It has been a while since I wrote here, dear Reader.
The dregs of summer finally fizzled out like too much cheap champagne; the highlight of that time was the ejection from a fourth floor window of my hand-servant, Maude, for the offence of insubordination - she refused to clean my gold-plated bathroom suite with a toothbrush. Some people say that unruly servants should be 'sacked' or 'fired'; I say that a firing squad is too good for them and to instead throw them out of the top window, naked if possible, as the final act of showing them who is boss.
I couldn't really be bothered with all the malarkey involved in hiring new staff, interviewing etc, so I left the job to my trusty personal assistant with the instructions to employ someone suitable, someone who knows how to make a cup of tea and clean the bogs, someone who can make beds with their eyes closed, and pour a half-decent dry martini or Crème de Menthe Frappé whilst doing the hoovering.
Needless to say I was incandescent with rage to discover that this ... this woman turned up for work this morning. Her name, apparently, is Belladonna Zlatogrivov, a hoarse-voiced Russian with a huge beehive of jet-black hair and thighs like tree-trunks. She has a penchant for wearing spectacles with chains and gold lamé boob-tubes. She carries a can of fly-spray in her red fake Barbarella handbag, no doubt not understanding enough English to know that it's not deodorant. That would explain the peculiar smell whenever she thuds into the room.
Putting on my pink, crystal lorgnette reading glasses (if you don't know what a lorgnette is, it is a pair of spectacles with a handle, used to hold them in place, rather than fitting over the ears) I look a quick squint at the woman's C.V. or curriculum vitae. This is what I found:
Disgusting. Quite how my personal assistant had hired a woman who lists her hobbies as "eating Fray Bentos pies", "doing the shot-put" and having an "amazing collection of Anal Beads" is beyond me. And as for that Polaroid shot, well! Hardly showing her 'best' side is she! My personal assistant clearly must have had an acute psychotic episode to have entertained employing this cirque du freak. Now this abomination of a woman was in my household and a member of staff!
The only personal item she arrived with, other than her suitcase, was an orange 1970s Space Hopper; no doubt, her only friend.
Belladonna apparently means in Latin 'beautiful woman'. The woman is already breaching the Trade Misdescriptions Act by using that name. She has all the charm of a drain-pipe. She belches in a very manly way.
How to get rid of her?
"Send that bitch out on this morning's hunt" I barked, "I don't want her near my ormolu clock. She's not a maid. I don't even want her in the house. Give her sleeping quarters in the stable-block where she belongs with sawdust as a bed".
Some hours later, I was advised by the hunt-master that all the hunting dogs (mostly spaniels) had run off (no doubt scared off by Belladonna's arrival) but that Belladonna had single-handedly brought down several pheasants, chased a fox out of its hole and cornered, fought with, and brought down a vicious, wild boar. Maybe she has a use for me after all!
The dregs of summer finally fizzled out like too much cheap champagne; the highlight of that time was the ejection from a fourth floor window of my hand-servant, Maude, for the offence of insubordination - she refused to clean my gold-plated bathroom suite with a toothbrush. Some people say that unruly servants should be 'sacked' or 'fired'; I say that a firing squad is too good for them and to instead throw them out of the top window, naked if possible, as the final act of showing them who is boss.
I couldn't really be bothered with all the malarkey involved in hiring new staff, interviewing etc, so I left the job to my trusty personal assistant with the instructions to employ someone suitable, someone who knows how to make a cup of tea and clean the bogs, someone who can make beds with their eyes closed, and pour a half-decent dry martini or Crème de Menthe Frappé whilst doing the hoovering.
Needless to say I was incandescent with rage to discover that this ... this woman turned up for work this morning. Her name, apparently, is Belladonna Zlatogrivov, a hoarse-voiced Russian with a huge beehive of jet-black hair and thighs like tree-trunks. She has a penchant for wearing spectacles with chains and gold lamé boob-tubes. She carries a can of fly-spray in her red fake Barbarella handbag, no doubt not understanding enough English to know that it's not deodorant. That would explain the peculiar smell whenever she thuds into the room.
Putting on my pink, crystal lorgnette reading glasses (if you don't know what a lorgnette is, it is a pair of spectacles with a handle, used to hold them in place, rather than fitting over the ears) I look a quick squint at the woman's C.V. or curriculum vitae. This is what I found:
Disgusting. Quite how my personal assistant had hired a woman who lists her hobbies as "eating Fray Bentos pies", "doing the shot-put" and having an "amazing collection of Anal Beads" is beyond me. And as for that Polaroid shot, well! Hardly showing her 'best' side is she! My personal assistant clearly must have had an acute psychotic episode to have entertained employing this cirque du freak. Now this abomination of a woman was in my household and a member of staff!
The only personal item she arrived with, other than her suitcase, was an orange 1970s Space Hopper; no doubt, her only friend.
Belladonna apparently means in Latin 'beautiful woman'. The woman is already breaching the Trade Misdescriptions Act by using that name. She has all the charm of a drain-pipe. She belches in a very manly way.
"Send that bitch out on this morning's hunt" I barked, "I don't want her near my ormolu clock. She's not a maid. I don't even want her in the house. Give her sleeping quarters in the stable-block where she belongs with sawdust as a bed".
Some hours later, I was advised by the hunt-master that all the hunting dogs (mostly spaniels) had run off (no doubt scared off by Belladonna's arrival) but that Belladonna had single-handedly brought down several pheasants, chased a fox out of its hole and cornered, fought with, and brought down a vicious, wild boar. Maybe she has a use for me after all!
Finding good live in starff who know their place are rarer than hen's teeth. Muriel the maid I had before Carmen had the nerve to criticise my beautiful china dorgs I bought from Harrods (pronounced H'erds) by calling them greyhounds! Greyhounds! They are Pharaoh Hounds one of the oldest domesticated dog breeds in the world and she called them greyhounds! She had to go. Ricin proved to be very effective, I ground down a few castor oil seeds into a fine powder and sprinkled it in her prune juice, it took her nearly a week to drop dead from organ failure, giving her time to reflect on her cruel words.
ReplyDeleteBravo for the manner in which you dispatched Muriel the maid. You wouldn't be interested in a Maid Swap, would you? You could have Belladonna and I could have Carmen?
DeleteCarmen (48) is a bit long in the tooth and just about ready for the knackers yard. I recently bought a Roma baby from a man in Sheffield, he was asking £250, but after haggling I purchased it for £175! I re-named her Topsy. However, the man had failed to mention that she wasn't litter trained and totally unsuitable for silver service domestication. The stench emanating from the airing cupboard where Topsy slept would have made a glass eye water, no, she had to go. I sold her on to Claire, a TS friend of mine for £500, she couldn't thank me enough for making her life complete.
Delete