It has been almost a month since I've written my lovely blog. And I know I've disappointed a few people who rely on me to let them know what's what and who's who, and who just love hearing about what Orca has been up to (swimming in slurry if you must know, the filthy beast. And then trotting into the kitchen, simply dripping with ordure, and shaking herself furiously in front of me. I screamed like a banshee, and nearly stoved in her skull with my Kitchenaid mixer, and it took poor Mrs Coddington FOUR HOURS to clean all of those hideous droplets of liquid manure from all the crevices in the Aga and my lovely kitchen furniture. And then of course she had to shampoo and dry the stinking sodden dog too, my god it was hideous. Poor old stick smelt like a drain by the time I finally let her leave, hours and hours late for her regular Wednesday afternoon whist session at the local old people's home. I felt a teensy bit guilty but I know she wouldn't have enjoyed the whist if she had abandoned me in that catastrophic situation. She is awfully good that way.)
Where was I? Oh yes. It has been a simply exhausting month. Thank goodness half term is over - I've just this moment come back from dropping the boys at Ludgrove, girls go back tomorrow. Honestly it is much too long, a couple of days would do it. They are like puppies, masses of energy, have no need for a holiday, just need their tuckboxes restocking really. I couldn't possibly begin to tell you all the things I've been up to - describing Lavinia Woodstock's girls luncheon party last week alone would take up several pages. She invited simply everyone, ostensibly for Macmillan Nurses, or CLIC Sargent - or was it Long Winterbourne Volunteer Fire Service? - anyway something terribly worthy, but actually it was just an excuse to show off her newly redecorated house. My dears, I can't tell you how awful it is. Her drawing room is so screamingly hideous that Flossie and I got simply uncontrollable giggles, really couldn't stop, exactly like we used to in Hymn Practice with poor old Miss Cletherton when we were 14. Honestly, it looks like a cross between a WWI Field Hospital and an 'O'Level art studio - all white walls, white floors, funny chairs with sticky out legs and no upholstery, and the most lurid, vast, pink and orange daubs on the wall. And the kitchen! Oh I can't start on the kitchen. Suffice it to say that I'm sure concrete worktops have a place, but it's probably Shoreditch and not Long Winterbourne. I do feel for poor Julian, you'd have thought for £250k and two years of hell and builders, he'd at least have some cushions and some decent bits of furniture. Still, he is shagging Claire in the village, who has lovely comfy old sofas and makes a marvellous White Russian, so I expect he'll just spend even more time up there "discussing parish business".
Of course the main event this month was the Wiltshire's bash. Well! Never in my wildest imaginings would I have forseen how that panned out, it couldn't have been more extraordinary....
But the terrible thing is that I'm going to have to keep you on tenterhooks for the moment, darlings (I know, I am too beastly). My creme de la mer facemask has gone simply rock hard (well you are meant to rinse it off after 10 minutes and I've been on here for at least 30), and I've got to chisel it off before Rupes comes home or he'll probably never shag me again. Honestly, I look a complete fright, even Orca yelped when she saw me and ran for her basket. I really must dash! I promise I'll be back with the full gory details soon!