Everything written in this blog is original and copyright (C) Richard Stephen Donovan 2010
All the latest gossip from Luvverly Lodge
Brought to you by "The Lady" magazine.
PREFACE
Hello readers, Lady Luvverly here, but let's not be formal, you may call me Lady if you like.
I've been asked by The Lady magazine to write a short article so you can read my side of the sordid hoo-hah that seems to be the main talking point of the upper classes this season.
Well how could I refuse - apart from wanting to refute the scurrilous rumours surrounding me, I could do with a bit of extra pocket money since my hubby has deigned to cut my allowance and banish me to the Lodge for god knows how long!
It's just a shame that films and TV haven't been invented yet - I could have been a real celeb and earned a fortune! Even if "Hello" magazine was around they'd have paid me a darn sight more than the measly few guineas that "The Lady" has promised me.
I don't normally tittle-tattle but it seems that dear hubby has teamed-up with some oik called Lawrence to write a book about my so-called affair so what's good for the goose etc and I'll get my side of the story in first.
So, dear reader, here is my account. Firstly I should state that I have been assured by the editor that this magazine is read exclusively by those of a high social status so if you happen to be a servant or similar lower-class personage who has mistakenly opened these pages, please stop reading this at once since some of the situations I am about to describe would cause you embarrassment at the very least and I would not wish to cause a swooning epidemic amongst the underclasses.
Right, that's that out the way so we can now talk as the gentry we know we all are, safe in the knowledge that anything I say will be kept private by my readership.
AN UNPLEASANT ACCIDENT
It was several weeks after my hubby appointed a new gamekeeper that the full significance of his name struck me.
The previous incumbent, a doddering old fool whose name I never bothered to discover, had been "disposed of" by my hubby for gross insolence. He had apparently suggested to hubby that using a machine-gun to shoot grouse might be not quite "the done thing"!
Even I, from my bed chamber, could hear hubby's roared response, and imagine his blazen face and elevated blood pressure:
"What the blazes are you talking about, you blithering idiot? What's the point in fellas inventin' these new fangled devices if I can't use the effin' things? Next thing you'll be tellin' me 'it's not the done thing' to use dynamite for fishin'. Anyway, what the devil does a lowbrow lowlife maggot like you know about 'the done thing'? Lower class trolls like yourself no NOTHING about fair play. I suppose you think it's fair that you live rent free in my disused pigsty while I have to spend a bloody fortune on the upkeep of this estate? I suppose you think it's equitable that you are allowed free food from my swill bin to feed yourself and your family while I keep Messrs Fortnum and Mason in the lap of luxury in order to prevent her Ladyship and myself from starvation? The next thing you proles will be askin' for is payment! Life is not fair and if it wasn't for us of noble birth you lot would cease to exist"
After this tirade had reached a crescendo, it seems that His Lordship had picked up the beastly oik and thrown him into the foxhound's pen.
The ravenous hounds (hubby never fed them except on scraps and errant servants) didn't waste any time tucking in to the screaming gamekeeper, although so scrawny was the fellow they still needed a serving wench for dessert.
Naturally the local constabulary had to be informed of the incidents, and as is normal in these cases, once the lowly status of the two plebs who had been careless enough to come within biting distance of the hounds had been established, the Sergeant doffed his helmet, tucked a bottle of hubby's best claret under his arm, and strolled off to report two cases of death by natural causes to the coroner, and the unpleasant incident was closed, albeit leaving hubby requiring a new gamekeeper, toot sweet.
RODGERS
