From maid to matador

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The end of Basil

It's been all over the newspapers: Basil, my maid, has been handed a 6-month jail sentence for trying to defraud the lottery, following my instructions for her to sellotape two tickets together and go and collect the £33m winnings.

Upon reading this desperately sad news, I sat in my Sewing Room and momentarily shed a tear in her memory.   The tear had not even rolled down my cheek before I was out the door like a whippet and off to Tesco Express to buy six bottles of champagne.   I got completely twatted.   

A letter arrived - postmarked Wormwood Scrubbs - from Basil, asking me desperately to get her a lawyer to get her off the charges.

Basil writes that her first week in prison has been very tough, she has had to eat mouse-droppings for breakfast, wear a scratchy blue prison outfit, and has been asked to pick the soap off the shower floor on a number of occasions by a big lesbian calling herself Billy-Jo.  I might've known that Basil would write to me with her tail between her legs.

In such an inebriated state, I gave Basil the necessary compassion she deserves and tossed her letter on the fire without so much as another thought.  Now, it was necessary to think about my dire domestic situation.   It's a bone of contention that one cannot ignore: a lady cannot be a lady without a maid.  So I went online and hired the first live-in maid I could find.  Couldn't find much quality, but did manage to hire a general dogsbody.  Still nursing a hangover, I was in bed sipping some sherry, when the new maid started.  I heard Juan welcome her into the house.   The maid's name is Trixie.  Hopefully she's a lot better than my past maids, Belladonna and Basil.  I haven't got my spectacles on at the moment but here is her photo: