West wing flooded

Here I am this morning, looking for the TV remote control.  Unfortunately, Basil, my new maid, had left a tap running and flooded the entire West wing.  I had to dive five metres underwater, holding my breathe, just to wind the Ormolu clock on the mantelpiece.

The woman has the brain of a cockroach.  Here she is, hours earlier, standing around singing and waving what appears to be a Lady Gaga toilet brush around in the air, unaware of the calamity she is about to cause.

Why I bought 12 truckloads of spray

 

I'm at my wit's end as to what to do about my maid, Belladonna (known by her pet-name, Belladonna Bitchhole).  This morning I went to Pets R Us - a shop run by poodles, for poodles - and purchased 12 truckloads of this delightful spray.  When I got home and found Belladonna, I sprayed a whole can in her face, the way police officers spray mace on Police Camera Action (my second favourite TV programme, after The Wombles).  She's now weeping in the coal-shed, much sub-dued.

Christmas tantrums from Belladonna

In a moment of sheer vodka-induced boredom, Fanny created this lovely, Belladonna-themed snow-globe.  A little plasticine model of Belladonna, horrifyingly realistic, was placed inside the globe, itself a forgotten Christmas present from 1981.  I've emailed Toys R Us to see if they're interested in the design.  

Meanwhile, Belladonna has been whining like a spoilt brat today, demanding her Christmas gifts.  I found her standing on top of my Louis Quatorze piano, stamping her feet on the lid in a little rage.   As my least favourite member of staff, I've tried countless times to terminate her from my household, with little success.   Knowing that I'd be shackled with her over the Christmas period, I spent Christmas Eve wrapping up a few 'special', unforgettable gifts for her, especially hand-picked, to show her just who is boss.

My first gift to my lovely, very beautiful maid was a set of Sea Urchin Earrings.  She looked a little miffed when she tore open the Christmas wrapping paper like a rabid dog.  She just sat there, expressionless. Ungrateful wench!

The second present I thrust into her grubby little hands was this.

That's right.  It's an electric eel.  A thoughtful and heartfelt gift to a much-loved maid.  I even wrapped it in a sheet of tinfoil.  She's in a sulk now.  I can't think why!

Silence is golden

This is my maid.   Her name is Belladonna Zlatogrivov.  She has a fetish for Wonder Woman-themed garments, mostly lycra that is obscenely revealing of her tree-trunk sized thighs.  She chews liquorice.  She eats brussel sprout sandwiches.  Her favourite hobbies are doing the shot-put and naked oil wrestling.  Her training at the Vladvistok School of Domesticity didn't even get as far as "how to make a cup of tea".  

She is utterly without point.  No matter how many times I've tried to get rid of the woman, she keeps coming back to me.   She is a literal white elephant, costing me a fortune in her fees yet being completely useless and incompetent of even the simplest task.

Last night, after imbibing too much absinthe, I had the most lurid nightmare about Belladonna:

Yes, that's right, in a kaleidoscope of colour and song, Belladonna Zlatogrivov appeared to be walking along the Yellow Brick Road with Dorothy and others towards the Emerald City.  It was most disturbing.   I feel quite nauseous, woke in a terrible start, and have just consumed a whole packet of Xanax and Prozac.

This morning, as if by some queer design, Belladonna came into the sitting room with my breakfast which she had "murdered": some rock-hard boiled eggs; a greasy flute of champagne; some smoked-salmon garnished with a sprig of lavender.   Yes, that's right smoked salmon and lavender go together like lesbians and kittens.   Anyway, at that point, she accidentally (on purpose) tripped on the rug and threw the whole breakfast tray into my lap.

Outraged at her insubordination, it dawned on me that there was one way - and one way only - of discipling this unruly waif.

That's right: silence is golden... duct tape is silver.  And Fanny is very nifty with a pair of scissors.  Here's the result:

All trussed up with no-where to go: Belladonna hasn't let out a squeak.  An unnatural silence has descended on the house.

Along came Belladonna, the Maid

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!