Morning Has Broken

The madness of summer

This extract from my daily routine was prompted by Lucy King, who dared to ask what I loved or hated about Summer. As per the last time, I suspect she is already starting to regret asking. Anyway, here goes.

A quiet knock on the door precedes the sallow, unwelcome visage of Limpkin.

“Breakfast is ready on the Stradliham terrace, your Lordship,” he says.

I ignore him until he strides across the gold-leafed parquet, past my feverish, pink bottom, and draws back the curtain, inviting the day to greet his Lordship’s cheeks.

“Gah!” I cry, burying myself in a stack of goose feather pillows.

Why am I sweating? How is this permissible? I mutter, before returning to fitful slumber.

After three one thousandths of a frumpling (all of the clocks on the estate run on frumpling time), I rise and follow the map drawn for me by the efficient hand of Limpkin.

Arriving to the terrace, I find Effie and Binky have completed their ante-meridiem perambulation of the quadrangle, and are now waiting patiently by their bowls for his Lordship to arrive so that breakfast can be served.

“How is his Lordship today?” a shrill voice demands reply, and I turn, in a state of quiet alarm, to see a pinny-adorning witch approaching the table.

Her brazen traversal is mercifully intercepted by Limpkin who rough arms her away and I hear him say through gritted teeth: “His Lordship does not wish to engage in your asinine jollity”.

After the coffee is served, and my constitution is quite recovered from that hyena’s detestable effrontery, I gesture to trusty old Limpkin. “I say, who was that odious trollop, Limpkin?”

“We take on extra household staff for the summer season, your Lordship.” Then he bowed his head in onerous submission. “Unforgivable, your Lordship. Shall I have her things brought to the front of the house après le petit dejeuner?”

“Judas’ treacherous feet! It’s summer?” I say, approaching a state of near apoplexy.

“Why yes, Your Lordship, the month of Sextilis,” Limpkin says.

“Where is Old Tarquin? I don’t like change!”

I was referring to the charmingly obsequious and wrinkle-stricken groundsman who oft I spied from the observatory which overlooked the pleasantly arranged kitchen potager. In his simple ways I found comfort.

“Dead, Your Lordship.”

“Dead? Dead! When?”

“It will have been five years…pardon milord…four score…and…eight, sorry…nine frumplings, this frumple eve.”

“God have mercy on me!” I say.

Old Tarquin, that sage and trusted statesman of the soil. Who will dispense wisdom and iodized throat tablets while harvesting the concombres now?

I was crestfallen then, and let my gown fall open, exposing my pale frame to the gentle oblivion of Helios.

Effie and Binky, silly old dogs that they are, leapt from their master’s feet and began to bark uproariously at the peacocks on the lawn below.

“His Lordship should like to butter his own toast today, Limpkin,” I say. “And by that His Lordship means he should like you to butter it at the table and he shall inspect.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

How I longed for Winter, or rather for Winters long ago, when I would sit in my sealskin boots watching with pleasure Old Tarquin wrestling with giant terracotta pots in the orangerie, recounting colourful tales of an affair with Josephine at Malmaison.

Thanks for stopping by and thanks especially to Lucy King for the shout-out and the prompt. I’m looking forward to giving some other entries a read!

Her original is here:

Maybe you’d like to have a go? Drop me a link if you do!

*picture generously provided by [email protected]

As always, apologies for this nonsense, there’s more of it here: