Friday, 25 October 2013


I am looking for a man with a white suit, a ponytail, grey hair swept back with new black ribbon, a widower, holding a white umbrella with a lime green interior.  An aquiline nose and about to retire from the East Indies, 1732 it may be. I picked up the book by Arthur Quiller-Couch, (the man who collated the huge book of Oxford Verse) in the fabulous hotel Cliveden and fell in love immediately with the hero, only to find he disappeared within the first ten pages. Don't you find it irritating that books are so predictable I know he is either killed off or going to appear having stolen some cash or killing his wife. In any case the man sounds gorgeous if only the world were like that?

Cliveden used to be the home of the Astors and thank goodness they are not here anymore, it is much more fun without them. They are better to read about in books, and nobody wants to have boring conversations with a whole lot of stiffs, who believe their press, and  on top of that you end up having to tip the maid.  Thank goodness the National Trust took over. I would rather watch them in some Television series  on Channel Dave and dream about lunching with them from afar.
I ate in the stable which was rather disconcerting as the drainage system was down the central bit and all I could see, were the ponies there, from times gone by, They were chewing hay and stamping their feet. Their saddles  sadly turned into chairs. I swear  I am a witch.  As the lights  twinkled, that is the ones that still worked, as many did not, I heard the old cob whinny, as the stable boy brushed his gleaming coat and mucked the ponies out. I even could see the mice and rats in the straw.  So why was this wonderful building not  a stable anymore?.  The National Trust of course banned hunting, but despite its disappearance you can feel the ghosts of the past.

I am off to hit the sack in a comfortable bed of down, posh feathers to my companion.
I am beginning to like the words toilet, meal and posh as I get older, I feel the snobbery of Sir Arthurs books tedious as I try to find my man with the umbrella.

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