Directory of Humor Blogs
Miss Havering Prepares For Her Walk
In Miss Havering Ma’am’s considered opinion, there was nothing so delightful as a lovely walk in the ‘country’ (her appellation for the copious and feral gardens surrounding The Big House). And so it was that, every afternoon, rain or shine, sleet or snow, she would summon Mortimer (by means of her horrid and infamous silver claxon) from the depths of the maid’s dormitory (which was, in fact, located in the uppermost attic facing the stable yard and carriage house; having never attempted the journey to ‘those regions’ herself, however, it served Miss Havering Ma’am’s purpose to image they were located in the dungeon). Upon The Ancient, Scrawny and Wittery Factotum’s eventual arrival (all-aflutter), she would enrobe her mistress in the appropriate quantity of woollen shawls (ten on the hottest summer days, one in the dead of winter), after which The Great Lady’s vast bulk would be heaved through the dining room window and into the treasured mudroom. At that point, Mortimer customarily assumed the position of a supplicant misericordia, against which Miss Havering Ma’am would lean in preparation for the ordeal of “those damned gumboots” (as she was so fond of saying).
With the passing years, Miss Havering had grown a mighty girth, topped by a formidable shelf of bosom specifically designed to support her books when she read after dinner (as well as to accommodate the plentiful medals she, as a general’s granddaughter, considered her birthright). With the bulk - (which was quite ably contained by a large quantity of stays, none of which had been removed since the day Mortimer’s muscles showed signs of becoming enfeebled) - came a great deal of weight. “One is not the gel one once was,” Miss Havering loved saying. “Gads, one could accommodate seven or twelve of one’s former self!”
Once Mortimer was firmly braced against the wall and Miss Havering Ma’am had assumed a comfortable and securely supine position with the entirety of her great weight leaning into her skinny back, the operation of “those damned gumboots” would commence.
The boots had, of course, been lined up in perfect symmetry in readiness for the assault (a task the Wellingtons took on themselves, knowing that to do otherwise would result in grievous punishment from Miss Havering Ma’am, who was nothing if not a firm believer in the subjugation of the lower orders). After kicking them about a bit to wake them up, Herself Ma’am would make sure their bearing was suitably military and regimental, and facing the door according to prescribed protocol. And above all, that they were positioned directly in front of the hapless Mortimer’s misericordia. It was a timeless a routine, one played out daily and which had its roots in those halcyon years when both mistress and servant had been supple and ripe. The routine never varied, nor did its aftermath. For upon the required position having been assumed, and the signal for readiness having been given (the signal being the appropriately subservient ‘ooof’ from The Maid), Miss Havering Ma’am would clear her throat in a superior and important fashion, implying that was quite unwilling to lift her legs without assistance. The throat clearing was followed by an abrupt clanging of the large silver bell hanging from a conveniently placed cord, whereupon, from environs unknown, Ebbers, the sad and no longer handsome or lairy gardener’s boy, would appear as if by magic. And having materialised, he would take a heavy, beleaguered breath, and one at a time, heave his mistress’ Mighty and Jellisome Jambes into her gumboots. It was a task both gruesome and awful, and to accomplish it and yet remain alive, Edders stoppered his ears, for as he once said to his doxy, Elderberry Magee, “Them wot hears the horribo squelchies and groanies that comes from them rancidy boots’ll die as sure as a dog under a cow.”
Once the mighty and jellisome Jambes were encased within the ‘rancidy boots’ (a terrible fate for any boot, let along one of evil will), T’reasa (blinder than on the previous day and still unaware of having sat upon her spectacles, even though the articles in question remained stuck in an unfortunate predicament, making it most uncomfortable to sit down), would, on cue, enter through the lower window. Curtsying jerkily and deeply (and not occasionally losing her balance altogether), T’reasa would then present to Her Mistress a paper parcel tied up with string. For reasons better left unsaid, though having to do with The Skivvy’s habit of dropping the tea tray on the kitchen stairs, causing it to roll back down again and into an unknown chasm in the lower passage, the parcel always dangled from her quavering forefinger, bringing a terrible rebuke from Miss Havering Ma’am.
The parcel, whether dangling from a maid’s scraggy finger or balanced upon a tray, customarily contained the picnic lunch which Mrs. Beasley had deigned to prepare for ‘Herself Ma’am’. Characteristically, it was comprised of rissoles made from the leavings of the previous night’s dinner and supper (themselves invariably leftovers from lunch), into which was mixed that morning’s breakfast leavings together with a portion of mash destined for the prized hogs. Understandably, The Venerable Cook lived in a state of constant high dudgeon and greatly resented having to prepare what she referred to as “the hamper”. She did, however, find enormous satisfaction in the beauty of her brown paper parcels and in the quality and quantity of her knots, knowing full well how well nigh impossible it would be to untie them (she did so enjoy listening to ‘Herself Ma’am’ bellow and curse in the attempt). It marked the high point of her day, and she would later share the words and insults coined by Her Mistress over cups of strong, sweet tea (the leaves having been ‘borrowed’ without permission from ‘Herself Ma’am’s Cupboard’) and plates of marzipan bunnies and roly poly pudding with Dogpuddle (the disused Butler/Chauffeur), Ebbers and T’reasa – but not with Mortimer, who still retained a certain loyalty to The Great Lady.
There was always one final ritual before ‘one’s delightful walk in the country’ and that was the ‘conveying of the Fundament’. As soon as she was settled into her boots, Miss Havering Ma’am would rummage in the folds of her mighty décolletage and retrieve the gold mounted ivory klaxon which was at all times kept in readiness for particularly important summonses. Three imperious blasts would be given, and upon these three imperious blasts having been heard, Mortimer would curtsy (according to the mood of her knees) and immediately produce (from somewhere or other, no one knew) a large silver flask. “Your afternoon Fundament, M’m”. M’m would duly suspend the sacred vessel from a hook on her chatelaine (never once removed since its liberation from the mouldering corpse of her mother several decades previously). Thus armed for the rigours of the forthcoming expedition, the door would swing open as if by magic and she would exit the house. “One shall return in time for tea,” Miss Havering Ma’am would trumpet. “Tell Beasley One should prefer anchovies and cress and please do not remove the crusts from the sandwiches. They not only restore the humours but are good exercise for the teeth. Strawberries if they are ripe, otherwise a poached apple. Drumloch and water biscuits. No oatcakes if you please. They annoy One, which one knows pleases Cook greatly. One shall be returning punctually at three quarters past three in the après midi.”
***
On this particular day, the ‘day in question’, in which the evil and downtrodden gumboots, the sisters Wellingffomething-ffomething, would at long last taste a pyrrhic victory, Miss Havering Ma’am chose to turn left at the kitchen garden. She crossed the ancient, crumbling stable yard, from which she proceeded to the medieval wall separating the demesne from the western-most bog, known by all the denizens, large and small, as ‘Miss Havering’s’. The Great Lady had earlier that very morning contemplated a gentle ramble through the eastern meadows and into the plantations of oak and beech and ash and elm, a much-favoured constitutional. Unfortunately, when she awoke with a swollen knee and “a certain sensitivity” (most definitely accompanied by a certain black and blue-toned bruising, although the extent of the injuries would go unexamined due to her scruples concerning the abominations of the unadorned flesh), Miss Havering Ma’am decided to change course. “The unfortunate injuries brought on by the rigours of yesterday’s vicissitudes,” brought to mind the tumble she had taken when shortness of sight and inattention to her surroundings had prompted her misjudge the location of the haha. “I was so looking forward to the skirmish,” she sighed, thinking of the many vulgar Stinkhorns (genus Fungus Phalloides) to be found and exterminated within the plantations, “and had my most glorious spear primed for a famous victory.” However, such exertions now being deemed unwise and impractical, Miss Havering Ma’am sighed and chortled to the aubusson antimacassar, “Such is life, but one fears one sha’n’t feel oneself again until one has whipped a servant or two. MORTIMER,” she’d bellowed, “summon Dogpuddle and Whatisname immediately! And bring the cat!”
***
As was her custom, following a breakfast of Mrs. Beasley’s famous twice-baked eggs (placed in the oven the night before and left to “improve”), suspiciously thick slices of toast, boiled kidneys and a single tomato (never eaten, always the same, when is a kidney not a kidney? When it is painted red.), and feeling refreshed from her morning “ablutions”, The Great Lady adjourned to her little desk (the one facing out the window towards her grandfather’s memorial fountain) to plan her day.
“Who,” ‘Herself Ma‘am would ask herself, “is the foe and what is to be one’s battle plan?” A large Baccarat beaker of Auld Fundament found its way to her blotting paper, courtesy Mortimer’s trembling fingers (and for once the gods were smiling, for half a dram or so of the fragrant, honeyed amber liquid remained in the glass for the drinking).
A tiny sip (“Ah, what bliss it is to sip this golden nectar”), after which the nib was dipped into the ‘freshly ground’ India ink (from a large bottle purchased in The Army and Navy and kept in the wine cellar, where is was regularly mixed with maderized wine and passed off as Porto Fino), and her pen would literally fly across the foxéd vellum.
One this particular day, the day in question, Miss Havering Ma’am had reminded herself to be in the worst of all possible moods. She ached from head to toe, Beasley’s breakfast was even more abominable than usual, Mortimer showed signs of increased enfeeblement, having absentmindedly set down the morning tray on the wrong side of the bed – then suddenly thinking the bed was hers and climbing in after the tray. Furthermore, no visiting cards had been left in the silver tray in the hall, and it was a sunny day. “Nothing for it,” she growled, “but to invade the bog and destroy as many plants as possible!” And while she was about it, she might look for the bedroom slipper she had hurled into the dankest bog pond in a fit of pique. “It sang at us,” Miss Havering recalled, “and pinched our bunion.” Nonetheless, she had no other pair and missed it dreadfully. “We must one be the only maiden under The Heavens deprived of a full pair of bedroom slippers?” she whined. “Half a pair is so very inconvenient. Number one, it pines all the time and calls for its mate (which is so unnerving when it will insist upon doing so in the middle of the night); number two, it fights with the yellow woollen sock one is forced to wear on the other foot (calling it presumptuous and no better than it ought to be); and number three, one suspects the servants of harbouring complete pairs of their own and flaunting them in public at local fetes when one is judging the herbaceous borders.”
And so it was that she determined to turn left, not right, at the kitchen garden. Dogpuddle!” she boomed, “You shall accompany us as far as the stile and assist our person to the other side. And while we are about it, carry the hamper. It is far too redolent of Mrs. Beasley’s cardigan and our health today is delicate.” Miss Havering Ma’am fell silent for a moment and considered various options. “Better yet, attach yourself to Grandmama’s tiny phaeton. We shall wait for you,” she commanded, pointing in various directions, by the rhododendron.”
In Miss Havering Ma’am’s considered opinion, there was nothing so delightful as a lovely walk in the ‘country’ (her appellation for the copious and feral gardens surrounding The Big House). And so it was that, every afternoon, rain or shine, sleet or snow, she would summon Mortimer (by means of her horrid and infamous silver claxon) from the depths of the maid’s dormitory (which was, in fact, located in the uppermost attic facing the stable yard and carriage house; having never attempted the journey to ‘those regions’ herself, however, it served Miss Havering Ma’am’s purpose to image they were located in the dungeon). Upon The Ancient, Scrawny and Wittery Factotum’s eventual arrival (all-aflutter), she would enrobe her mistress in the appropriate quantity of woollen shawls (ten on the hottest summer days, one in the dead of winter), after which The Great Lady’s vast bulk would be heaved through the dining room window and into the treasured mudroom. At that point, Mortimer customarily assumed the position of a supplicant misericordia, against which Miss Havering Ma’am would lean in preparation for the ordeal of “those damned gumboots” (as she was so fond of saying).
With the passing years, Miss Havering had grown a mighty girth, topped by a formidable shelf of bosom specifically designed to support her books when she read after dinner (as well as to accommodate the plentiful medals she, as a general’s granddaughter, considered her birthright). With the bulk - (which was quite ably contained by a large quantity of stays, none of which had been removed since the day Mortimer’s muscles showed signs of becoming enfeebled) - came a great deal of weight. “One is not the gel one once was,” Miss Havering loved saying. “Gads, one could accommodate seven or twelve of one’s former self!”
Once Mortimer was firmly braced against the wall and Miss Havering Ma’am had assumed a comfortable and securely supine position with the entirety of her great weight leaning into her skinny back, the operation of “those damned gumboots” would commence.
The boots had, of course, been lined up in perfect symmetry in readiness for the assault (a task the Wellingtons took on themselves, knowing that to do otherwise would result in grievous punishment from Miss Havering Ma’am, who was nothing if not a firm believer in the subjugation of the lower orders). After kicking them about a bit to wake them up, Herself Ma’am would make sure their bearing was suitably military and regimental, and facing the door according to prescribed protocol. And above all, that they were positioned directly in front of the hapless Mortimer’s misericordia. It was a timeless a routine, one played out daily and which had its roots in those halcyon years when both mistress and servant had been supple and ripe. The routine never varied, nor did its aftermath. For upon the required position having been assumed, and the signal for readiness having been given (the signal being the appropriately subservient ‘ooof’ from The Maid), Miss Havering Ma’am would clear her throat in a superior and important fashion, implying that was quite unwilling to lift her legs without assistance. The throat clearing was followed by an abrupt clanging of the large silver bell hanging from a conveniently placed cord, whereupon, from environs unknown, Ebbers, the sad and no longer handsome or lairy gardener’s boy, would appear as if by magic. And having materialised, he would take a heavy, beleaguered breath, and one at a time, heave his mistress’ Mighty and Jellisome Jambes into her gumboots. It was a task both gruesome and awful, and to accomplish it and yet remain alive, Edders stoppered his ears, for as he once said to his doxy, Elderberry Magee, “Them wot hears the horribo squelchies and groanies that comes from them rancidy boots’ll die as sure as a dog under a cow.”
Once the mighty and jellisome Jambes were encased within the ‘rancidy boots’ (a terrible fate for any boot, let along one of evil will), T’reasa (blinder than on the previous day and still unaware of having sat upon her spectacles, even though the articles in question remained stuck in an unfortunate predicament, making it most uncomfortable to sit down), would, on cue, enter through the lower window. Curtsying jerkily and deeply (and not occasionally losing her balance altogether), T’reasa would then present to Her Mistress a paper parcel tied up with string. For reasons better left unsaid, though having to do with The Skivvy’s habit of dropping the tea tray on the kitchen stairs, causing it to roll back down again and into an unknown chasm in the lower passage, the parcel always dangled from her quavering forefinger, bringing a terrible rebuke from Miss Havering Ma’am.
The parcel, whether dangling from a maid’s scraggy finger or balanced upon a tray, customarily contained the picnic lunch which Mrs. Beasley had deigned to prepare for ‘Herself Ma’am’. Characteristically, it was comprised of rissoles made from the leavings of the previous night’s dinner and supper (themselves invariably leftovers from lunch), into which was mixed that morning’s breakfast leavings together with a portion of mash destined for the prized hogs. Understandably, The Venerable Cook lived in a state of constant high dudgeon and greatly resented having to prepare what she referred to as “the hamper”. She did, however, find enormous satisfaction in the beauty of her brown paper parcels and in the quality and quantity of her knots, knowing full well how well nigh impossible it would be to untie them (she did so enjoy listening to ‘Herself Ma’am’ bellow and curse in the attempt). It marked the high point of her day, and she would later share the words and insults coined by Her Mistress over cups of strong, sweet tea (the leaves having been ‘borrowed’ without permission from ‘Herself Ma’am’s Cupboard’) and plates of marzipan bunnies and roly poly pudding with Dogpuddle (the disused Butler/Chauffeur), Ebbers and T’reasa – but not with Mortimer, who still retained a certain loyalty to The Great Lady.
There was always one final ritual before ‘one’s delightful walk in the country’ and that was the ‘conveying of the Fundament’. As soon as she was settled into her boots, Miss Havering Ma’am would rummage in the folds of her mighty décolletage and retrieve the gold mounted ivory klaxon which was at all times kept in readiness for particularly important summonses. Three imperious blasts would be given, and upon these three imperious blasts having been heard, Mortimer would curtsy (according to the mood of her knees) and immediately produce (from somewhere or other, no one knew) a large silver flask. “Your afternoon Fundament, M’m”. M’m would duly suspend the sacred vessel from a hook on her chatelaine (never once removed since its liberation from the mouldering corpse of her mother several decades previously). Thus armed for the rigours of the forthcoming expedition, the door would swing open as if by magic and she would exit the house. “One shall return in time for tea,” Miss Havering Ma’am would trumpet. “Tell Beasley One should prefer anchovies and cress and please do not remove the crusts from the sandwiches. They not only restore the humours but are good exercise for the teeth. Strawberries if they are ripe, otherwise a poached apple. Drumloch and water biscuits. No oatcakes if you please. They annoy One, which one knows pleases Cook greatly. One shall be returning punctually at three quarters past three in the après midi.”
***
On this particular day, the ‘day in question’, in which the evil and downtrodden gumboots, the sisters Wellingffomething-ffomething, would at long last taste a pyrrhic victory, Miss Havering Ma’am chose to turn left at the kitchen garden. She crossed the ancient, crumbling stable yard, from which she proceeded to the medieval wall separating the demesne from the western-most bog, known by all the denizens, large and small, as ‘Miss Havering’s’. The Great Lady had earlier that very morning contemplated a gentle ramble through the eastern meadows and into the plantations of oak and beech and ash and elm, a much-favoured constitutional. Unfortunately, when she awoke with a swollen knee and “a certain sensitivity” (most definitely accompanied by a certain black and blue-toned bruising, although the extent of the injuries would go unexamined due to her scruples concerning the abominations of the unadorned flesh), Miss Havering Ma’am decided to change course. “The unfortunate injuries brought on by the rigours of yesterday’s vicissitudes,” brought to mind the tumble she had taken when shortness of sight and inattention to her surroundings had prompted her misjudge the location of the haha. “I was so looking forward to the skirmish,” she sighed, thinking of the many vulgar Stinkhorns (genus Fungus Phalloides) to be found and exterminated within the plantations, “and had my most glorious spear primed for a famous victory.” However, such exertions now being deemed unwise and impractical, Miss Havering Ma’am sighed and chortled to the aubusson antimacassar, “Such is life, but one fears one sha’n’t feel oneself again until one has whipped a servant or two. MORTIMER,” she’d bellowed, “summon Dogpuddle and Whatisname immediately! And bring the cat!”
***
As was her custom, following a breakfast of Mrs. Beasley’s famous twice-baked eggs (placed in the oven the night before and left to “improve”), suspiciously thick slices of toast, boiled kidneys and a single tomato (never eaten, always the same, when is a kidney not a kidney? When it is painted red.), and feeling refreshed from her morning “ablutions”, The Great Lady adjourned to her little desk (the one facing out the window towards her grandfather’s memorial fountain) to plan her day.
“Who,” ‘Herself Ma‘am would ask herself, “is the foe and what is to be one’s battle plan?” A large Baccarat beaker of Auld Fundament found its way to her blotting paper, courtesy Mortimer’s trembling fingers (and for once the gods were smiling, for half a dram or so of the fragrant, honeyed amber liquid remained in the glass for the drinking).
A tiny sip (“Ah, what bliss it is to sip this golden nectar”), after which the nib was dipped into the ‘freshly ground’ India ink (from a large bottle purchased in The Army and Navy and kept in the wine cellar, where is was regularly mixed with maderized wine and passed off as Porto Fino), and her pen would literally fly across the foxéd vellum.
One this particular day, the day in question, Miss Havering Ma’am had reminded herself to be in the worst of all possible moods. She ached from head to toe, Beasley’s breakfast was even more abominable than usual, Mortimer showed signs of increased enfeeblement, having absentmindedly set down the morning tray on the wrong side of the bed – then suddenly thinking the bed was hers and climbing in after the tray. Furthermore, no visiting cards had been left in the silver tray in the hall, and it was a sunny day. “Nothing for it,” she growled, “but to invade the bog and destroy as many plants as possible!” And while she was about it, she might look for the bedroom slipper she had hurled into the dankest bog pond in a fit of pique. “It sang at us,” Miss Havering recalled, “and pinched our bunion.” Nonetheless, she had no other pair and missed it dreadfully. “We must one be the only maiden under The Heavens deprived of a full pair of bedroom slippers?” she whined. “Half a pair is so very inconvenient. Number one, it pines all the time and calls for its mate (which is so unnerving when it will insist upon doing so in the middle of the night); number two, it fights with the yellow woollen sock one is forced to wear on the other foot (calling it presumptuous and no better than it ought to be); and number three, one suspects the servants of harbouring complete pairs of their own and flaunting them in public at local fetes when one is judging the herbaceous borders.”
And so it was that she determined to turn left, not right, at the kitchen garden. Dogpuddle!” she boomed, “You shall accompany us as far as the stile and assist our person to the other side. And while we are about it, carry the hamper. It is far too redolent of Mrs. Beasley’s cardigan and our health today is delicate.” Miss Havering Ma’am fell silent for a moment and considered various options. “Better yet, attach yourself to Grandmama’s tiny phaeton. We shall wait for you,” she commanded, pointing in various directions, by the rhododendron.”
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