(My home, Fanny Towers, hidden in the depths of the East Wiltshire countryside, England)
Snow fell heavily yesterday over the tiny East Wiltshire hamlet where I live; so much that my walled garden and servant's quarters were inaccessible under 6 feet of the cold, white stuff. This meant my staff had to dig their way out, just to make my breakfast. I cannot begin to describe the mayhem: at one point, Polly the scullery maid - she's 86, deaf, bent over double, with a face liked a whiskered walrus, black eyes and halitosis that could halt radio broadcasts - slid on ice and my breakfast, a boiled egg with Iranian Beluga caviar ($2,000 per pot), went crashing to the ground.
Can you imagine her, on her knobbly knees, trying to collect tiny black balls of caviar from the snowy recesses of my garden using a teaspoon? Needless to say, her P45 is currently being typed up.
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