Awoken by the Butler at some ungodly hour to be informed that the Duchess, the Aged P of the Admiral of the Fleet, had suffered a tiara related injury, we sped with haste to her side.
Natch, we had been sitting up late quaffing Pinot and dining on a most curiously flavoured Boeuf dish invented by One.
Not having all the ingredients decreed by Delia, One improvised with items various and ended up with what looked remarkably like a few scrag ends floating in drinking chocolate.
The A of the F manfully inhaled it, in, what is now his customary manner, getting it down speedily enough to minimise the scuffage of his taste buds.
Needless to say, pudding consisted of chocolate covered Rennies and a Gaviscon frappe.
Any road up, lying dans le lit, we groaned in unison until the early hours, when, as aforementioned, we were summoned to the bedside of the Aged P of the A of the F.
We shoved her wicker work bath chair onto the back of the flatbed truck and biffed off to A and E.
Some hours later, a fourteen year old Doctor surgically removed the family tiara, bunged it in a Morrison’s carrier and bade us a fond farewell.
This threw the entire day into flux…
The A had been threatening One with a ‘circular walk’ around the estate and had been insistent on One wearing the dreaded wakkin bwts (with two pairs of socks) in to dinner, so as to further break them in.
There we were, he resplendent in his sateen smoking jacket and evening kecks with One ackled up in an off the shoulder Dior number, positively dripping with Diamonds, and the dreaded wakkin bwts.
Fortunately, what with our current exploration of hospitals various in the past week, the walk was forgotten and One biffed the wakkin bwts in the cupboard under the stairs and donned the frou frou, marabou, kitten-heeled slippers for the remainder of the day.