So, against my better judgement and with much nagging from Lady Madelaine, I have agreed to open the grounds of Offputting Manor once a week to the unwashed masses. I know I shall regret this. I should have turned it into a golf course like everyone else is doing, these days, dammit!
Me? Well Squire Townshend St John De Grincheaux, of course! Who did you think I was, a damn tradesman?! And that's pronounced Town-shh-end Singe-en De Grinch-o. Singen not Saint John. Don't they teach you people anything at school, these days? Why when I was at Warboys, you'd have got one across the knuckles for pronouncing a good English name so sloppily.
I daresay the opening of the grounds will be the talk of Hogenroast Malpractice for some weeks. A subject of even greater tittle tattle than the annual garden show. And while we are on the subject of pronunciation, the proper way to say that is "Hoonroast", the g is silent. Roll it around your tongue and you'll get it right, eventually.
I daresay the ancestors will be turning in their graves at the idea of the greater populace treading our ancient lawns. If the stories are true, George, the third baronet used to hunt poachers with a blunderbuss and pickle stirrer across the fields and gardens of the manor.
Well don't stand around gawping. Haven't you got some honest work to be getting on with?
No comments:
Post a Comment