Dear Diary, it is only now that I feel able to sit and write; the mouse, Harold, Niece, all combined to upset my equilibrium no end.
So often we hear how a cup of tea is the cure-all for everything. It fails to work for me. Earl Grey, my favourite for afternoon tea, of the posh variety; English Breakfast, strong and black, or herbal teas simply left me cold over the last bleak days.
After the mouse episode, Harold, no doubt realising his display showed a lack of back-bone, of manly courage, said a hasty 'Bye' to me, gave Niece a hug, and exited the house. I am left wondering if perhaps Harold looks up to Niece's considerable stamina regarding unwarranted visits by rodents, or whether he is sucking up [not a nice word I know, but so suitable for this occasion] to Niece, in the hope of being on the receiving end of her morning teas. I have an inkling he is not adverse to a little gossip, which is another sign of his lack of genteel breeding.
At the moment my room is my haven, my shield from the uncouth acts of the outside world, the only place where I can be alone with my thoughts and indulge in a little nostalgia.
'My room', is hardly an apt description of my space in Niece and her man's house. Their home is a blend of past and present; the rooms are large and airy, yet not cold in winter. It was built as a family home for a wealthy banker who kept a maid for household chores, his wife being actively involved in civic matters. The maid was fortunate in that she occupied, what today would be classed as a Granny Flat within the home. Her quarters are my quarters. I have a small sitting room with a patio, where Harold and I sat and played Scrabble, and where he attempted to teach me Canasta, from where I can stroll out into the garden or wander further to the shade house where tomatoes, basil, and other herbs grow abundantly. The patio is sheltered from the prevailing winds that sometimes whistle through, as they journey from the interior towards the coast.
I have a bedroom with deep recessed windows with a window seat covered in delicate blue and pink and cream flowery cushions. It is in this spot I sit and read, or watch the myriad of birdlife that flock to the trees bounding the garden. My bed is gracious; a four-poster with cream drapes that are hooked back with blue ties; the quilt covering the Queen Size bed is in similar shades to the cushions. It is at this point I must applaud Niece's considerable efforts in her decor ... she crafted the cushions, and the quilt, and they are magnificent.
Off the bedroom lies a small bathroom, and a huge walk-in wardrobe with a twin-drawer dresser along one side. There is ample space for me, and my treasures.
Confidentially Dear Diary, as I lie awake in those long hours after mid-night, when my mind twirls and swirls with the deeds of the day, and the past, I do sometimes wonder why a banker and his wife found it essential to offer such luxury to a maid. Rumours, which I hasten to say are barely akin to gossip, have it that the only son of banker and wife, is in fact the son of banker and the maid. Of course one should hold no credence to rumours, but you know the old saying, 'where there is smoke, there is fire'.
So often we hear how a cup of tea is the cure-all for everything. It fails to work for me. Earl Grey, my favourite for afternoon tea, of the posh variety; English Breakfast, strong and black, or herbal teas simply left me cold over the last bleak days.
After the mouse episode, Harold, no doubt realising his display showed a lack of back-bone, of manly courage, said a hasty 'Bye' to me, gave Niece a hug, and exited the house. I am left wondering if perhaps Harold looks up to Niece's considerable stamina regarding unwarranted visits by rodents, or whether he is sucking up [not a nice word I know, but so suitable for this occasion] to Niece, in the hope of being on the receiving end of her morning teas. I have an inkling he is not adverse to a little gossip, which is another sign of his lack of genteel breeding.
At the moment my room is my haven, my shield from the uncouth acts of the outside world, the only place where I can be alone with my thoughts and indulge in a little nostalgia.
'My room', is hardly an apt description of my space in Niece and her man's house. Their home is a blend of past and present; the rooms are large and airy, yet not cold in winter. It was built as a family home for a wealthy banker who kept a maid for household chores, his wife being actively involved in civic matters. The maid was fortunate in that she occupied, what today would be classed as a Granny Flat within the home. Her quarters are my quarters. I have a small sitting room with a patio, where Harold and I sat and played Scrabble, and where he attempted to teach me Canasta, from where I can stroll out into the garden or wander further to the shade house where tomatoes, basil, and other herbs grow abundantly. The patio is sheltered from the prevailing winds that sometimes whistle through, as they journey from the interior towards the coast.
I have a bedroom with deep recessed windows with a window seat covered in delicate blue and pink and cream flowery cushions. It is in this spot I sit and read, or watch the myriad of birdlife that flock to the trees bounding the garden. My bed is gracious; a four-poster with cream drapes that are hooked back with blue ties; the quilt covering the Queen Size bed is in similar shades to the cushions. It is at this point I must applaud Niece's considerable efforts in her decor ... she crafted the cushions, and the quilt, and they are magnificent.
Off the bedroom lies a small bathroom, and a huge walk-in wardrobe with a twin-drawer dresser along one side. There is ample space for me, and my treasures.
Confidentially Dear Diary, as I lie awake in those long hours after mid-night, when my mind twirls and swirls with the deeds of the day, and the past, I do sometimes wonder why a banker and his wife found it essential to offer such luxury to a maid. Rumours, which I hasten to say are barely akin to gossip, have it that the only son of banker and wife, is in fact the son of banker and the maid. Of course one should hold no credence to rumours, but you know the old saying, 'where there is smoke, there is fire'.
No comments:
Post a Comment