One has been given the opportunity to be a companion/carer/bosom friend, in the manner of ‘The Girl’ in Daph du M’s ‘Rebecca.’
A temporary solution to the homelessness carriage of One’s runaway train of failure and shame.
One fears there may not be a Maxim de Winter out there to come to the rescue of Lovely One and One will be secreted away companioning/caring/bosom friending until One is consumed by rodents.
The WN was in residence when One returned from a mercy mission for a chum…
Whilst One had been festering away with a pinot in one hand and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s in the other, soaking me feet in the washing up bowl (with special socks on, saves on the laundry), the little blighter had been submerged in a claw-footed, cast iron bath with a view of the family acreage, accompanied by a member of OUR BRITISH ARISTOCRACY.
‘How do you know he really is LB?’ enquired the RR when One passed on the tale. (One only lives through the doings of the WN)
‘I could say I am the heir to the throne of Uffers if I felt like it,’ the cynical cove continued.
DO THESE PEOPLE THINK WE HAVEN’T GOOGLED HIM TO MAKE SURE?
One wouldn’t let the tiny temptress fling herself in the path of just any old codger, well, not one without the possibility of a bit of favourable fallout in the direction of One, anyway.
Just think, Dear Reader, One could be at least a ‘Mrs Bridges’ (oooh err Mister ‘Udson) type below stairs.
Any road up, even if the RR is heir to the throne of Uffers, One is far too sullied, in the manner of Wallis Simpson, to be accepted by the serfs as their Queen. Especially when One has been observed visiting one of the said serfs on a regular basis for solace and an Uffers Kebab.
ONE HAS A DATE WITH A MAN ON TUESDAY