blogging has been working wonders for my productivity. I’m churning out veritable tombs of moderately coherent ramblings which I’m trusting My Man to bash into chapter shape. He’s good enough as a butler, chauffeur, lackey, and trained assassin, but never better than when he’s given the chance to run with some material worthy of his pedantic mind. He might have no ability as a writer of original prose, but I think he does damn well when it comes to editing. He’s a credit to the comprehensive school system and acts as a constant reminder than no country in the world can have claim to have so many people bally well suited to the menial work necessary to support those of us in the ruling elite.

Now that I am having a momentary break from the memoirs, I might as well tell you of one notable event of the last couple of days.

As you can no doubt guess, Yours Truly spent the whole of yesterday in his study. It was mid afternoon and I was again bringing my mind to bear upon the terrible events of the last election. Just as I was cogitating over a suitable adverbial clause to describe The Hon. John Prescott, there was a terrifying scream from outside the house. Quill in hand and slippers on feet, I went dashing from my study only to hear more screams coming from the back of the Hall where the servant quarters are located.

The screams continued as I ran downstairs and they led me through to the kitchen and out through the back door. And that’s where I greeted a terrified Mrs. Priggs being carried rodeo-syle around the yard on the back of a large foul-tempered goat who clearly had an eye for rampage.

Without any hesitation I returned to the kitchen and rang for my man before returning to the yard where I watched for a couple of minutes as Mrs. Priggs flew past my teary eyes. When My Man finally arrived I told the slacker to help the poor woman and waste no time about it. I’m a man who doesn’t like to see a chap loiter when there’s a woman in peril.

Well, eventually, he did as he was told, bringing the goat to a rest, though not before making a rather unfortunate scene about a lump of flesh the goat’s horns had taken out of his thigh.

Mrs. Prigg’s looked quite flushed and once she’d finally stopped shaking, she told me that she’d been warned by estate manager that a goat had escaped from our small farm. She’d come outside to make sure all the doors and gates were closed when she came across the goat dining on her newest cotton bed sheets which she’d hung out to dry.

I’d like to say that he bravery didn’t go unrewarded but to my eye eyes it seemed that the sheets were ruined. Not by the goat, you understand, but by my totally inconsiderate editor who had managed to bleed all over those lovely white cotton.

Still, it was a rather curious incident which I enjoyed enormously. It provided a nice bit of light relief in a day full of heavy political memoir writing.

And so the journey continues.