It was a long day in Worcester where I had to deal with the customer, my staff and various people of trade (which I believe is the politically correct way to refer to such people). I have noticed that political correctness is becoming even more prevalent since the recent Presidential inauguration. Personally I think its an Obamanation.

I finally got away and headed home. Traffic was heavy, but with a call to the Chief Constable of West Mercia I soon had some Police outriders to ease the journey and was soon home.

Last night I had to go an open the new Business School at the University. They had originally asked to name it after me, but as you know I try to keep a low profile so I declined. I spent a pleasant hour or two with the Regents and met some of the up and coming graduates who look up to me as a role model (tiresome, but understandable).

At the end of the evening I made my way back to Worcester and (at least metaphorically - which, let's face it, is the practical limit in my case) let my hair down at a local hostelry with some of the staff.

I see that with the delivery of the last of my Astons, Aston Martin have decided to drop down to a three-day week. (Good job too, keeps them a bit more exclusive).

Appalled to hear that Fortnum & Mason are laying off staff. I phoned the Chief Exec to register my concern but he assured that my service would not be affected. I thanked him, said that I would be monitoring the situation and whilst on the phone ordered 2 dozen quail's eggs.

I knew I should have listened to my intuition. However, I didn't and stood Fellows down from the chauffeur duties to drive myself back up to the shires. The journey up was uneventful, but the wireless was most distasteful. I could only get reception on a show fronted by someone called Moyles. Very unsavoury chap. Nothing like Johnners used to be.

Anyway, the jalopy was handling quite badly by the time I reached the offices in Worcester, and upon extricating myself from behind the wheel it was obvious that I had a flat. Only at the bottom, but it was definitely flat. What annoyed me was that the car is only a couple of weeks old.  Anyway. I rang Fellows to come up, swap the wheel and effect a repair to the damaged tyre, but the Memsahib had apparantly taken him shopping. Poor Fellows. Yomping up and down Carnaby Street, at his age!

As Fellows was unavailable I rang the dealer from whence I bought the car to arrange someone to fix the faulty tyre. After a battle they agreed to send a young man who duly arrived later that day. They seemed to baulk at the fact that the fault was theirs? The grubby overalled technician set about repairing the offending tyre, but could only effect a temporary repair as apparently they don't carry the tyre required. It's one of the problems with such an exclusive car. The tyre will be in tomorrow, when hopefully they will send a smarter, better dressed technician to actually fix things properly.

The service is never as bad at Fortnums. Perhaps they should take some lessons!

I was having a quiet day at club with a plan for an early return home.

No such luck. The phone rang and it was Gordon.

Again.

I know he's keepining one eye on Darling's manoevres with the economy (well, come to think of it that's all he can do), but he's insisted I come round for dinner tonight. I suspect it will be a late one with him moaning on about global forces, sub-prime Tony, prudence, and so forth. I had better delay my planned start in the morning. I may even get Fellows to drive me.

The exam took a lot out of me. I was glad that I had a arranged for Fellows to meet me in Oxford and drive me home. I settled back and quaffed some nicely chilled champagne whilst shucking a few oysters to aid recovery of the little grey cells. Fellows knew better than to talk - he just sat there and drove.

Saturday was dedicated to further recovery and to seeing the family.

Bit of a furore today as some of the Labour Peers were accused of taking money to influence the passage and content of new laws. Phtah! Amateurs. There is no need to resort to such crass fraud. I have never had to offer incentives to ease my passage.

Got to Oxford in glorious winter sunshine. Found the hotel and reluctantly let the oik on reception park the new jalopy in car park. Having decamped to the penthouse, I arranged with the concierge to get me to the exam hall.

Unpon arrival I was horrified to find that the hall, was nothing like the great hall at home. The antique paintings, sumptuous carpeting and rugs and comfortable but elegant furtiture of "chez moi", was replaced by paintings that look like they were done by elephants with brushes, tiny plastic chairs and hundreds of small formica tables. Even the place names were just typed, not handwritten in copperplate.

Having settled in to my alloted space, which was tiny by the way, I was stunned to realise was expected to sit within very close proximity to some very odd looking people. Some of them weren't even wearing a blazer, let alone a tie or suit jacket.

Despite these distractions we all settled down as the papers were issued, and the exam started. About half way through the first exam the mobile telephone rang, rather loudly in the quiet hall, and obviously I answered it as it was Gordon. Again!

Having quickly answered his questions I said I would call him back later. To be honest I wonder why he employs that "Darling" fellow, he never seems to know anything.

Anyway I was entirely unprepared when one of the elderly invigilators angrily approached me, and practically hauled me out of the room. After I had got over the shock I explained the situation to the rather scruffy old man, who begrudgingly accepted my reasons for accepting the call and apologised. After giving him a piece of my mind, I returned to my desk to continue. Who knew that these exams could be so stressful?

After generously giving the examiner the benefit of my knowledge, for which he should be grateful by the way, I returned to the hotel for a late lunch in the brasserie and more revision.

Although these hotel staff try hard, they are not up to Clarence's standard. I suppose its because they don't have the breeding for service like him and his family. 

Had to leave the staff to themselves this afternoon. I had to get to Oxford for the start of some exams. Great fun playing with all this cap and gown stuff again after so long.

Phone call from Fellows - the alarm has been going off intermittently in the vaults. I told him to get the manufacturer in (and some guards). Since helping Gordon Brown by buying up the UK Gold Reserves back in the  90's the maintenance of the bullion vault has been a constant headache. (No trouble finding the odd paperweight, though!)

For clarification - it wasn't me.

Apparently some of my staff saw the trappings of a major civic reception in Worcester last night. The Lord Lieutenant was seen heading for the Cathedral in full regalia... and whilst he's a good chum I was actually on my way back home as I had to be in London today.

The new President has been on the phone thanking the Memsahib for the gift we sent for his inauguration. Seems like a nice bloke and obviously feels a degree of loyalty to the family. (I ordered the plantation in Kenya to give the staff a day off to commemorate the great event).

The dawn of the day brought the weekly trip to the shires around again. This week will be a long week, with the club having to wait until Friday before a visit. This weeks workload, though onerous, will have to be to be interspersed with a little work on the grey cells in preparation for the examinations on Friday. Somehow titles and letters after your name are much better inherited (or bought) rather than earnt!    It could well be that the New Years resolution to abstain from the nightly tipple could fail dismally, as I think I will have earn't several pink gins by Friday! 

I told Gordon "Look! if you keep tinkering around with the banks I'll take my money and invest elsewhere". This continued speculation regarding Nationalisation is all very fine if you are a customer, but if you are the predominant shareholder then its tiresome and a little worrying.

On a separate matter I am both irritated and amused by Fellows. When the first of the new Astons arrived I let him have the old Jalopy (it was nearly a year old so becoming a bit tiresome). Tarquin was perusing the interwebnet or whatever and noticed a familiar looking image. On investigation it appears that Fellows has put the old jalopy on e-Bay to try and turn a fast buck.

The trouble with Ricky the Fish is that he does go on a bit. When he saw our hound he got all teary and started talking about his "Chalky". Haven't a clue what he was going on about but with all the furore last week regarding inappropriate nicknames, I decided to hold my tongue.

Anyway, can't fault his Cod 'n' chips, and he's on his way back to Padstow now.

Sometimes you fancy a simple meal at the end of a pleasant day. Cook can overdo it at times so we gave her the day off and I phoned a friend from the old days. He runs some sort of restaurant or bistro in Cornwall and asked if he fancied a quiet evening and the choice of wines from my cellar. I spoke to Farting Freddie and got him to send his helicopter down to Padstow to pick up Ricky the Fish. 

You can't beat good fish  'n' chips

Thursday I left the staff to get on with things in Worcester and headed across country to Warwickshire. It always stirs the heart to there, and of course the Memsahib's family still farm a few thousand acres near the edge of the county.

Friday saw me back in London, nestling in the corner at my club. The grey cells are taking a bashing at the moment as I study for some exams. It's like being back at school (but without the beatings, the Latin, the cross-country runs, the mud, the cold dorms, the cold showers, and of course nurse - I miss nurse, but that's another story).

I decided not to eat with the staff tonight. I had some papers to
study and there was a ruffian from Scotland who had tagged along with
the party. It was far more appropriate to spend some quiet time
reviewing the markets and examining some opportunities.

Later in the evening they are planning to do some painting. I thought
I might go along to see if there is any nascent talent that may be
worth a small investment. It is strange where talent emerges. Take
Tracy Emin - bloody useless au pair, couldn't even make a bed, but got
noticed and the rest is history (though we did have to find a new au
pair).

One cheeky wretch suggested I might like to "life model" for them - I
can see why, but really! The sheer cheek (which is one of the reasons
I refused). What with that and the Mills and Boon opportunity I'm in
danger of becoming too visible and it takes years to shake off the
attention.

Had to keep my head down today.

Meetings in high places brought me in contact with Mandelbrot or whatever he's called. Can't stand him and couldn't afford to give him more than a fractal of my time. As a result, however, there should be some announcements in the morning of a package of support for loans to small business and industries (ostensible supported by the taxpayer - but that taxpayer is me).

Well I ducked out of a meeting in London to meet up with the photographer from the publisher. Charming chap - trousers much to tight for comfort - not sure I'd trust him in the changing rooms. He showed me some mock up covers and explained how my name came to their attention. A certain "friend" (named after a traditional English sports car) suggested that I'd be ideal when approached during a "hair replenishment" shoot. 

Appears that they want some shots, with a model, in the changing rooms at Twickers. I suggested that my box might be appropriate, but confusingly he said "leave the wardrobe to us".

Well, that was unexpected.

The phone rang and Clarence approached. There was a wry smile on his face but no clue as to why he was amused. I took the phone and the Memsahib looked across at Clarence and raised a quizzical eyebrow. He desperately tried to suppress a snigger - but failed.

I identified myself and the voice at the other end chirped up to explain that they were a publishing house and were commissioning a series of books set in the world of rugger. Knowing of my interest through a mutual fried (some friend!) they asked if I would mind posing for some of the cover shots - and expecting that future publications may be graphic novels would I be willing to pose for them also. Clarence had been whispering in the Memsahib's ear and she exploded into laughter. Evidently she was not convinced I was suitable.

The voice at the other end became defensive at the sound of the Memsahib's laughter. She explained that they were one of the biggest publishers in the world and Mills and Boon had a reputation for books that were appreciated by women of all ages. My initial reaction was to say forget it, but seeing the Memsahib's reaction I have decided that I will give it a go. The years of dedication to sport and fitness are paying off and the role of a gentleman rugger player falls to me easily as will so many heaving women.

If you should doubt my tale, I suggest that you read this article . 

Decided to have a quiet day at the club today. Leather chairs, roaring fire, and good view over the Thames. Perfect.

(Blighters can't track me down here as they can't get past Mario on reception).

The hunt

The blighters. I have researched the staff's latest mutiny and it seems that someone, who shall remain nameless, if only because I haven't identified them yet, has been sharing the intimate thoughts and scribings that I commit to this blog with the wider world, including some of the great unwashed. Not that most of them will understand some of the long words that are used. At least its not Fellows, he can hardly use a mobile phone, let alone a computer.

I must remember not to disclose any of the family secrets or finances in these pages for fear they are used against me. I have engaged the services of the local IBM techical help desk to try to trace the interlopers onto this, my personal space.I have numerous shares in the company and the Techical Bod owed me a favour. It was the least he could do after the Fortnums Hamper.

If you're reading this…. I will find you…

You will have noticed that I have been rather quiet and circumspect of late. I have been involved in a number of ventures that must remain strictly secret.

I can say that my recent trip to South Africa was a great success. I gave the British Lions the benefit of my experience and my support and I managed to visit some of the gold mines and diamond mines in which I (and in the latter case the Memsahib) have interests. Since returning my people have upped their output significantly.

Back up in Worcester today. I've checked and the hotel has my usual suite available.

It has come to my notice that the staff have been a bit cheeky and been having fun behind my back. I'm on to them now, so they'd better watch out.

As you will know I pass some of my time providing my expertise to a major international company. As one of their processes each year we assess the quality of the the staff. Most of the work has been done by my managers and underlings, but now I must look at the results and make sure that they have been assessed fairly. 

The company uses a scheme that rates the staff from 3 (must do better) up to 1 (exceptional)... I feel this is a bizarre and arbitrary scheme. I have adapted my own policy: 3 - very poor, 2 - poor, 2+ - gets by, 1 - comfortably off.

New Toy

Just had a call from Johnson at Aston's. The first of the new fleet is ready and is being despatched this morning. And it’s the red one.  A small price to pay for the comfort and prestige such a fine automobile brings. Its lucky really becase I'm fed up of driving the Range Rover, ever since the Jaguar ran out of fuel (the filler cap really is a problem on that one).

I have moved the other vehicles around in the Garage to make space (well I, I told Osbourne to!) and if it has worked well I will be able to sit in the library and gaze at the new Jalopy from the warmth of the fireside.

As long as the rest of the fleet are delivered before any further problems I will be happy. I've already told the owners there'll be no more money to be put in their kitty, and I'm not going to help if Gordon's shower don't want to.

Well the great unwashed have obviously deigned to complete their winter break and return to work. Pasty-faced commuters fought their way onto my train and sat there in a collective catalepsis until the train disgorged them into the gaping maw of Waterloo Station to recommence their futile existence in the City. 

I waited until the train was empty and went to the door of my carriage. I waited, expecting the guards to bring a red carpet, but they let me down (I shall write a stiff letter to the Chairman, later). As it was so cold, Clarence had arranged for my car to meet me at the barrier and whisk me away to my Club. It was a busy day as so many people, freshly back, wanted to hear about my Christmas and New Year, and needed that fillip they receive from hearing how life could be.

Disappointing performance by Bath in the rugger. If they keep up this performance I'll sell them.

A day spent in the bosom of the family. 

I sat in the library catching up on paperwork. The number of begging letters seems to increase each year. In the current climate I am limiting donations to the banks and several European Governments (not ours, however).

Well the year may have started with a bang, but it has been decidedly quiet since. The staff are getting everything back to normal, the girls are completing homework prior to their return to school, Tarquin is Tarquin, and the Memsahib is in total control. I have decided that my best contribution is absence and spent much of the day at the club trying to avoid many of the more probing questions regarding the "ball" and trying to downplay the fact that we dwarfed the London display yet again. Though having now seen some of the TV footage I must remember to invite Kate Silverton and those two little bald chaps that wander about in front of her to the next big do.

Happy New Year.

That was an unqualified success. The orchestra (LSO) and the band (some popular beat combo called Kaiser Patrol or something - I couldn't get Cardinal Sin and the Bum Notes) arrived mid- afternoon and set up their equipment at opposite ends of the ball room. There was a bit of a fracas over the power provision but Fellows laid on an additional generator and everyone was happy... though the cacophony during their simultaneous sound checks was unbelievable.

There was a lull before the storm. The staff retreated below stairs for a light supper and their instructions. Fellows went off to light the torches along the drive. The Memsahib and I retired to our dressing rooms to prepare. Persephone and Arabella were getting quite excited and rushing about sampling the nibbles and trying to get their hands on the Champers. Tarquin remained in his room deciding to make his entrance to his own time schedule.

The guests started to arrive - we didn't want this to be too ostentatious so we limited it to a few hundred of our closest (titled) friends. The Lord High Sheriff was first to arrive (as usual) and after effusive greetings he headed straight to a corner near the bar and was not seen to rise again until the fireworks. Other guests soon followed - in fact there was a traffic queue stretching right down the drive and through the village. We had laid on light refreshments for the chauffeurs down at the stable block - but there were so many cars we had to turn over one of the paddocks for additional parking. (It was like a damned pop concert - without the burger vans, mud and nudity).

The Duchess arrived. She's a game old bird. After the incident with the ice "cube" last year, and the croquet injury during the summer we feared she may not be up to another outing, but there she was in all her finery with several handsome young footmen in tow. The Duke came separately (he'd been in the country on a shoot so came straight to us).

The ball went off almost without incident - though people had been most inventive with their masks. Who would have though that the Venetians would come up with a Cherie Blair mask - and that a mask that delicate could contain such a vast hinged mouth without breaking. Two chaps came in George Clooney masks and were mistaken for me throughout the evening. A stocky chap with a strange gutteral accent had an interesting mask, but one eye seemed out of sync. I have no idea who he was but people kept pointing at him and muttering about "Gordon" - he seemed to be shunned by all except the MPs who'd turned up. One young filly with a Kylie Minogue mask shed her ball gown to reveal tight gold lame hot pants which seemed to gain a number of hand prints throughout the evening (lesson to be learned here is reagrding greasy food and a finger buffet). It was interesting to see the counter-balance between the LSO and the band, and more specifically to see the Duchess and several well-known names "shaking their booty" as I believe it is called. I was surprised to see one well known Member of Parliament spending an inordinate amount of time talking to one of the Duchess's footmen - I hadn't realised he was one of his constituents.

The various ice sculptures lasted well, and none but the family understood the significance of the Venus de Milo. At one point Tarquin saw a young Baronet talking to block of ice that had been sculpted into Margaret Thatcher and apparently he kept lurching off and bringing back shots of whiskey for her and cajoling her for not keeping up. Some tall lanky bloke (in jeans, would you believe) and curly hair kept trying to open the door of an ice model of some Bugatti or other claiming there was a hamster inside.

At midnight we heard the chimes of Big Ben through the wireless and then gathered on the terrace for the fireworks. Our lasers were switched on and carved open the night sky (first time since the incident with the planes - but Air Traffic Control had been warned to stay clear) . Rockets ripped the night and fountains of coruscating light bathed the house and the guests. Light and shade is the trick to keeping their interest so we allowed them to die away and then build up to a crescendo again and again. Finally, spewing a luminescent smoke trail, the Red Arrows screamed up the drive and split over the terrace to head east, west and north, to loop round and deliver a timed pattern of Hellfire missile to the lower field - removing the old barn in the process and providing the earthworks that I need for the new cascade. As they approached the house in close formation, they lit their afterburners and climbed almost vertically into the night and disappeared. 

Now that was a display!

It took another few hours for everyone to disperse and the staff to clear away. No ambulances were needed this year and the Estate Fire Engine was dismissed. Once the guests had gone we returned to our quarters and left the staff to it.

I am told that the theme for tonight's extravaganza is "Fire and Ice" and the Memsahib has selected an outfit that I must wear. She will of course be the star of the show as the Ice Queen, but I have to counter this with a smoking hot performance in a caped dinner jacket with "flame" inserts. The girls, Persephone and Arabella, will dress as Ice Princesses and Tarquin has a devilish outfit that emits dry ice from under a cape and at the bottom of the trousers.

Fellows is overseeing the placement of the torches that will line the driveway and the artists have already begun carving the huge blocks of ice. Extra staff have started to arrive to help with the preparations. Just had the Chief Fire Officer arrive to do his checks - or should I say, collect his case of wine - but we have the "all clear" now that I have promised to have our Estate Fire Engine brought up closer to the proceedings tonight.

Nobody has any inking of the "special" fireworks I have arranged... and that will remain a secret to the end. (But should help with the remodelling I have planned for one of the lower fields).

The preparations for the New Year's Eve masked ball are well in hand. I am staying well out of the way, leaving the Memsahib to deal with the staff and and Clarence and Fellows to deal with the tradesmen who are constantly coming and going, delivering this or that. The weather forecast is for a bitterly cold evening - so that should keep the various ice sculptures going for longer and perhaps prevent the problem we had last year when a rapid thaw turned Michealangelo's David into Davina and the Duchess was somewhat surprised by the shape of the ice cube in her g & t !

I've decided to spend the day at the Club. Trains are pretty empty so I had the First Class carriage to myself. The Club is pretty quiet - a few of die-hards using it to escape their family for the day, a few stopping off for a rest whilst escorting their young fillies to the Sales, and a few beavering away at some end-of-year accounting.

The children are getting bored with the ice rink so I've told Fellows to have it removed. The chappies from the Christmas Organiser should be back for the next few days setting up the fireworks for New Year's Eve. (I was asked to tone them down this year as they over-shadowed the display along the Thames - stuff and nonsense, damned if I'll kow-tow to these media types and PR men. In fact I've got some special surprises this year courtesy of Drummond - Thank goodness he's still in the Regiment and has access to "equipment").

Though cold, the weather seems bright and settled. I've summoned Osborne and told him to bring the Range Rover up to the house. I think we'll do a circuit of the grounds and make note of any maintenance that's needed. The Hunt went through on Boxing Day and whilst they tend to be very good - some damage is inevitable. Obviously we don't allow them near the deer park, but they can use much of the rest of the property to chase saboteurs or whatever. (I don't participate, myself. I prefer watching the rugger).

Cook has prepared us a hamper so that we can stop for lunch, but we will need to get off pretty soon if we intend to be back before dark.

The staff are beginning to trickle back to the house. (I think one day is enough for them to see their families). 

I enjoy Christmas dinner, but actually enjoy even more cook's imaginative use of the left-overs. The meat will, no doubt, find its way into various curries, soups, sandwiches, pies and pastas. The Christmas pudding - so nearly our downfall this year - will be sliced and crumbed into cook's amazing home made soft ice cream. (The problem with Christmas pudding is the tradition of setting it alight. I hadn't realised that cook had poured brandy on it, so I poured another half bottle of brandy over the pudding. As I struck a match the vapours caught fire and pillar of flame shot to the ceiling. My look of surprise is probably what preserved my eyebrows, fortunately Clarence was on hand and still sober enough to grab a fire extinguisher and dowse the inferno in CO2... leaving it smouldering but edible. In the new year I will have to get Fellows to sort out the scorch marks on the ceiling frescoes.)

The house is running on skeleton staff this morning. Having let many of them return to their families for a day or two we are having to make do. 

Dawkins had obviously hit the sherry last night as she's looking a particularly doddery this morning and grabs at her head every time a door slams. Breakfast is laid out on the sideboard and may be the cause of her evident queasiness. Today we have a choice of porridge, omelettes, kedgeree, kidneys, mushrooms, fried bread (in goose grease), sauteed potatoes, bacon and sausages from hand-reared pork from the Home Farm, lashings of hot coffee and tea from one of our plantation in Assam.

The turkey is of such a size that Dawkins had to rise in the early hours to start the ovens, stuff the turkey, and start the gentle roasting process. I am, of course, not interested in this as such - but was pleased to be greeted by the gentle smells wafting from the kitchens as the staff go about the duties this morning. Once Christmas lunch is cleared away we give the staff their gifts and then allow most of them to have a short break with their families, but for now they have a busy morning ahead.

Persephone and Arabella are hunting their presents, Tarquin has not yet emerged. The Memsahib is directing activities. Mater has arrived and at some point I'm sure that I will speak to my brothers (one is in trade, you know - the other a gentleman scientist somewhere in the Pacific). 

Once things have settled we will start the family presents. We will all gather in the drawing room and I will hand Clarence the key to the store rooms. The staff will then create a procession of the gifts as they bring one after another to the family - hand them over and then back out of the room. What fun we have.

Happy Christmas to you all.

Trouble with the post

I've come over all "Victor Meldrew"….I don't bloody believe it. We waited until 8 o'clock last night ( well fellows and Dawkins did) and the hampers from Fortnum's failed to make an appearance. This sort of lack of customer focus is precisely why the country is going to ruin.

As soon as they opened this morning I asked Clarence to call the distribution department for me so I could give them a piece of my mind, and in the process perhaps teach them some valuable customer care lessons. I had barely spoken to the oik on the end of the phone before he launched into a tirade of abuse.  Before matters really took a turn for worse, I pointed out that its customers like me, that pay his wages and he should therefore show a little defference. Strangely he immediately put the phone down.

No matter, his marketting manager frequents my London club, and so I have made a call to him to ensure sufficient reprimand will be administered. Hampers promised for delivery before 11.00 this morning.( heavily discounted of course… )

Turkey

I know its early but Fellows has just called to say the turkey has arrived. Old man Tomlinson has made the effort to deliver it himself, God knows we deserve personal service having supported the butchers for so long. I remember when Grandfather told us about when he had the property seized, after the original Mr Tomlison was caught poaching Venison in the lower hundred. I'll never understand what they did, and for whom, to be presented with it back after the War.

Anyway Tomlinson arrived in his little van and it took two of them to carry the bird into the kitchen where Dawkins was waiting. I'm not sure whether this was actually a turkey or a small ostrich it was that big! By the time Dawkins had removed the giblets, which I generously allow her and fellows to share as a bit of a treat (what was known as humble pie in years gone by), it was nearly lunchtime. Tomlinson was rubbing the breasts, and thighs with butter (the turkey not Dawkins!) ready to cover it in some of the farm bacon. Completely ready the bird (again not Dawkins) was then placed carefully in the walk in cold room.

The venison and goose are already prepared and so its just the final ceremonial dousing of the pud to be completed before we are actually ready for the big day. That and inserting the proverbial sixpence are the only real manual labour I have to do for this Christmas lark, which is good considering the amount it seems to cost me.

That reminds me, Fortnum and Masons are delivering the hampers with all of the trimmings this afternoon.

I returned to the stable block before leaving for my club. I wanted to make it clear to Osborne that he was in charge of the clean-up after yesterday's events. He was moping around  - claiming still to be sore from the incident with the gang-mower and the peacock. You can't give in to emotional blackmail. I told him to pull himself together and get on with it.

Fellows dropped me at the nearby railway station and I joined the tired, the flatulent, and the hung-over on the brief Monday morning journey to London. (Why do people insist on blowing out on curry on a Sunday night and then sharing the experience on the train the following morning? I must, again, impress upn the railway company that I would like my own coach re-instated rather than continuing to share these journeys with such uncouth travellers).

The club was quiet. I suppose many members have returned to the country for a Christmas break or gone abroad. It does mean that the gentle drone of snoring, the sibilance of whispered conversation, the creaking of leather as the members adjust their position, and distant tappity-tap of secretaries and their computers is much reduced and affords a more relaxed atmosphere.

Well that was nice. Villagers had been arriving throughout the afternoon, knocking on the door to pay their respects and then head off down to the stable yard for the soiree at the ice rink. Some had even brought presents for the Memsahib and the children. Good sorts really, and many of them have been associated with the family for generations.

The St John's Ambulance had set up a tent for the inevtiable sprains and breaks that would occur - but we asked each villager to sign a disclaimer before entering the stable block.

Cook had laid on a good table. Even Tarquin had helped. He had declared that the Christmas theme demanded something special for the children of the village, and headed off down to the deer park first thing this morning. I had assumed he was going get a couple of 5-pointer stags to pull a wheeled sleigh. Actually he shot a couple of roe deer and spent the afternoon making what he called "Rudulph burgers" with minced venison and chilli patties in a bun with a cherry tomato on a coctail stick attached to the front. (The chilli was apparently to represent the heat of re-entry as Rudolf screamed across the skies). There were mince pies, plum puddings, and lashings of cream. A huge basin of mulled wine filled the air with a rich aroma of cloves, cinnamon and grape, and in the corner a grubby looking beggar was roasting chestnuts.

Villagers slipped and skidded across the ice, whooping with delight or screaming in pain depending on whether they were observing or feeling the crunch of bone against ice. How they enjoyed themselves! When the table was finally revealed the ice was forgotten and they fell ravenously upon the fare. For some, I suppose, it may be one of the few opportunities they will get to eat venison or drinke wine (however rough) this week.

At the end of the evening I made my customary brief speech, thanking them for all of their help throughout the year and wishing them a Happy Christmas... and when I had finished (some 55 minutes later) the local Constable led three hearty cheers for the family. I was so proud that even after all this time these traditions can be carried on (with little or no coercion).

I think Osborne has been on the bottle. He was meant to be towing the gang mower to tidy up the pastures that we can see from the house. One minute he was there. The next minute he'd swerved to avoid one of the peacocks and disappeared into the ha-ha. Feathers everywhere!  

Must admit it did make us chuckle, particularly when Fellows went to help - I mean he's well-meaning but pretty useless. 

Good job it's a ha-ha and not a moat really.

I went to my Club in London. It gave me an opportunity to catch up with some fellow gentlemen of means and pop in to some Government departments to offer them advice and guidance whilst I was nearby.

I had thought of going to the country for the weekend but decided that it would be tiresome to fight my way through the traffic that infests the roads. With the ice rink now installed and operational in the stable block I think it will probably be a quiet family weekend at home, though I might suggest to the Memsahib that we invite the village to join us on Sunday evening. (I do try to remember my duties, even though we no longer operate a feudal system; we could probably hand out some mince pies and mulled wine - it will help get rid of some the rough stuff and free up some room in the cellars).

Yesterday evening I thought that I'd have a quiet dinner in a Worcester restuarant. It didn't work out as I had planned. A number of my workers turned up (they had obviously been saving up to have a special night out) and seeing me in the corner asked if they could sit with me. It would have been churlish to refuse as some of them are very dedicated and look up to me as their inspiration and leader. I must say that their table manners can leave a lot to be desired. Clarence would have been horrified, but I decided to maintain my beneficent demeanour and make no comment.

On leaving the restaurant I went to the infamous "Cardinal's Hat". This public house has developed a degree of notoriety for both its hospitality and its occasional live music. This was one such music night and the house band put on a fine show, collecting money for charity. Over all, it was a fine night - and I'm sure that the lingering smells of the great unwashed will be eradicated by Clarence (otherwise I'll tell him to burn the clothes I was wearing). 

I must say, if the family saw me with these ruffians they would be shocked and I'm sure the Memsahib would have an attack of the vapours. Deep down, however, they are the salt of the earth and I quite enjoy these evenings.

The Memsahib phoned. Apparently the logistics man from the store in Knightsbridge had been on the phone to check we were able to accept delivery of the gifts we had ordered. She's done a splendid job and arranged to bring in help from the village to unload the vehicles. Tarquin will also be in attendance - but probably only keeping an eye on some of the young fillies.

Because of their size, several of the local roads have been closed to allow the fleet of lorries to get through unimpeded. At least it will all be done without my attendance.

It all becomes clear now.

The man from the CAA phoned back. He asked if I was the owner of the laser display and I proudly said that I was. He had been receiving complaints from pilots bound for Heathrow and Gatwick who had been startled by the presence of a reindeer and a sleigh appearing alongside their aircraft. He asked if the display could be turned off or at least reduced in intensity. Feeling cheerful this morning, I agreed.

I phoned Fellows and instructed him to call the Christmas Organiser and tell him to tune down the lasers. (I suppose this is why you put them under test - to discover any minor problems they may cause). It was at this point that Fellows pointed out that the edge of this morning's metal object was not frayed at all but crisply cut, and could the lasers have actually caught a wing tip? Pondering this I told him to bury the object and not tell a soul.

It seems we may have a small problem. As I tried to leave this morning I found part of the drive blocked by what I can only describe as a huge shiny metal object. I could not be bothered to investigate further, so drove round it and phoned Fellows to deal with it.

Fellows phoned back whilst I was still driving through Warwickshire. He had enlisted the help of Osbourne and they had shifted the object. It appeared to be part of an aircraft. Puzzling!

The phone rang and Clarence informed me that "a gentlemen from the CAA" wished to speak with me. I was not in a mood for officialdom, so told Clarence to take a message, and arrange for the chap to call me back tomorrow.

As I returned home from the Club I could see lights carving shapes in the night sky. It is clear that the Christmas Organiser and his team have been busy.

The tree is now in pride of place on the terrace. The house is decorated, and the lights are under test. He explained that traditional tree lights were "infra dig" and that we should do something more adventurous by decorating the tree with a new type of light and then illuminating the area further with lasers. As I write the lasers are displaying a reindeer and sleigh moving across the overcast sky.

I'm not sure about all this but I'm sure that Persephone and Arabella will be delighted.

I really don't understand why people make so much fuss about Christmas shopping. The evening news show vast throngs of the great unwashed filling the pavements as they rush frantically from one shop to the next. The Memsahib and the girls like shopping, and I too enjoy selecting suitable gifts. Young Tarquin is less enthused, but shows flashes of interest when suitable gifts are in view.

With this in mind we did some of our Christmas shopping today. That nice Mr Fathead from a certain store in Knightsbridge came to the house with a computerised catalogues from which we could select suitable gifts. He waited respectfully below stairs (where cook was selecting Christmas fare with the gentleman from Fortnum and Mason's). The whole process was very civilised, and the chosen gifts will be wrapped and delivered in several vans bearing the shop's livery, to the house during the week. I really don't understand why everyone doesn't do this.

The Christmas tree has been delayed, so the festive decorations are not as yet decking the halls. The tree has arrived from Norway, but is currently stuck under a bridge, on the way from the docks. The Suffolk Police (it was offloaded in Felixstowe - they wanted to dock in Harwich, but I really didn't want the tree to be in Essex any longer than necessary) assure me it will be clear and on its way by morning. I had to delay the Christmas Organiser who will oversee the placement of the tree on the terrace, and the subsequent dressing of the tree and the house. (Dungeness B has been warned of the extra supply that we will need - the last thing we want is to black out the county as we did last year - though it did prove a great cause of amusement at the time).

Weather was a bit rum today. Shame really, I'd planned a shooting party.

The beaters were all arranged, the guns prepared, the hampers loaded. The weather was so foul that Memsahib said that it was unfair on the staff to expect them to go out in such conditions and the wind would make it impossible to hit the birds, so it would be a waste. She made sense - particularly after the problems at the hatchery earlier in the year.

I paid off the beaters with a few shillings and sent them home. There were mutterings of discontent, but I certainly wasn't going to pay them for not beating!

Gussie, Quentin, Kipper and the chums came to the house and we broke open the hampers early and scoffed our way through cook's goodies and several fine bottles of port. (That reminds me, I still haven't found any of the USB Port).

I was inspired by the sight of Somerset House (reminds me of our stable block) and how during the winter festivities they turn part of the courtyard over to an ice rink. Like her Britannic Majesty, I too have some German heritage and in winter feel a visceral urge to go to ski or skate or have a snow fair.

I have been thinking about having an artificial ice rink installed. At first the dilemma was where it should go - the East terrace? the South terrace? but we still have the tree to consider.

I have decided to follow the Somerset House model and install the rink in one corner of the stable yeard (away from the where the cars are kept). Hopefully this will prove great fun over the next few weeks. I shall have cook set up a second kitchen so that Clarence or Fellows can provide mulled wine and small cooked snacks. It will be nice to see Arabella, Persephone and the Memsahib doing their spirals, Salchows, toe loops, Lutz and Axels in their slinky outfits.

Closer to Christmas we'll host an evening for the local villagers (note, I'll have to find someone to roast chestnuts on an open brazier - I might have to send Fellows down to the east End of London to find someone suitable). The choir from the cathedral can provide carols (the Bishop owes me a favour due to my ongoing silence regarding a certain indiscretion).

Last night I witnessed a strange event. Stuck in Worcester I spent some time exercising - I should explain once more that my preferred exercise is with Indian clubs in the privacy of home, but here I tend to resort to running. Indeed rather than chance being accosted by the working classes I do not run in the streets or byeways, but rather in what the hotel laughingly calls a gymnasium (most of our bathrooms at home are bigger than this) on a treadmill (which reminds me of the mills that the family once owned). No masseuse was available to give me a rub down after, so I showered and went out into the night.

I wandered in to a local pub and was immedeiately accosted by the friendly atmosphere and the peculiar smells. It became clear after a few minutes that in order eke out their meagre rations the working classes had pooled their food and decided to share it out amongst them. I had never seen anything quite like it and was choked by their kindness in inviting me to partake. It would have been rude to say no, so I picked at various offerings. Most were pastry covered comestibles filled with God knows what. One chap from North Britain kept muttering about neeps and tatties and plunging into one of the offering.

All in all a strange evening. It is interesting to see how the working classes spend their time (though it is probably best to observe from a distance!)

Financial Assistance

I have a problem with the jalopy. The filler cap won't open correctly. When this tankful is done I'll have to switch to another car. We've had several on order but have re-evaluated the options. The Memsahib agrees (not that it really mattered!) so we have cancelled both Maybachs and the Phantom, and have decided to bolster the Newport Pagnall (what a ridiculous place to build cars of such quality - surely the Home Counties would be more appropriate... and probably wouldn't have Union problems) economy by ordering 7 new Astons. We thought one in each colour of the rainbow, that would mean a new one to drive each day of the week!! How fantastic is that!

After all, Every Little Helps…. So I'm told!

I'm distraught. The news from Aston Martin is bad - 600 people in
danger of being laid off and the unions making threatening noises.

I like Aston Martins (there's probably one or two still in the stable
block) and I think I have one on order (or was that a Maserati)?

When I first heard of the possible lay-offs I did think of putting in
an offer, but now the Unions are involved they can forget it.

The cheek of it.

I have just been through the mail. We have started to receive Christmas Cards from the great and the good. In amongst them I found a card with an Italian postmark and and signed jointly by Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Ferragamo, and Gucci thanking the Memsahib for her custom and offering to open up again at any time she "and your lovely daughters" are in Florence. I wondered where they had disappeared off to whilst I was enjoying breakfast in the Castillo. I suspect that Fellows may have been transporting more items back than he did going out.

I was horrified to hear of the jewllery raid on my favoured Harry Winston in Paris. Fortunately, Fellows had stopped off on his route back from Italy with the luggage to pick up a little something that I had ordered for the Memsahib. It was a good job he wasn't stopped at customs - what with the "gift" from Harry Winston and several Boticelli's that I took a liking to in Florence.

So the rumour is that the Bank of England will be lowering interest rates again. I'm glad that the loans I have made to my bank are secured with my own rates and are not tied to the Bank. Though I do expect they will try to renegotiate after the news is confirmed. They have about as much chance of success as Clarence has of playing rugger for England (though I'm sure he'd enyoy the opportunity, it may not be entirely an aspect of his sporting prowess).

Trouble ahead..

Having arrived back at the ranch, as they say ( stately pile I say….), I took the bath that Clarence had helpfully provided. Having not spared the horses in the Jalopy on the way down I found myself with an hour or two more than expected before joining the gang on the jolly to the gallery.

As I haven't ventured into the west wing for a while, since I caught the "Memsahib" messing with sequins in the ball room, in fact, I thought a tour of the outlying quarters was in order. Trouble started when yet again I heard girlish giggling coming from the said ball room. At first I thought it was just Arabella or Persephone high japing, but upon closer inspection I could clearly see the back of the Memsahib in a little black number.

Just as I thought , that bloody new stable lad, Raoul, from Argentina or Peru or somebloodywhere, was there, prancing around to the sound of the tango!

The blood coursed through my veins, and I span around on my heels and thought about fetching my Purdie and getting my avenge!!!!

On the way to the amoury, I had an change of heart and decided to calm down with a glass of pink gin and listened to Betty's speech on the wireless before dressing and attending to the important duties of enjoying ones self with chums. The Stable lad can wait…  

It was too nice today to spend much time in the office. The staff seemed to be working hard and didn't need a great deal of coercion. I made the most of this and headed back home. I have a busy evening planned and need plenty of time getting ready. (I phoned Clarence to remind him - my bath will be ready, and a selected outfit pressed and laid out for me).

This evening I have invited a few chums and some business contacts to come and meet me at the National Portrait Gallery for a viewing of some of the family paintings that we have out on loan. No doubt we will enjoy a few glasses of festive cheer (though I made it clear that the fineest stock from home could not be used, they may use some of the domestic stock).

This evening will also an opportunity to meet with some aspiring artists who have been asking if I'd sit for them. I will have to give in at some point as there is still a large space on the wall at the back of the mezzanine landing on the grand staircase at home where traditionally has hung the portrait of the master of the house. Since father moved on, the space has cried out to be filled.

Still in Worcester trying to get over the humiliation of yesterday. I went out with the client and my staff to a local restaurant. The occasion was a celebration of the achievements completed to date.

What had not been clear was the fact that I was expected to "participate". This went beyond the normal level of participation (i.e. paying the bill). This time I was expected to dress up and cook! I was up to my elbows in salad, pasta, pizza dough, and balsamic vinegar. I'll never get the stuff out from beneath my finger nails - in fact I have had to book a manicure.

I know that I try to connect with the common man - but sometimes I fear I go too far.

Monday.

Clarence woke me early today in anticipation of another run up to the Midlands in the Jalopy. He had thoughtfully laid out the cashmere Gillet that matched the Cashmere jumper, and scarf. No chance of getting a tad chilly on the frosty run up to Worcester.

Clarence had also sent Fellows out to de ice the drive and gates, which was more to do with trying to annoy Fellows than necessity demanded

After a delicious breakfast of kedgeree and black coffee to keep out the cold, I entered the sumptuous warmth and luxury of the car…(Clarence again, I think he wants a day off, the bloody creep..) No staff, no family, just me and the open road. Turn up the "Steppenwolf" and hit the accelerator..and start to sing "Born to be Wild Rich".

I have always enjoyed life in one club or another. Some are little more circumspect than others, and I do like to maintain the privacy of myself and my family (it cuts down on the begging letters to start with).

I was a little concerned recently when this photo appeared in the press. Fortunately, whilst the apalling "photoshop" editing left tell tales of a certain person's presence - it was not enough to be identified.

It's a bit much.

We were having a quiet moring in the piazza, drinking coffee and reading the English papers whenb my Blackberry buzzed. 

Damn it. It's the weekend, and we are have a quiet break.

It's Fosdick from the bank. On a Sunday! Upshot of the message seems to be that the bank finds itself a little embrrassed by the current crisis and wants to borrow some money.

Florence

Fellows met us at the airport. The hotel was not up to standard so he went to see the Italian side of the family and arranged for us to stay there. We don't usually do this in case they decide to come back and stay with us...(and there's history there). So we found ourselves in a convoy of limousines with outriders approaching the Castillo. A guard of honour with flaming torches lined the rain-sodden red carpet as we went up the steps to meet cousin Silvio and his lovely wife Radiccio (striking red hair and a bitter sense of irony). We were shown to our suite and settled in. The room was about a hectare in size with marble floors, ornate frescoed ceilings, and a splendid rendition of the Adoration of the Magi on the wall.

The reason for the trip was an Uncle's brithday. The reason for the location was a family joke. Several great grandfathers back one of my ancestors made it to Firenze on his Grand Tour (hence the Italienate garden beyond the west terrace at home). He loved Firenze - the art, the gardens, the churches, the frescoes and the statuary. It was this last item that was his downfall, but more on that later. He stayed in Firenze for several months and had a fleeting liaison with the daughter of the noble house of Borgia-Berlusconi. All went well as long they kept their liaison secret, but when he became notorious after the incident, she spoke up for him - their friendship became public knowledge and he was run out of town not realising until years later that he had started a new branch of the family.

The incident? Yes. Well. 

I mentioned before that Firenze is famous for its statues. One in particular is known by everyone - the Venus de Milo. In a childish prank he tried to dance with the staue to impress his lover. The parts of the statue fell off and he panicked. That was it. The broken bits were brought home to England as a trophy and now reside in a room at home that we mischievously call the "arm"oury.

You may find this hard to believe, but did you know that you cannot order quail's eggs in aspic followed by Crepes Suzette on these flights. In truth our requests fell on deaf ears and we were given a rather paltry choice - indeed less than I expect on cook's day off. I asked the airline servant if I could speak to the chef but he seemed affronted by the suggestion and tried to fob me off by saying they don't have an in-flight chef. Amazing.

I asked for a drink for the Memsahib and myself while we waited for what can only be described as chicken jerky. The servant put down a plastic tumbler, a microscopic bottle of gin and some tonic in a can. We sat there waiting for him to realise his error and replace the tumbler with lead crystal - in the end I had to call him back. He again fobbed me off and we had to make do with the plastic. Again we waited for the can and the bottle to be opened and poured (obviously any thought of a decent decanter was out of the question). In the end, gasping for a drink I helped the Memsahib (I've see Fellows and Clarence open cans when out shooting) and we settled back.

I will have to write a stiff letter to airline on my return, remonstrating with them regarding the standard of domestic staff they use on their flights and their lack of proper catering facilities. (Don't get me started on the nonsense over the red carpet).

Travel today lacks much of the glamour of the bygone era. I really don't enjoy it - it used to be limited to the well to do, now it appears that anyone who wishes can get a passport and board a plane. It used to be that people would dress to travel, now they appear to turn up in tracksuits, shorts or God knows what. You used to be able to wander in at the last minute, but now... ah well actually that hasn't changed for us, but I'm told that the great unwashed spend hours queueing before spending more time shopping before going to the boarding gate. (You really do have to question whether some of these people should be allowed to travel at all).

Gatwick Airport as you probably realise is built on what used to be Gatwick Racecourse - which is where the family, using one of the outlying farms on the estate, used to race their horses. Over the years we sold this off to BAA - this helped finance the purchase of a small island. These links mean that we have the advantage of using the VIP Suite which keeps us away from the masses of shell-suited riff-raff. Obviously when we board the plane we turn left, which again keeps us apart and allows a modicum of comfort for the journey.

Anyway, must go. Memsahib is ready and the journey must begin.

Being away again this weekend the box at Twickers will be used by the Windsor crowd. Nothing to dreadful happened last weekend (except for the score on the pitch) - so let's hope they behave again for the All Black's game. (During a replay of last weekend's game, I noticed young Windsor out in the crowd - ungrateful yob). 

The thought of working again today was too much. I have decided to rest at home. The staff in Worcester can fend for themselves.

Clarence (mother would have called him a "sensitive" man) is wandering around like a lost sheep without Fellows to bark at. Fellows takes it all in good heart, but I suspect he is enjoying the break afforded by the drive across Europe.

Exposure to some of the staff has opened my eyes to a new world of gadgets and technology. It started with this computer, progressed to the mobile phone (which is both a phone, a music player - see earlier comment about "Sweet Home Alabama" - and is capable of linking to the interwebnet or something). My latest gadget has been a triumph. It is an automatic watch winder. I can now sit and watch the gadget wind my automatic self-winding watch without having to trouble my wrist to move. This is ideal for a lazy day such as this.

Well it was a nice day and it seemed churlish to hide at my club again so I decided to take the old jalopy for a spin up to the Midlands. Clarence was good enough to wake me early. dressed and ready I headed out into the dark winter morning. I was glad of the driving gloves and silk scarf as the gentle throbbing below turned into a roar as the old jalopy exploded out of the stable yard and started down the drive.

It was a good journey but I must have a word with cook regarding provisions. She had left me some apples but they were far too juicy and I ended up with pectin stains on my silk tie. If I'd been going anywhere important I'd have been livid. I phoned Clarence and told him to get me a replacement as I would obviously discard this tie at the earliest opportunity.

I checked up on staff matters in Worcester during the morning and then headed back home where a quiet soiree is planned.

One of the things I have learnt as a result of the weekend is to trust my instincts.

I have decided that we should send the luggage on ahead. Fellows or even Clarence can drive it out to Italy and then we will neither have the irritation of check-in, the excess baggage fees, nor the frustration of missing bags on our return. Another idea is to travel light and just buy outfits once there, but there will be insufficient time for bespoke tailoring or couture in the agenda. So I have decided that Fellows will travel on ahead - and that way he can also check out the hotel for us before we arrive (we never stay with the Italian side of the family if we can help it).

Good news. The eight missing bags of Memsahib's luggage have been returned.

Back home. These foreign places are all very fine, but you cannot beat your own home. (Details of the trip to follow when all of the paperwork is done - excess baggage etc.)

Decided to head for the club today. Must say the weather is a bit brisk!

This credit crunch is becoming a bit of a bore. I have had Gordon and Alastair on the phone looking for ideas about what they should do. Apparently standards in public life are such that resignation or a locked room with a bottle of whiskey and a Webley are no longer an option.

I will spend some time at my club today whilst preparations are made at home.

We will be away at the weekend (but more on that later) and Clarence (the Butler) will start today selecting suitable outfits and packing for us. This is one of the few times that normally unflappable Clarence gets flustered - never quite sure what the weather might be doing - and worried that the traditions and mores of the location may require some different approach to that with which he is familiar. It is never good to be around when Clarence is flustered, so the family leaves him to it and steers well clear.

Being away this weekend has meant that I was able to pass on use of my box at Twickers to some minor Royals. I do hope they behave - last time they used our box we had to replace all of the crystal, restock the refrigerators and have it redecorated to cover all the graffiti - "Dads got big ears", "Chelsy for the Cup", "Kate loves Will's Chopper" and so forth.

It was strange to witness the denizens of these West Midland towns as they meet up after they have finished whatever they do during the day. I saw young women out alone with young men (no chaperones); I saw young men who had evidently not bothered to change from their work clothes; I saw one club that required large security men (reminded me a bit of my Sikh batman) to control access; and I saw public houses with rowdy crowds, and staggering patrons.

The occasion - saying farewell to the trusty retainer - went on well into the late evening. It had been decided that we would use an Indian restaurant of some notoriety. I was appalled to realise that I was expected to serve myself (after all, it's not breakfast - where cook leaves the various choices on the sideboard for selection). It was astonishing how many people turned up and evident that said retainer had become quite well known during the time he's been with me.

We moved on to one of the local hostelries, and then moved on again to another. This last stop was a rowdy affair, and had several of my other staff not been present I might have feared for my safety among such rabble.

Spending as much time as I do in Worcester, I have obviously had to get local staff. This week one of my most trusted and educated retainers will be leaving to pursue some futile existence in the fens. After such stirling service for the past two years, it is only right that I wish him farewell in a manner that is appropriate to such staff. To this end we will be hosting a meal this evening at a restaurant of his choosing (heavens knows where or what this will involve) and then progress to a public house to wish him bon voyage.

I do hope that things remain seemly, though I might have a quiet word with the Chief Constable to makes sure we have no unfortunate surprises.

After the debacle that was the heron I decided that real food was required. So last night I gathered several of the congenial, presentable, and well-behaved members of staff and took them to Worcester's finest restuarant (it's such a drag eating by oneself).

The Maitr d' was polite enough not to ask what I was doing with such a rag-tag band, but the look of pity (or was it embarrassment) was clear.

Well that's the last time we'll eat heron. Very strange flavour. Mixture of muddy and fishy (much worse than the swan). Not much meat on the legs either (reminds me of one of the maids).

Took a lot of port to wash away the taste.

Dinner

Aaarrrggghhh! I'm hungry and dinner isn't ready. How long can it take to pluck, gut and cook a heron for gods sake.  Cheesy comestibles and a glass of port until dinner arrives please Fellows, and make it quick!

After the weekend I decided a quiet day at the club was called for. The soothing sight of the mighty Thames flowing by would ease the brain back into gear.

Making my way to town is a bit of pain nowadays. In the old days, we had our own signal and halt on the railway line and the trains would stop for us (Great Great Grandfather negotiated this as part of the sale of some land to the railway in the mid 1800s). Now I have to drive (or be driven) to a public railway station and travel with the great unwashed. I did approach the railway company and request my own carriage and buffet, but they were disinclined to oblige.

Heron

Heard a terrible kerfuffle outside the orangery last night from the direction of the ornamental ponds and gardens. Told Osborne to check the grounds. Jeeves and Wooster went with him, tails wagging. Osbourne reports something had been at the koi.

Before dawn this morning Osborne had erected the hide, and I found myself and Purdey waiting for the thief. Just as dawn broke the bally heron landed amongst the lillies and bold as brass plucked another from the pond.

Blam, Blam, good shot, what ooh! 

Osbourne fished the bugger out and took it straight to Dawkins. As I took off the Barbour and put Purdey away, I heard Dawkins in the kitchen..."more Game" she said to Osbourne, "I bet this will be almost as good as the swan we had last week... "

I can taste dinner already!

Damn that John Logie Baird.

The Memsahib has been watching some television programme called Strictly Come Dancing. As a result she has asked the staff to lift the carpet in the old ballroom. I fear that this will not end well. Young Arabella and Persephone have been whispering a lot and breaking into fits of the giggles when I have approached and I have even seen one of the maids sewing sequins onto one of my old dress shirts. Boarding school may be a suitable way ahead for the girls, and I suppose I could alsways sack the maid... but the Memsahib is another kettle of fish (the old trout).

I am very sure this will not end well.

Bloody hell - the convicts we transported all those years ago came back to Twickers and gave our brave lads a bit of a slap.

Weekends tend to be interrupted by the realities of owning a large estate. There is always something that needs to be checked, mended, replaced or installed. 

During the summer many of these jobs get pushed to one side by social commitments (the local paper still insists on mentioning the incident during the weekend croquet tournament - it was unfortunate, but hardly our fault; and there's no reason to believe that the Duchess will not make a full recovery given time. The surgeon did manage to recover the ball, the mallet and the hoop and return them in time for the next weekend's game).

This weekend I have had to get Osbourne to look at the electric gates. They are very good, and open promptly when the old jalopy approaches, or when at a visitor's behest we press the button from the house. They do tend to snap shut however, and this morning Persephone was upset by the sight of a neighbour's (one of the staff I think) pet cat bisected by the alacrity of the closing mechanism. Shame it wasn't their rabbit - she could have given it to cook for the domestic staff's supper. Osbourne assures me that some febrile nobodys called the Health and Safety Executive would not approve and agreed to adjust the counterbalance and fit a failsafe sensor (seems to me the dead cat serves that purpose). 

Being Friday I headed for my Club in town.

I like Fridays at the Club, I can sit there with like-minded people, gazing down at the Thames as it sweeps by, reading The Times, and drinking fine coffee. Then after luncheon, and maybe a glass of port, I settle back in my chair and perhaps take a quiet nap before heading back to the Memsahib and the heirs for a weekend on looking after the estate.

Her Majesty, God Bless Her, has interesting challenges from her offspring. It is in this spirit that I take heart. If Her Majesty can continue despite such challenges, so can I. At least I don't have to worry about the heirs talking to trees, ignorant of science, or wedded to their damned horses.

I have never understood the allure of long hair on men. It would appear that Tarquin has a different view and that this is now in vogue as a way of contrasting with my own follicly sparse scalp. I'm sure that I am not the first to undergo this hirsute contrast, but at present feel that the family allocation of hair follicles is unevenly balanced.

I went along to a public house frequented by the staff - I was trying to stem any gossip that may spread the identity of this journal. How strange the life of this underclass - with their beer, their flippant approach to life, and peculiar camaraderie.

I tried to blend into the background, but obviously that is not so easy when one is so well known and so highly regarded.

Harrumph!

It appears that this journal has been discovered by some of my staff and labourers.

I saw one of the more educated fellows reading an earlier entry. To be fair, he was following the lines with his finger across the computer screen and mouthing the words (with some evident difficulty). I have no doubt he will discuss this with some of the rougher elements when they meet in some pub or other. I must consider a greater degree of circumspection.

One of the disadvantages of taking employment is that they have many formal processes that have to be followed.

When we just ran the estate, the farm managers would take care of the labourers and so forth. Now I find that I have to waste my precious time with such trivia as assessing the labourers and staff who take leadership, direction and inspiration from me. This can be onerous and I found myself looking for new epithets and descriptions that may adequately describe their performance. Some phrases that I found myself using included: Delusions of adequacy; wretched; poorly dressed; inarticulate; oaf; execrable choice of car; and bemused. (You have to understand that many of these people probably went to secondary modern or comprehensive schools and as such are making the best they can of life - but are obviously of limited intellect).

Guilt

Unusually, feeling a tad guilty about ranting at Fellows.

Was on a promise with "the Memsahib" last night but fear too much "stocktaking" in the cellars may have left the  auld trouser monster ( or Python Lee Jackson, as the Memsahib likes to call him)  somewhat less attentive than she would have wanted.

Shall have to keep an eye on her, as it seems we have employed a new stable lad today. I certainly hadn't approved that addition to staffing!

Tree fall.

Blasted weather is causing havoc with the estate. Fellows came in like a drowned rat this morning, complaining that the severe gale last night has damaged the thatch on the stable roof. He said he was out in the "bloody rain" for hours last night trying to resolve the problem, which he seems to have done. However now he says I wont be able to drive the old Jalopy out of the main gates as there is a tree down over the drive… What does he expect?  Me to move it myself??  Good god man, get cook and an chainsaw and get it moved! And he's dripped all over the parque in the entrance.  Bloody riff raff.

As I continue into the second day of my inventory - plagued by the mouth-watering smells emanating from the kitchens as cook prepares luncheon - I reflect on a drink that I have heard my technical chaps mention, but never really been interested enough to question though must say that it sound intriguing. I often hear them talking about USB Port. Now I've spoken to a friendly sommelier, and also my normal importer, but neither of them has come across this label.

Was pleased to see I had two barrels more than expected of the '96

Taking advantage of the weekend lull and appalling weather I decided to retreat to the Wine Cellar and begin my annual inventory. It is nothing too grand any more, as I'm down to my last few hundred barrels and cases though some do date back to Grandfather's time. Beneath the north range and hidden from prying eyes the vaulted chambers stretch beyond the witness of electric light (installed by Pater so he could find the Montrachet).

It occurred to me that rooms the Cardinals Hat Public House (an hostelry to which I was introduced by my staff one evening a year or so back) reminds me of the cellar's chambers or is that just because it specializes in Austrian beer - and could not really be used to hide relatives for years on end.

Enough day dreaming, there are bottles to count and turn. A task that I do not shirk, nor delegate to Fellows or the Butler though the latter does have a key, but is under continual surveillance once in the cellar by hidden CCTV cameras. I suspect this will take the rest of the day and much of tomorrow.

Dropping into and onto the Whitehouse

Continuing my notes on the infrastructure and lodgings in the Worcester area, I should mention that although Worcester is not served well by hotels at all - for example, I have found none with in-house masseurs or helipads - however I should let concerned readers know that my regular lodgings are at least acceptable at the local hotel the Worcester Whitehouse. Though rooms are tremendously pokey (it's not really possible to play tennis or rugger in the rooms - have tried, broke a lamp!), and there are only standard sized double beds (one likes to have room to sprawl at night), it at least has a certain pretension to grandeur about it (relative to the general disposition of the town, clearly!) including but not limited to a winding staircase in the centre of the building. A reasonable selection of whiskeys can be had, including with breakfast, and the bar staff are fairly well spoken and suitably deferential. There is a gymnasium and a paddling pool (they have the audacity to call it a swimming pool, but for a man of my broad shoulders, it is but a mere stroke from one end to the other), however the gym is lacking the Indian clubs which I am very fond of when exercising in my hereditary long johns at home.

I realised just after the historic victory of Senator - now President Elect - Obama this week, the not insubstantial irony of my own arrival at this particular, parochial Whitehouse whilst he must be preparing to install himself, his family, and by all accounts a new puppy, at the real Whitehouse!

I realised I should have spotted the portents of his success in advance. Let me explain ... In the car park of the Worcester Whitehouse I am sad to report the PoshMobile is often blighted by the outputs from passing seagulls, who appear to use my vehicle alone as target practice. The windscreen and bonnet is often plastered with their sticky oomska and it takes not inconsiderable efforts on behalf of the staff to clean it off satisfactorily. Suddenly it struck me (the idea, not the seagull droppings, I hasten to add)! All the time I have been lying awake listening to these clamouring birds, clearly lost and far from their homes by the sea, and even as they deposit in great quantities onto my paintwork, they have been issuing the clarion call of the Obama campaign:

"Yess we caaaaaaaaaaan! Yes we caaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!"

* * *

It has been a busy day, leaving me few opportunities to consider the wider aspects of life such as what must it be like to live in the Midlands? where do their domestic staff live? where do these people keep their horses? or ride them? As I look around Worcester I detect very few, if any, houses with stables, or a paddock. They seem to get by, however.

On a more parochial level I have also been asking myself whether I need to upbraid my immediate staff who consistently fail to dress for dinner when we meet in the evening? Though Mother would probably question whether I should really be mixing with the staff at all?

As I drove up to Worcester this morning I had time to reflect on the US Election of Barack Obama as the new President and what a change this may make. Of course it is a matter of record that his father came from Kenya. I often wonder if he was on one of our family plantations and whether I met him when visiting as a child during one of Pater's inspection trips.

I also observed that it always seems strange driving through Warwickshire, knowing that most of the county was family land until the mid 1800s. (Indeed, our Grinling Gibbons armoire came from the Castle).

Well it can be annoying how things work out.

I had planned to visit Worcester, but yesterday the heirs were playing badminton in the Long Gallery and one of them (they won't admit who) hit one of the chandeliers. Several of the crystal droplets were shattered, and the Memsahib was a bit flustered.

I decided to stay put in order to oversee the ordering of correct replacements from Swarovski. It was also necessary to have words with Nanny: the children should not be playing racquet sports in the Long Gallery. The real tennis or squash courts can be used if they must play.

What a performance

Must visit the "customer" this week - bit of a nuisance, but then I suppose it provides some relief from constant administrations of the 'trouble and strife' (I learnt that little piece of argot from a training weekend in the East End; salt of the earth, the lot of them. Apparently they even have a regular TV series just about their lives. I imagine it's the kind of thing watched below stairs.)

Where was I? Ah yes - bit of a fracas currently - something do with the "performance" of the "system" we have put in for them. Apparently some people are having to wait longer than they expected for results - I can understand their frustrations, having had to wait over 3 minutes for crumpets and port the other evening in the library. In any case, I have asked a few of the technical wonks (odd chaps - more to follow) to look into it all and see if the nobs and cogs of said system cannot be more thoroughly oiled and lubricated. Surely it can't take much more than that.

Besides, I cannot understand this never-ending yearning for speed in the modern world. What happened to just letting life's events unfurl in a natural and orderly fashion? I see too many young turks rushing hither and thither, all of a pother. They are understandably trying hard to impress me and others of my seniority and standing, but I ask you, when did you ever see Winston Churchill break into a sweat? Precisely.

As an example - as I drive the jalopy in a Worcesterly direction this week, I will never be exceeding 70 mph. (I have to confess, by the way, it's a bit of a nuisance having to drive myself at these times, and in such a small car; but I have made a deliberate decision not to take one of the proper cars to work as it might just been seen as too damned ostentatious. In my position, perception is everything, so I with great restraint I limit myself to this rather compact Jaguar number. Quite nice inside I suppose, but nowhere to really put your feet up. It is therefore with substantial irony I refer to it as the "PoshMobile"!) More haste, less speed, I say. Ghandi said "There is more to life than simply increasing its speed." Scientists tell us that the fastest animal on earth, with a top speed of 120 feet per second, is a cow that has been dropped out of a helicopter. If I was going any faster in the PoshMobile, I wouldn't be able to spot them coming and steer carefully out of the way, would I? I rest my case.

Of Fine Music, Leather and Cocktails

I must say that I rather like live music. This is how I got caught up in the moment and ended up singing at an open mike night in some bar in the back streets of Worcester. Now I find that I am rather hooked on the legendary local "Cardinal Sin and the Bum Notes"... and always join in during their rendition of "Sweet Home Alabama". This may seem a little anachronistic until you realise that the city of Montgomery Alabama was named after one of the ancestors so I've always had an affinity for it. In fact, it also features as the ring tone on my mobile phone.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, live music. The Memsahib, Lady Hermione, had decided that we should have a family evening listening to some music as I had been out the previous evening and Tarquin and the girls should see more of their father. After cook had cleared away from dinner we retired to the drawing room where a fine string quartet played a selection of Bach, Handel, Elgar, Manilow, E.L.O. and Winehouse. A most satisfactory evening.

Took a stroll down to the stable block earlier - weather hasn't been conducive to a run on the motorcycle but nevertheless I dressed in the full leathers over the underlying silk and sat astride the beast for a while, imagining the sinuous curves of the country lanes and seductive views of rivers, lakes and towns as I sped by. Persephone interrupted my reverie as she clattered back onto the cobbles and leapt from her steaming mount. She enjoys nothing more than a canter round the estate.

Must go. Neighbours are starting to arrive for cocktails before lunch.

Bit of thick head this morning after yesterday's rugger. Met up with several chums to watch the game, may have over-dosed slightly from the hip flask. Good job we were using Farting Freddy's chopper for the trip, the boys in blue may not have been too impressed if we were in the car.

Game was a rum affair. The magnificent Bath were trounced in the Quarter finals of the Cup by the riff-raff from Cardiff (should never have let them out of the mines, in my opinion). Rather put a damper on the planned celebrations (a de-bagging contest - two teams heading back to the chopper had to gather as many pairs of trousers as they could - loser pays for dinner at Groucho's next Saturday; convinced we'd win, had told Memsahib I was having A Night at the Opera). Bath having lost, we abandoned the contest and flew straight back to Surrey. The neighbours always complain if the chopper lands late at night, so that added to the fun.