Good afternoon Sir Guestling back on the page.
In my ramblings up until now you will have read about my valet, confidant and all round gentleman's gentleman, Pomfrey or to give him his full name Yanish Mountlebano Pomfreyanitato, yes quite a mouthful!
I met him many years ago in India or Calcutta to be more precise. I was there on a brief visit pending a possible permanent posting, which never did materialise.
Whilst there, I had been invited to a ball held at a local Maharishi's palace, there were still a few around, although this one and I forget his name, was actually a minster in the Indian government. It was a grand affair with the local great and good attending plus a few of us diplomatic types to add the piquant colonial nostalgia. Indians of the time for all their hard won independence, still had a vague yearning for the past British Raj.
Well I had had a few snifters before arriving and whilst my tolerance for alcohol is pretty formidable, that evening for some reason, I felt a little worse for wear. Perhaps it was the weather, hot and humid with the sniff of the monsoon season around the corner. Anyway, I drank a few more flutes of champers and was getting quite light headed and feeling slightly unwell. I rashly decided to get some air and to escape from the clutches of some old harridan who had been spouting some interminable drivel at me for what seemed like hours, I have no clue as to the gist of her diatribe but the combination or her droning and the drink sent me hurriedly looking for an exit.
I found a quiet spot under a juniper and sitting on the handy bench provided tried to catch my breath and stop my spinning head!
Not feeling any better I thought a walk my be the very thing to clear my head. I had no idea which direction to go in and just took off.
I must of left the estate and quite quickly found myself wandering through the outskirts of the city limits. As I turned the corner on what can only be described as a dirt track, a group of rather thuggish looking oiks spotted me and were soon confronting a rather drunk and unwell Guestling. Even in my stupor I knew they meant me harm. Now a Thorn never backs down and I was quite good with the old Marquise of Queensberry rules, light on my feet with a good right hook, but I was outnumbered and not at my best.So I took a bit of a pasting was relieved of any valuables and left half dead in the dust.
When I eventually regained some form of consciousness, I discovered I was laying on a small cot, looking up I could see a straw roof with a hole and the stars peaking through.
I tried to sit up and a thousand small firecrackers seemed to explode in my head, a moan escaped my lips, a hand with a damp cloth in it gently pushed my head back down and a voice spoke in perfect English with a curious lilt to it
Please sir try not to move, you are hurt and in no condition to rise
How long I lay there I was not sure as I drifted in and out of wakefulness. Eventually I fully revived, with a dry taste in my mouth and a still, if diminished, throbbing in my head.
Are you feeling better sir? I was handed a glass of water and helped to sit, once accomplished my benefactor stepped back
I sipped the proffered liquid and looked up, my host, was now standing in the middle of his simple mud and straw hut, an impossibly tall, slim man, with a beaming set of white teeth showing through a jet black luxuriant full set of whiskers.
He was dressed in a simple white knee length tunic with a dark waistcoat and sandals on his surprisingly small feet.
He explained having found me trying to crawl along the road, injured and covered in blood and dust, he brought me back to his abode and now had tended to my needs for nearly two days.
He introduced himself as Yanish Mountlebano Pomfreyanitato but told me I should call him Pomfrey. He further went on to inform that he was born of a Spanish father and an Indian mother both of whom had died in a tragic house fire when he was only seven. The Jesuit monks had taken him in and seen to his education, eventually winning a scholarship to University in Cambridge where he perfected his English and came away with a first degree in philosophy. Unfortunately when he returned to India, the Jesuit school had closed and nobody it seemed wanted to employ a 6' 7" Spanish/Indian man with a first in philosophy who now spoke like an English gentleman, albeit with a slight mix of his parents accents! He had since got by doing odd jobs and occasionally acting as an interpreter as he spoke three languages fluently and had a smattering of several others.
He then produced my evening suit on a hangar perfectly pressed and although like me battered and slightly worse for wear, it was clean and still wearable. He grinned
I did what I could with it but I fear it is ruined.
Bloody hell I exclaimed what you've done is a miracle, my good chap!
Well I can tell you Guesty was taken with this unusual fellow who exuded calm efficiency and a an abundance of good natured common sense, not to mention his ability to repair and clean my suit. I had a sudden impulse and I immediately offered him the position of becoming my valet, he accepted with alacrity, and told me he thought it was destiny. I wasn't quite sure how the Thorn income could afford his services but he told me he perfectly understood and not to worry too much about it, he was sure providence would provide.
And so it has proved, Pomfrey has been with me for nearly 38 years, longer than the good Lady Guestling herself and has proved to be loyal and invaluable, with a practical ingenuity that sometimes defies belief and resources.
I can't tell you the number of scrapes and mishaps he has got me out of or how resourceful he has been. I once asked him how he learnt to become so knowledgeable? He shrugged and with that radiant smile of his said that he just picked things up along the way
Once I just casually remarked if he would not like to find a Mrs Pomfrey?
His enigmatic reply was
Oh no sir that sort of thing holds no attraction for me!
Well I left it at that, I know when not to pry into a chaps private area.
SIR GUESTLING THORN: - The thoughts of my alto ego I have opinions on everthing and am not afraid to express them I hope for more kindness and joy in the world!
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Lady Guestling, that first meeting!
You have read on this page a little about my better half, Lady Guestling. She and I have been man and wife for 35 years. We met when I was attached to the embassy in Athens I was a very junior member of Sir Anthony Porringers staff, trying to climb my way further up the greasy pole of Her Majesties diplomatic service. If I say so myself I had a certain dash and charm about me and had some success with the ladies in my 27 years of life. A few had even been close, to becoming the future Mrs Thorn, though I had never made any proposal's but that was about to change forever.
The Embassy staff, had been invited to an opening of an art exhibition, at a rather prestigious gallery owned by one of those Greek shipping tycoons Theopolis Kastianos. I had not intended to go, as I had been challenged to a game of squash by my good friend Danny Blinkinsop. Danny and myself had hit it off due to our common interest in sport, whiskey and cigars, not to mention our collective eye for the fairer sex and dare I say had become a formidable duo of carousing and late night high jinks, for which occasionally we found ourselves up before the beak, or Rodney Snetterton, who was our immediate superior. Dear old Roders heart was never really in the business of a rollicking as he was pleasant chap,without a mean bone in his body, which was good luck for Danny and I!
Well Danny took ill and to his bed, I suspected he had been out the previous evening, I had been on telegram duty and Danny having had a bit to much of the bubbly and probably having returned in the wee small hours, had obviously decided he was in no fit state to face the Guestling forehand on the squash court!
The local rich and famous, be they politician or people of commerce, loved to have representation from the British Embassy, we lend a certain cache to these soirees and after all it's what in part we were there for in the first place. On this occasion Sir Anthony had decided to attend, he and Kastianos were more than acquaintances and I always suspected that for a backhander of the old cash, he had used his influence to help the Greek shipping magnate to secure lucrative contracts. Of course I had no proof but Sir Anthony's lifestyle was a little more lavish than his Ambassador's salary would allow! Over time of course and with more experience, Sir Guestling has found ways of enhancing ones remuneration in subtle and Machiavellian ways but once again that is a tale for another time. It is a process as old as the world itself and is probably more prevalent today than ever!
I dare say, that the paintings exhibited by some artist I had never heard of and never heard of again, were very good, I certainly overheard lots of pretentious comments from the gathering as they pretended they had an understanding of the painters style and subjects. No such pretense from Guestling, I did not like them and I certainly did not understand them and nor did I want to, waste of paint if you ask me! I was just beginning to think the whole evening was becoming a huge boor and was planning to slip away and frequent a few of Danny and I's favored nightspots, when a gap parted in the room and I saw Theopolis Kastianos himself standing there holding forth to a small gathering including Sir Anthony.
Kastianos was a huge man with a pencil mustache and swept back greasy hair, he had the appearance of an overweight Argentinian tango dancer, though I doubt he was have been capable of any of the steps! However, as he turned to one side pointing out some detail of a painting, from his shadow emerged the most handsome girl I had ever seen. I don't mind telling you I was mesmerized, if you had slapped me in the face I would not have noticed, so entranced was I by this heavenly creature. Imagine if you will a combination of Ava Gardner, with hair the colour of Rita Hayworth and a figure that either actress would have died for! She wore a scarlet dress and red heels, there was a small gold chain with a locket hung round her perfect throat and a scarlet ribbon tied in her stunning auburn hair. Well I up until then was not one to believe in love at first sight but I was smitten, I had to meet this beauty and although I felt light headed and giddy, it had to be now, after all I am a Thorn!
I decided boldness was the approach and strode towards her determined to at least find out who this vision was and if nothing else get closer to her ?
I got within a few paces, my focus totally on her, I did not see the waiter coming from my left and apparently he did not see me, we came together, tray, glasses of champers and the two of us hit the deck, glass skidding all over the polished marble floor, liquid staining my suit and flowing in rivulets across the tiles. Embarrassed, I tried to stand up but the floor was slippy and I fell back down and then a silk gloved hand stretched out before me I held it and with remarkable strength, she pulled me upright, and then the first words I ever heard the future Lady Guestling speak.
You silly arse, your trousers are all wet
I knew right then it was love!
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
My tailor
As you may have read in my rant earlier about how the English dress, my tailor had written to me with a rather insistent tone about my outstanding account. Now I don't want you dear reader to think that Sir Guestling does not settle his accounts promptly but now and then the Thorn funds are not as liquid as one would wish. It was a mere oversight, ones tailors bill must always be settled promptly, after all news of tardiness in that area will spread and that would never do!
Lady Thorn does not always realise the delicate nature of our ever fluid financial situation and would not brook any argument if she required to dip into the old bank account and I tried to dissuade her, so one must be ever inventive. I am not one to fret about money, it's vulgar and a gentleman does not concern himself with such trifles. Having said that, the upkeep of Thorn Towers and keeping the good Lady in the manner to which she expects, can take quite a bit of juggling and of course Pomfrey and our cook Mrs Milton, whilst loyal members of the Thorn household, do require remuneration for their services.
Still over the years I've managed to keep our heads above water and am quite adept at securing funds. Oh there are a few debts here and there but I'm pretty good at the old Texas two step, when needing to avoid a creditor.
Once more I ramble on, so back to the original thrust of this missive. Pomfrey drove me into town. The Bentley purred along, sounding in fine fettle, for which I have Pomfrey and his seemingly inexhaustible ingenuity in keeping the old girl running, to thank.
Saville Row is where most English gentlemen and the many well heeled customers from all over the globe would think is the centre of traditional English tailoring but the Thorns have always been clients of the little known but exclusive Futtock and Walsh tucked away in Germane Street. They have been clothing the Thorns for nearly one hundred and fifty years and my brother and I were first introduced to their treasure house of tailoring when we were still boys. Father took us there and with pride and in hushed tones reverently told us, Boys this is a sacred place never to be abused and always to be held in the highest esteem. Both of us have always tried to uphold fathers wish.
Old Futtock died some long years ago, there never did seem to be a Walsh. Now the two Futtock sons, Ransom and Gilmour run the business and go about it with quiet efficiency having learnt the fine art from an early age at their fathers knee.
Entering Futtock and Walsh's portals is an act of pure joy as the wafting smell of fine cloths, tailors chalk and polished leather drift into your nostrils, it's a place where a fellow feels immediately that all is right with life and traditional values are still adhered too. You are transported into a haven where the nasty realities of the everyday world are left behind and the treasure palace of cloth greets you like a friend!
As always the dulcet tones of Ransom Futtock greet you with a slight nod of his balding head, Gilmour runs everything behind the scenes, whilst Ransom patrols the front of store like a captain on the bridge of his vessel.
Sir Guestling how good of you to call sir, I trust you are here to settle your account, he beams an expectant smile.
Indeed, sir, indeed, you will of course accept cash?
Another issue resolved in the world of Sir Guestling, win at golf and settle your tailors bill, now that's what I call a result!
Lady Thorn does not always realise the delicate nature of our ever fluid financial situation and would not brook any argument if she required to dip into the old bank account and I tried to dissuade her, so one must be ever inventive. I am not one to fret about money, it's vulgar and a gentleman does not concern himself with such trifles. Having said that, the upkeep of Thorn Towers and keeping the good Lady in the manner to which she expects, can take quite a bit of juggling and of course Pomfrey and our cook Mrs Milton, whilst loyal members of the Thorn household, do require remuneration for their services.
Still over the years I've managed to keep our heads above water and am quite adept at securing funds. Oh there are a few debts here and there but I'm pretty good at the old Texas two step, when needing to avoid a creditor.
Once more I ramble on, so back to the original thrust of this missive. Pomfrey drove me into town. The Bentley purred along, sounding in fine fettle, for which I have Pomfrey and his seemingly inexhaustible ingenuity in keeping the old girl running, to thank.
Saville Row is where most English gentlemen and the many well heeled customers from all over the globe would think is the centre of traditional English tailoring but the Thorns have always been clients of the little known but exclusive Futtock and Walsh tucked away in Germane Street. They have been clothing the Thorns for nearly one hundred and fifty years and my brother and I were first introduced to their treasure house of tailoring when we were still boys. Father took us there and with pride and in hushed tones reverently told us, Boys this is a sacred place never to be abused and always to be held in the highest esteem. Both of us have always tried to uphold fathers wish.
Old Futtock died some long years ago, there never did seem to be a Walsh. Now the two Futtock sons, Ransom and Gilmour run the business and go about it with quiet efficiency having learnt the fine art from an early age at their fathers knee.
Entering Futtock and Walsh's portals is an act of pure joy as the wafting smell of fine cloths, tailors chalk and polished leather drift into your nostrils, it's a place where a fellow feels immediately that all is right with life and traditional values are still adhered too. You are transported into a haven where the nasty realities of the everyday world are left behind and the treasure palace of cloth greets you like a friend!
As always the dulcet tones of Ransom Futtock greet you with a slight nod of his balding head, Gilmour runs everything behind the scenes, whilst Ransom patrols the front of store like a captain on the bridge of his vessel.
Sir Guestling how good of you to call sir, I trust you are here to settle your account, he beams an expectant smile.
Indeed, sir, indeed, you will of course accept cash?
Another issue resolved in the world of Sir Guestling, win at golf and settle your tailors bill, now that's what I call a result!
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Techno
It's your friendly Sir Guestling, back again on this page.
A word about technology, you know mobiles, pads and all that other stuff that everyone seems terrified to be unattached from.
Now I'm no Luddite, indeed in the vernacular, I am actually quite tech savvy but I don't let on! I learnt many years ago that if it's known that you are actually quite proficient with technology and people get wind of it, they start asking all sorts of advice and frankly I have enough to deal with all ready. I mean you would not believe the avalanche of letters and cards I get asking for my guidance on subjects as diverse as, Llama care and whether transvestism is contrary to the religious teachings of Buddha!
So can you imagine what would happen if I had an email address or a mobile phone? If asked for either I can put my hand on heart and truthfully say I do not have them. In a world where constant contact is a disease, I am not on "the grid" and I bloody well aim to keep it that way.
Lady Guestling has a mobile phone, don't know her number, never want to. She uses it to keep in touch with her girls, doubt she would give me the number even if I showed any interest! Besides it's best to keep contact with the good lady to a minimum, don't want to rock the boat, eh!
I am viewed with a certain suspicion by some in the society in which I roam for my lack of gadgets but that's their problem, I couldn't care a jot.
A old school chum of mine Tommy Handsworth or Racket as we call him, he always had one on the go in our school days. Well Racket, still runs many a scheme and whenever we meet, he seems to be juggling at least four devices, they ring, buzz,vibrate and constantly interrupt any semblance of a normal conversation! Much as I like to see old Tommy, I'm fond of his amusing tales of his current strange and bizarre business dealings, his telling of them is related between phone calls, text alerts and him monitoring his twitter and other social media feeds! Racket is always uttering those words "Sorry I just need to take this"! He is always shocked by my insistence that I will never own one mobile, never mind fill each available pocket with one. After all English tailoring was never designed to accommodate technology and besides I have to consider Pomfrey, he maybe my valet and all round gentleman's, gentleman but I could not in all conscience bear his look of disquiet and disgust if I put a mobile phone in my tweeds! Good valet's are hard to find and another like Pomfrey impossible, he's unique!
Ah, I hear you ask how do I keep contact with everyone, well I have perfected the art of getting everyone to keep in touch with me. It's a lot easier and cuts out all that chasing around and leaving voicemail's, not to mention keeping a long list of contact numbers. My belief is, as always, simple, if you want Sir Guestling, well you can bally well find him!
So long for now.
A word about technology, you know mobiles, pads and all that other stuff that everyone seems terrified to be unattached from.
Now I'm no Luddite, indeed in the vernacular, I am actually quite tech savvy but I don't let on! I learnt many years ago that if it's known that you are actually quite proficient with technology and people get wind of it, they start asking all sorts of advice and frankly I have enough to deal with all ready. I mean you would not believe the avalanche of letters and cards I get asking for my guidance on subjects as diverse as, Llama care and whether transvestism is contrary to the religious teachings of Buddha!
So can you imagine what would happen if I had an email address or a mobile phone? If asked for either I can put my hand on heart and truthfully say I do not have them. In a world where constant contact is a disease, I am not on "the grid" and I bloody well aim to keep it that way.
Lady Guestling has a mobile phone, don't know her number, never want to. She uses it to keep in touch with her girls, doubt she would give me the number even if I showed any interest! Besides it's best to keep contact with the good lady to a minimum, don't want to rock the boat, eh!
I am viewed with a certain suspicion by some in the society in which I roam for my lack of gadgets but that's their problem, I couldn't care a jot.
A old school chum of mine Tommy Handsworth or Racket as we call him, he always had one on the go in our school days. Well Racket, still runs many a scheme and whenever we meet, he seems to be juggling at least four devices, they ring, buzz,vibrate and constantly interrupt any semblance of a normal conversation! Much as I like to see old Tommy, I'm fond of his amusing tales of his current strange and bizarre business dealings, his telling of them is related between phone calls, text alerts and him monitoring his twitter and other social media feeds! Racket is always uttering those words "Sorry I just need to take this"! He is always shocked by my insistence that I will never own one mobile, never mind fill each available pocket with one. After all English tailoring was never designed to accommodate technology and besides I have to consider Pomfrey, he maybe my valet and all round gentleman's, gentleman but I could not in all conscience bear his look of disquiet and disgust if I put a mobile phone in my tweeds! Good valet's are hard to find and another like Pomfrey impossible, he's unique!
Ah, I hear you ask how do I keep contact with everyone, well I have perfected the art of getting everyone to keep in touch with me. It's a lot easier and cuts out all that chasing around and leaving voicemail's, not to mention keeping a long list of contact numbers. My belief is, as always, simple, if you want Sir Guestling, well you can bally well find him!
So long for now.
Friday, August 21, 2015
Siblings
Guestling on the page again. I astound myself with the frequency of my scribbling s but if you've got a story to tell best to tell it, my Uncle Norbert always told me. Uncle Norbert was an interesting man, he's long gone now, always turned out in his Edwardian garb a long cigarette holder clamped in his mouth, monocle glinting in the light, he used to shuffle around his vast baronial property, imparting advice and useless knowledge to anyone who would listen but occasionally if you caught him in a more lucid mood he could supply you with some sound guidance!
I digress,as is my habit, I want to tell you about my younger siblings.
I have two, a brother five years younger and a sister who is a lot younger and surprised my middle aged parents with her somewhat late arrival in their and our lives. My brother came along just as I had begun to believe I was the sole focus of my parents world, put my young nose out of joint for a while, I can tell you but I reluctantly accepted he was here to stay. He glories in the name of Bartholomew Middling Gilbern Thorn, we call him Barty and sometimes when he really irritates me , which is often, I refer to him as the Madling one, see what I did there!
My sister, a creature of such grace and beauty, that one could hardly credit that she is from the same seed that spawned Barty and I, was and is named Mirabelle Paroshka Candice Thorn and naturally we call her Mira.
When Mira was born I was in my mid-teens and Barty about ten, we were immediately both captivated and jealous of this creature who had mysteriously arrived so late to the family tree and have remained in her thrall ever since. I know she has us wrapped around a her finger as is the case with any man she encounters!
Barty and I have a fractious relationship, if that is the right description? Most of the time when were in out formative years and to this day, we rub along pretty well.
Barty wanted to do everything his big brother did, which is to be expected, however it was fairly obvious that in sporting matters at lest, he was the one who had been blessed with all the talent. A natural with anything to do with a ball or bat, it was often embarrassing to be outplayed by ones younger offspring. However when it comes to any common sense or modicum of restraint, I'm afraid Barty was at the back of the line. He's not a bad cove but his judgement can be a little lacking and often his mouth and brain are not connected. Still he's done well for himself over the years and he and his wife Bobbie have a good life together, Bobbie is a fine designer and is sort after in that world. Sadly they have not produced any offspring for the good Lady and I to become Uncle and Aunt to but you can't have everything!. He does "something" in the banking world and all the recent troubles experienced in that business certainly did not stop Barty getting his "bonus". As he puts it,
I'm comfortable thank you Guesty old boy and if you need a few bob, well just ask
I never do, Lady Guestling and Barty, well lets just say they don't see eye to eye and if she even got a whiff that I had borrowed money from him, my stay in the doghouse would be prolonged! Trouble being that Barty could not keep it to himself and would be bound to let it slip at the most inappropriate moment. Shame, the old Guestling funds could do with the odd bung from ones younger brother to top up now and then but such is life!
As for Mira, well she grew in to the most delicate and beautiful young woman, an ethereal angel, with boys trailing in her wake, all trying to win her love, whilst she carelessly ignored them and broke their hearts. Oddly her own sex, seem to be just as fascinated with her and she has had many a proposal from females whom I understand prefer the love of another lady, strange but each to their own, I say, one mans, or woman's, meat and all that! She did let slip once that she had tried both sides of the fence, as it were, well I stopped her in short measure, there are some things even a brother should not know!
I love her dearly, even though she does not quite exist in the same time and space that the most of us resides in! The normal conventions of life do not seem to touch her and her beauty has ensured that there is always a willing man who is prepared to keep her in luxury.
She does descend from her cloud from time to time and is a very erratic but quite successful artist, whose pieces command outrageous sums and can be seen displayed in the private abodes of the rich and famous.
So there you have it a brief introduction to my two sibling's. It goes without saying that they look up to old Guesty and when guidance is needed they turn to their big brother, well where else would you turn, family is family eh!
I digress,as is my habit, I want to tell you about my younger siblings.
I have two, a brother five years younger and a sister who is a lot younger and surprised my middle aged parents with her somewhat late arrival in their and our lives. My brother came along just as I had begun to believe I was the sole focus of my parents world, put my young nose out of joint for a while, I can tell you but I reluctantly accepted he was here to stay. He glories in the name of Bartholomew Middling Gilbern Thorn, we call him Barty and sometimes when he really irritates me , which is often, I refer to him as the Madling one, see what I did there!
My sister, a creature of such grace and beauty, that one could hardly credit that she is from the same seed that spawned Barty and I, was and is named Mirabelle Paroshka Candice Thorn and naturally we call her Mira.
When Mira was born I was in my mid-teens and Barty about ten, we were immediately both captivated and jealous of this creature who had mysteriously arrived so late to the family tree and have remained in her thrall ever since. I know she has us wrapped around a her finger as is the case with any man she encounters!
Barty and I have a fractious relationship, if that is the right description? Most of the time when were in out formative years and to this day, we rub along pretty well.
Barty wanted to do everything his big brother did, which is to be expected, however it was fairly obvious that in sporting matters at lest, he was the one who had been blessed with all the talent. A natural with anything to do with a ball or bat, it was often embarrassing to be outplayed by ones younger offspring. However when it comes to any common sense or modicum of restraint, I'm afraid Barty was at the back of the line. He's not a bad cove but his judgement can be a little lacking and often his mouth and brain are not connected. Still he's done well for himself over the years and he and his wife Bobbie have a good life together, Bobbie is a fine designer and is sort after in that world. Sadly they have not produced any offspring for the good Lady and I to become Uncle and Aunt to but you can't have everything!. He does "something" in the banking world and all the recent troubles experienced in that business certainly did not stop Barty getting his "bonus". As he puts it,
I'm comfortable thank you Guesty old boy and if you need a few bob, well just ask
I never do, Lady Guestling and Barty, well lets just say they don't see eye to eye and if she even got a whiff that I had borrowed money from him, my stay in the doghouse would be prolonged! Trouble being that Barty could not keep it to himself and would be bound to let it slip at the most inappropriate moment. Shame, the old Guestling funds could do with the odd bung from ones younger brother to top up now and then but such is life!
As for Mira, well she grew in to the most delicate and beautiful young woman, an ethereal angel, with boys trailing in her wake, all trying to win her love, whilst she carelessly ignored them and broke their hearts. Oddly her own sex, seem to be just as fascinated with her and she has had many a proposal from females whom I understand prefer the love of another lady, strange but each to their own, I say, one mans, or woman's, meat and all that! She did let slip once that she had tried both sides of the fence, as it were, well I stopped her in short measure, there are some things even a brother should not know!
I love her dearly, even though she does not quite exist in the same time and space that the most of us resides in! The normal conventions of life do not seem to touch her and her beauty has ensured that there is always a willing man who is prepared to keep her in luxury.
She does descend from her cloud from time to time and is a very erratic but quite successful artist, whose pieces command outrageous sums and can be seen displayed in the private abodes of the rich and famous.
So there you have it a brief introduction to my two sibling's. It goes without saying that they look up to old Guesty and when guidance is needed they turn to their big brother, well where else would you turn, family is family eh!
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Dress
Morning good people, fans of tales from Sir Guestling.
Today I am going to write one of my periodic rants, my old Gramps, as I called him used to say that sometimes you have to get things off your chest, it cleanses the mind!
I'm a proud Englishman, okay if your delved back far enough, it may not be 100% but the Thorn family has been here a long time. So I feel I am eminently qualified to comment on my fellow English. Lady Guestling would disagree, she maintains I be hard pressed to describe two flies on a window but she has never had much time for opinions other than her own of course.
I pride myself that I have a certain sartorial style and the very lest know that you don't wear sandals with socks or mix check shirts with check shorts or trousers. In a world where there are a veritable plethora of fashion advice in magazines, newspapers and something called the internet, why is it that the so many Brits have no clue how to dress? The English have for years had a certain style of dress which while it may not carry the panache of the Italians or the chic of the French, ours is the cut of the gentleman and the couture of the lady.
Lady Guestling would never think of leaving Thorn Towers without being turned out smartly for whichever of her myriad of events that she constantly seems to be attending.
Guesty I am off she will call to me.
Have fun dearest, is my reply, I have no clue where or what she is doing but I'm certain she is dressed appropriately.
If you look like a four hundred pound hippo why would you inflict all of that bulbous flesh on the rest of us in your shorts and vest? When they leave their houses it is obvious that they do not posses a mirror or in some cases perhaps it is not wide enough to show them the full view!
It seems that there is a vast army of Brits who have eschewed any attempt to wear anything but baggy ensembles that would be best kept in the back of the wardrobe for when they are lazing around the home, instead it would seem they are content to inflict their lack of dress sense on the rest of us.
Now, I hear you saying, Sir Guestling how do you know anything about it, your clothes are laid out for you by your faithful Pomfrey and you are always turned out like the true English gent and you positively avoid any contact with the great unwashed wherever possible. I grant you being a snob is not easy and there are certain rules and standards one needs to adhere too but I am not blind and even from the window of the Bentley I regrettably observe the horrifying array of fashion walking through our towns and cities.
One last thing, now whilst at my advanced middle age I am no longer the svelte lad I used to be and perhaps there is a touch of the old green eye, who is perpetuating this current fashion for men, of skinny clothing so tight you can see how excited they maybe getting.
It is not attractive and makes them all look like they have no conception of size, their's or the clothes!
Well I'll finish my rant there, I can hear Pomfrey's plodding steps coming down the hall to my chamber. He'll be assisting me to ready myself for a visit to my tailor, I am not buying or getting measured for anything but they have sent me a rather insistent letter claiming that my account is long overdue for payment and I feel obliged to pay them a call!
It' all go!
Today I am going to write one of my periodic rants, my old Gramps, as I called him used to say that sometimes you have to get things off your chest, it cleanses the mind!
I'm a proud Englishman, okay if your delved back far enough, it may not be 100% but the Thorn family has been here a long time. So I feel I am eminently qualified to comment on my fellow English. Lady Guestling would disagree, she maintains I be hard pressed to describe two flies on a window but she has never had much time for opinions other than her own of course.
I pride myself that I have a certain sartorial style and the very lest know that you don't wear sandals with socks or mix check shirts with check shorts or trousers. In a world where there are a veritable plethora of fashion advice in magazines, newspapers and something called the internet, why is it that the so many Brits have no clue how to dress? The English have for years had a certain style of dress which while it may not carry the panache of the Italians or the chic of the French, ours is the cut of the gentleman and the couture of the lady.
Lady Guestling would never think of leaving Thorn Towers without being turned out smartly for whichever of her myriad of events that she constantly seems to be attending.
Guesty I am off she will call to me.
Have fun dearest, is my reply, I have no clue where or what she is doing but I'm certain she is dressed appropriately.
If you look like a four hundred pound hippo why would you inflict all of that bulbous flesh on the rest of us in your shorts and vest? When they leave their houses it is obvious that they do not posses a mirror or in some cases perhaps it is not wide enough to show them the full view!
It seems that there is a vast army of Brits who have eschewed any attempt to wear anything but baggy ensembles that would be best kept in the back of the wardrobe for when they are lazing around the home, instead it would seem they are content to inflict their lack of dress sense on the rest of us.
Now, I hear you saying, Sir Guestling how do you know anything about it, your clothes are laid out for you by your faithful Pomfrey and you are always turned out like the true English gent and you positively avoid any contact with the great unwashed wherever possible. I grant you being a snob is not easy and there are certain rules and standards one needs to adhere too but I am not blind and even from the window of the Bentley I regrettably observe the horrifying array of fashion walking through our towns and cities.
One last thing, now whilst at my advanced middle age I am no longer the svelte lad I used to be and perhaps there is a touch of the old green eye, who is perpetuating this current fashion for men, of skinny clothing so tight you can see how excited they maybe getting.
It is not attractive and makes them all look like they have no conception of size, their's or the clothes!
Well I'll finish my rant there, I can hear Pomfrey's plodding steps coming down the hall to my chamber. He'll be assisting me to ready myself for a visit to my tailor, I am not buying or getting measured for anything but they have sent me a rather insistent letter claiming that my account is long overdue for payment and I feel obliged to pay them a call!
It' all go!
Sunday, August 16, 2015
Golf
Hello it's me again Guestling.
In my younger days I was quite the sportsman, participating in all those pursuits that young men try, cricket of course, a little of the old kick it about game, a touch of rackets and of course the gentleman's game Golf. I pursued a number of other activities of a different sporting nature but as I often say that is a story for another time!
The other day I was surprised to be contacted by an old friend of mine Hugo "Batty" Balfour.
Guest haven't seen you for ages you dear old thing and well we need a fourth for a round of golf, thought of you, know you used to be quite handy with the little white ball, what do you say?
I like Batty and to be honest upon realising who it was I was a little concerned he might be reminding me that I still owed him a trifling little sum borrowed some years earlier when I came up short for a bar bill after some riotous evening the details of which completely escape me but knowing Batty he'd probably forgotten as well and the man is loaded having inherited some vast family fortune and despite his best efforts to squander it was still well heeled.
Well I readily agreed not having played the game for some time and having been slaving nose to the grindstone and all that thought I deserved a day on the greens.
So resplendent in my matching mustard yellow shirt and trews, which Pomfrey my valet and general factotum, had laid out the night before and safe in the knowledge that Lady Guestling was off on one of her frequent jaunts, I arrived at Swanicome Lakes Golf Club, as the sign said an exclusive club set in the green jewel of the south coast.
I guided the old Bentley up the long entrance drive and pulled her up in the car park. I opened the boot, there had been some panic the previous evening when Pomfrey and I had had some difficulty locating the old golf bats but in the end we found them tucked away among some junk the good lady had put out for removal, don't know why they were there, she'd probably made a mistake!
I was just hefting them on my old trolley when a shout came from across the other side of the car park
Guest old chap is that you?
It was Batty, I hardly recognised him, it had been some time but the difference in his appearance was striking, I mean it was Batty but what appeared to be rather younger version than the one I had last seen! Well seeing the look of bewilderment on my face he cleared it up straight away
Had some work done on the old face, dear boy, you know a pull here and a tuck there.
Well you look good on Batty I hardly recognised you. He didn't , he had the appearance of someone who was in a permanent state of surprise and could not alter their expression but of course I said nothing and shook his proffered hand.
Anyway in short order I was introduced to our playing partners, a rather innocuous man who name was John something, he was a thin faced, thin framed, with a hand shake like a wet halibut and I'm afraid I dismissed him immediately. Our fourth player I took too straight away, Henry Gore-Jones was a big bluff bloke with a ruddy face, a firm handshake and a ready smile.
Preliminaries done,we made our way to the first tee, Batty and Henry paired up and I was left with thin faced John. They were swigging from a generously sized hip flask which Batty proffered, I refused, I like a drink but I never start until after the yard arm descends!
So off we teed, now I don't play often but I have a natural hand eye co-ordination which rarely lets me down, my game plan is simple, keep the little dimpled projectile on the short stuff and don't try to knock seven bells of hell out of it. My playing partner, surprisingly, had a swing almost like a pro and for a man built like a wet whippet, sent the ball a fair distance. Naturally with Batty being the host there was a not inconsiderable wager placed on the outcome between the us. I grimaced a touch when the sum was mentioned but not wanting to put a damper on things and being a guest and all that agreed. I needn't have worried, after a few holes I was pretty confident that the spoils would be going home with team Guestling. I was warming to my partner, who was quietly scoring well and with my steady contribution I thought we'd have in the bag so to speak. Batty was his normal cheery self, his play can best be described as erratic, brilliant one minute, spraying the ball all over the next but he took it all in good part. However Henry was a different kettle of fish altogether, the bluff good natured fellow I met by the clubhouse disappeared and he become a seething, brooding, bad tempered player, prone to outbursts of profanity and whacking, for that's the only way to describe his game, the ball all over the course!
Well half way round it was obvious that we would win unless we fell apart or they had a somewhat spectacular improvement. Unfortunately not only were they loosing but much to my disgust it seemed that Henry was also a cheat, If his shot had gone in the heavy stuff he would miraculously find it and several times I observed him, surreptitiously drop a ball from his pocket and with a cheerful wave claim he'd found it! His other misdemeanor came in the form of the toe flick or the nudge with a club as he moved his ball in the longer grass to a slightly improved lie. Well these things are beyond the pale and just not cricket when it comes to the strict honor code of personnel integrity that the game engenders. I kept a diplomatic silence, my thinking being lets get to the end shake hands take the winnings and scarper. I had no idea if my partner had noticed, if he had he gave no indication.
On the 18th green we had all putted out, our team had frankly slaughtered them, so I was all for making my excuses, money in hand and taking my leave.
To my great amazement when Henry went to shake hands with my playing partner, he refused and fixing the somewhat larger man with a look of total contempt said very directly
Henry Gore-Jones, we may have won handsomely but I cannot in all conscience accept such a win because you sir are a cheat and a bounder of the highest order. We all know how you behaved and I am not going to point out your misdemeanors but suffice to say as your families accountant for over 25 years I take a very dim view of your behaviour and may have to consider taking this up further.
Well for a man who at hardly said more than 10 words for the whole round of golf, not only was it surprising but it was like he had suddenly recited the the Gettysburg address! Both Batty and I were stood there with ours mouths agape, slightly embarrassed but for myself full of admiration for his directness. I wondered how the accused would react?
Henry raised himself to his full height and for a moment I thought trouble was brewing but then he sagged like an empty sack of potatoes and wore the expression of a schoolboy brought up before the head, I suspect a situation, in the past, with which he was not unfamiliar.
So that evening I drove home with a smile on my face having trousered a considerable sum of the old moular, which in his somewhat contrite position Henry had insisted I took as recompense for his awful crime, for crime it was, John insisted that the money should be donated to our favourite charity and to which I readily agreed. Of course there would not be a word to the good lady and the charity in question would be the Sir Guestling Thorn foundation, a private charity with only one recipient, me.
So dear friends the moral as always is that cheats never prosper but that does not stop you doing so!
Cheerio
In my younger days I was quite the sportsman, participating in all those pursuits that young men try, cricket of course, a little of the old kick it about game, a touch of rackets and of course the gentleman's game Golf. I pursued a number of other activities of a different sporting nature but as I often say that is a story for another time!
The other day I was surprised to be contacted by an old friend of mine Hugo "Batty" Balfour.
Guest haven't seen you for ages you dear old thing and well we need a fourth for a round of golf, thought of you, know you used to be quite handy with the little white ball, what do you say?
I like Batty and to be honest upon realising who it was I was a little concerned he might be reminding me that I still owed him a trifling little sum borrowed some years earlier when I came up short for a bar bill after some riotous evening the details of which completely escape me but knowing Batty he'd probably forgotten as well and the man is loaded having inherited some vast family fortune and despite his best efforts to squander it was still well heeled.
Well I readily agreed not having played the game for some time and having been slaving nose to the grindstone and all that thought I deserved a day on the greens.
So resplendent in my matching mustard yellow shirt and trews, which Pomfrey my valet and general factotum, had laid out the night before and safe in the knowledge that Lady Guestling was off on one of her frequent jaunts, I arrived at Swanicome Lakes Golf Club, as the sign said an exclusive club set in the green jewel of the south coast.
I guided the old Bentley up the long entrance drive and pulled her up in the car park. I opened the boot, there had been some panic the previous evening when Pomfrey and I had had some difficulty locating the old golf bats but in the end we found them tucked away among some junk the good lady had put out for removal, don't know why they were there, she'd probably made a mistake!
I was just hefting them on my old trolley when a shout came from across the other side of the car park
Guest old chap is that you?
It was Batty, I hardly recognised him, it had been some time but the difference in his appearance was striking, I mean it was Batty but what appeared to be rather younger version than the one I had last seen! Well seeing the look of bewilderment on my face he cleared it up straight away
Had some work done on the old face, dear boy, you know a pull here and a tuck there.
Well you look good on Batty I hardly recognised you. He didn't , he had the appearance of someone who was in a permanent state of surprise and could not alter their expression but of course I said nothing and shook his proffered hand.
Anyway in short order I was introduced to our playing partners, a rather innocuous man who name was John something, he was a thin faced, thin framed, with a hand shake like a wet halibut and I'm afraid I dismissed him immediately. Our fourth player I took too straight away, Henry Gore-Jones was a big bluff bloke with a ruddy face, a firm handshake and a ready smile.
Preliminaries done,we made our way to the first tee, Batty and Henry paired up and I was left with thin faced John. They were swigging from a generously sized hip flask which Batty proffered, I refused, I like a drink but I never start until after the yard arm descends!
So off we teed, now I don't play often but I have a natural hand eye co-ordination which rarely lets me down, my game plan is simple, keep the little dimpled projectile on the short stuff and don't try to knock seven bells of hell out of it. My playing partner, surprisingly, had a swing almost like a pro and for a man built like a wet whippet, sent the ball a fair distance. Naturally with Batty being the host there was a not inconsiderable wager placed on the outcome between the us. I grimaced a touch when the sum was mentioned but not wanting to put a damper on things and being a guest and all that agreed. I needn't have worried, after a few holes I was pretty confident that the spoils would be going home with team Guestling. I was warming to my partner, who was quietly scoring well and with my steady contribution I thought we'd have in the bag so to speak. Batty was his normal cheery self, his play can best be described as erratic, brilliant one minute, spraying the ball all over the next but he took it all in good part. However Henry was a different kettle of fish altogether, the bluff good natured fellow I met by the clubhouse disappeared and he become a seething, brooding, bad tempered player, prone to outbursts of profanity and whacking, for that's the only way to describe his game, the ball all over the course!
Well half way round it was obvious that we would win unless we fell apart or they had a somewhat spectacular improvement. Unfortunately not only were they loosing but much to my disgust it seemed that Henry was also a cheat, If his shot had gone in the heavy stuff he would miraculously find it and several times I observed him, surreptitiously drop a ball from his pocket and with a cheerful wave claim he'd found it! His other misdemeanor came in the form of the toe flick or the nudge with a club as he moved his ball in the longer grass to a slightly improved lie. Well these things are beyond the pale and just not cricket when it comes to the strict honor code of personnel integrity that the game engenders. I kept a diplomatic silence, my thinking being lets get to the end shake hands take the winnings and scarper. I had no idea if my partner had noticed, if he had he gave no indication.
On the 18th green we had all putted out, our team had frankly slaughtered them, so I was all for making my excuses, money in hand and taking my leave.
To my great amazement when Henry went to shake hands with my playing partner, he refused and fixing the somewhat larger man with a look of total contempt said very directly
Henry Gore-Jones, we may have won handsomely but I cannot in all conscience accept such a win because you sir are a cheat and a bounder of the highest order. We all know how you behaved and I am not going to point out your misdemeanors but suffice to say as your families accountant for over 25 years I take a very dim view of your behaviour and may have to consider taking this up further.
Well for a man who at hardly said more than 10 words for the whole round of golf, not only was it surprising but it was like he had suddenly recited the the Gettysburg address! Both Batty and I were stood there with ours mouths agape, slightly embarrassed but for myself full of admiration for his directness. I wondered how the accused would react?
Henry raised himself to his full height and for a moment I thought trouble was brewing but then he sagged like an empty sack of potatoes and wore the expression of a schoolboy brought up before the head, I suspect a situation, in the past, with which he was not unfamiliar.
So that evening I drove home with a smile on my face having trousered a considerable sum of the old moular, which in his somewhat contrite position Henry had insisted I took as recompense for his awful crime, for crime it was, John insisted that the money should be donated to our favourite charity and to which I readily agreed. Of course there would not be a word to the good lady and the charity in question would be the Sir Guestling Thorn foundation, a private charity with only one recipient, me.
So dear friends the moral as always is that cheats never prosper but that does not stop you doing so!
Cheerio
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Thursday
Varied as my career has been I'm always grateful when something comes out and surprises me. So imagine my fascination when a publisher of my acquaintance gave me a call and asked if I would be interested in writing a memoir.
Sir Guestling you've had such an interesting life, we are confident that a memoir written in your own hand could be a real winner
Of course flattery will get you everywhere and I was intrigued as to what he meant by a winner, never being one to shy away from a good payday!
Well I'm certainly willing to discuss it, old boy
Fantastic give me your email address and I will send you confirmation when and where we can meet
I own many things but an email address is not one of them
Sorry old boy I intoned Not a clue what your on about, email afraid not
There was silence at the other end a sharp intake of breath and then
Well I'll get my assistant to call you back with some dates and we'll get together
Right'o old boy look forward to it
Well I can tell you I was quite excited, visualizing my name on a spine of a glossy tome prominent on the shelves of the book stores and flying out the door. I even practiced my signature for those book signing events that they hold.
Later that day Lady Guestling returned from some spa treatment she had been on with her gang of the girls, as she referred to them. I tend to stay out of her way when she has returned from these outings as she comes back quite relaxed and I don't want to spoil the mood, she can turn on a sixpence but I thought I could risk sharing this good news.
She looked at me with genuine astonishment and at first I actually thought she was speechless, great I thought she can't believe it, of course I was right but not for the right reason
You write a memoir, you can't even remember where you've put your glasses, write a memoir, my darling you've as much chance of writing a book as becoming an astronaut!
A little harsh I thought after all I'd have to find my glasses to write the book in the first place and I'd never harbored any ambition to go into space I shrugged and retired diplomatically before any fireworks started going off, I maybe many things but after 30 odd years of marriage I know when to cut and run!
Later, whisky in hand and relaxing in my favourite armchair, a cold claw gripped my thoughts as reality came in to sharp focus as to the task of actually siting and putting words on the page.
Might have to review this one!
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
Advise who!
You know people are always asking me for advice. Sir Guestling, my preferred form of address, although close friends and family do call me Guest and Lady Guestling, affectionately uses Guesty, she calls me other names as well but these are not necessarily with affection! But I digress, Sir Guestling they ask can you give me some advice on..........and then proceed to seek my wisdom on almost any subject you can think of.
Advice is like an empty bag, it can be used to carry something but it's just an empty bag! So I always keep any guidance short and sweet. For some reason I am always being consulted on matters of the heart, like some kindly old agony Uncle. Whilst I am no expert on romance and the like, I pride myself, to think that I have some modicum of understanding when it comes to love.
For instance a young swain of my acquaintance, he maybe a second cousin twice removed, the family tree is bushy and full of strange branches, so I am never sure who I'm related to, which occasionally has lead to some awkwardness and embarrassment but that is a tale for another time. Anyway this young lad I think his name is Rodney, buttonholed me at some family soiree, Sir Guestling he said,
I need some help.
I was heading to the bar to replenish my empty glass, my philosophy at these do's, is to take advantage of the hosts hospitality, after all you were invited! Rodney had blocked my path so I had no choice but to acknowledge his request.
Dear boy, I replied raising an eyebrow.
I have my eye on this girl he stuttered
Pretty filly is she?
Oh er yes, yes she is.
He was obviously nervous but then Lady Guestling claims I can be quite formidable, I don't get it but she thinks she knows best.
Well you see I'm besotted with this girl and I need to, well get her to notice me, can you help?
I paused before replying and stroked my beard in a thoughtful way.
Have you tried talking to her?
He looked at me aghast.
Er no I haven't!
I smiled and patted him on the shoulder,
Well I should start with that and see where it goes from there, dear chap, now need a refill, hope that helps.
I left him standing there looking bewildered but as I glanced back I noticed a smile spread over his visage!
You see, short and sweet, life is over complicated as it is, keep it simple, that's my advice.
Tat ta for now!
Advice is like an empty bag, it can be used to carry something but it's just an empty bag! So I always keep any guidance short and sweet. For some reason I am always being consulted on matters of the heart, like some kindly old agony Uncle. Whilst I am no expert on romance and the like, I pride myself, to think that I have some modicum of understanding when it comes to love.
For instance a young swain of my acquaintance, he maybe a second cousin twice removed, the family tree is bushy and full of strange branches, so I am never sure who I'm related to, which occasionally has lead to some awkwardness and embarrassment but that is a tale for another time. Anyway this young lad I think his name is Rodney, buttonholed me at some family soiree, Sir Guestling he said,
I need some help.
I was heading to the bar to replenish my empty glass, my philosophy at these do's, is to take advantage of the hosts hospitality, after all you were invited! Rodney had blocked my path so I had no choice but to acknowledge his request.
Dear boy, I replied raising an eyebrow.
I have my eye on this girl he stuttered
Pretty filly is she?
Oh er yes, yes she is.
He was obviously nervous but then Lady Guestling claims I can be quite formidable, I don't get it but she thinks she knows best.
Well you see I'm besotted with this girl and I need to, well get her to notice me, can you help?
I paused before replying and stroked my beard in a thoughtful way.
Have you tried talking to her?
He looked at me aghast.
Er no I haven't!
I smiled and patted him on the shoulder,
Well I should start with that and see where it goes from there, dear chap, now need a refill, hope that helps.
I left him standing there looking bewildered but as I glanced back I noticed a smile spread over his visage!
You see, short and sweet, life is over complicated as it is, keep it simple, that's my advice.
Tat ta for now!
Monday, August 10, 2015
Monday
Well as many of you may know, I've had a varied career and a new phase started yesterday, bon voyage, tally ho, all aboard the skylark and off we go!
In my early days as a Diplomat, I had many adventures, in many parts of the world, my experiences in the embassy in Niristan as attache to Sir Arthur Fang, would account for a small volume just on it's own. Sir Arthur was a little eccentric, to say the least and was apt to to go native. He once in a forlorn attempt to curried favor with a particularly stubborn member of the Niristani land agency, dressed as a erotic female dancer and having managed to gain entrance to the said gentleman's home, waited until he retired for the night and proceeded to shake and shimmy erotically at the foot of his bed. Sir Arthur was surprisingly lithe for a middle aged representative of her majesties government and apparently excited the old boy so much that he had a heart attack and popped his clogs! Sir Arthur suddenly realising that the object of his gyrations looked very unwell and having a morbid fear of any kind of death, panicked and in his frantic attempt to leave as quickly as possible, tripped over the hem of his costume banged his head on a rather solid chair and knocked himself unconscious! Imagine then the scene the following morning when the butler opened the bedchamber to wake his master, to find a rather grouchy and groggy Sir Arthur, slumped against a chair dressed in a belly dancers outfit and his employer stone cold in his bed with a grin on his face and an erection which as yet had not deflated!
Well the whole incident was covered up and of course diplomatic immunity came in handy. fortunately no member of the ruling Niristani Government wished to report the whole sorry affair, otherwise it could have been a recall for Sir Arthur and curtains for his career and quite possibly mine.
A polite gap had gone by before I had the nerve to ask Sir Arthur why he did it. He snorted in that way of his, sat down, lit a cigar and taking a drink from the almost permanent glass of whisky, that was always by his side, said.
Sometimes you have to be bold and do the unexpected, I had it on good authority that he liked a bit of the old erotic gyration, don't you know, imagine his surprise when next we met to discuss that dam land purchase we required and I casually slipped into the conversation my knowledge of his late night entertainment, well I'm sure I do not need to draw you a picture, my boy, deal done, I think!
I learnt a lot from Sir Arthur.
In my early days as a Diplomat, I had many adventures, in many parts of the world, my experiences in the embassy in Niristan as attache to Sir Arthur Fang, would account for a small volume just on it's own. Sir Arthur was a little eccentric, to say the least and was apt to to go native. He once in a forlorn attempt to curried favor with a particularly stubborn member of the Niristani land agency, dressed as a erotic female dancer and having managed to gain entrance to the said gentleman's home, waited until he retired for the night and proceeded to shake and shimmy erotically at the foot of his bed. Sir Arthur was surprisingly lithe for a middle aged representative of her majesties government and apparently excited the old boy so much that he had a heart attack and popped his clogs! Sir Arthur suddenly realising that the object of his gyrations looked very unwell and having a morbid fear of any kind of death, panicked and in his frantic attempt to leave as quickly as possible, tripped over the hem of his costume banged his head on a rather solid chair and knocked himself unconscious! Imagine then the scene the following morning when the butler opened the bedchamber to wake his master, to find a rather grouchy and groggy Sir Arthur, slumped against a chair dressed in a belly dancers outfit and his employer stone cold in his bed with a grin on his face and an erection which as yet had not deflated!
Well the whole incident was covered up and of course diplomatic immunity came in handy. fortunately no member of the ruling Niristani Government wished to report the whole sorry affair, otherwise it could have been a recall for Sir Arthur and curtains for his career and quite possibly mine.
A polite gap had gone by before I had the nerve to ask Sir Arthur why he did it. He snorted in that way of his, sat down, lit a cigar and taking a drink from the almost permanent glass of whisky, that was always by his side, said.
Sometimes you have to be bold and do the unexpected, I had it on good authority that he liked a bit of the old erotic gyration, don't you know, imagine his surprise when next we met to discuss that dam land purchase we required and I casually slipped into the conversation my knowledge of his late night entertainment, well I'm sure I do not need to draw you a picture, my boy, deal done, I think!
I learnt a lot from Sir Arthur.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Sunday 9th
Hi, its me.
Just your average man siting in his front room, listening to Sounds of the Seventies on the radio.
The sun is shining and the sky is blue. What have I done this week, what adventures have been thrust upon me? Well it, as always, it has been a mixed bag of good bad and indifferent! Details, oh no, no details, your imagination or lack of it will have to suffice, make it up, speculate, fantasize, prizes for the most outrageous or evil!
For instance on Tuesday I met with the Dali Lama for tea, he seems obsessed with being a Buddhist but I think I have finally convinced him that he won't be reborn, over and over, karma it's a bummer man!
Wednesday and brunch with David, (Cameron), he seems to think I have all the answers and of course he is correct but I keep telling him, Dave you've got to think for yourself your the bloody Prime Minister! Well you can't run the country for him!
Thursday, got a call from Don (Trumpy), he is worried his republican campaign is not going as well as it could. I told him Donny boy, let the hair do the talking and you'll be fine, you could have the first comb over to become President! Of course I've guided Trumpy for most of his career and thought I had finally got him to become the richest laughing stock in the USA, who new that people would take him seriously? Americans, you cannot trust them.
Friday, that geezer from the Bank of England,I can't remember his name, I think he is from a former colony, he popped over, I was not going to let him in but he slipped me a few quid, so I gave him five minutes. He droned on about interest rates, I stopped him and told him to man up and walk it off. Can't stand a man who whines in a nasal twang!
Saturday, after the week I've had the last thing I needed, was a request from HM, yes even Lizzie needs my input from time to time, I try to limit my involvement, let's face it her whole family are as mad as a box of frogs! She's worried about eventually popping her clogs and leaving the family business in the hands of Charlie. I told her not concern herself she will probably outlive him and besides it would not be the first time country had had a mad king on the throne!
Anyway Sunday so far has had no emergencies that I've had to deal with, though I have had a voicemail from some German sounding bird asking about loans and the Euro, I think she said her name is Angela or something like that. I might give her a call back later, got a feeling it's got something to do with Greece, not the musical, the country, oh well!
Life can be a burden
Just your average man siting in his front room, listening to Sounds of the Seventies on the radio.
The sun is shining and the sky is blue. What have I done this week, what adventures have been thrust upon me? Well it, as always, it has been a mixed bag of good bad and indifferent! Details, oh no, no details, your imagination or lack of it will have to suffice, make it up, speculate, fantasize, prizes for the most outrageous or evil!
For instance on Tuesday I met with the Dali Lama for tea, he seems obsessed with being a Buddhist but I think I have finally convinced him that he won't be reborn, over and over, karma it's a bummer man!
Wednesday and brunch with David, (Cameron), he seems to think I have all the answers and of course he is correct but I keep telling him, Dave you've got to think for yourself your the bloody Prime Minister! Well you can't run the country for him!
Thursday, got a call from Don (Trumpy), he is worried his republican campaign is not going as well as it could. I told him Donny boy, let the hair do the talking and you'll be fine, you could have the first comb over to become President! Of course I've guided Trumpy for most of his career and thought I had finally got him to become the richest laughing stock in the USA, who new that people would take him seriously? Americans, you cannot trust them.
Friday, that geezer from the Bank of England,I can't remember his name, I think he is from a former colony, he popped over, I was not going to let him in but he slipped me a few quid, so I gave him five minutes. He droned on about interest rates, I stopped him and told him to man up and walk it off. Can't stand a man who whines in a nasal twang!
Saturday, after the week I've had the last thing I needed, was a request from HM, yes even Lizzie needs my input from time to time, I try to limit my involvement, let's face it her whole family are as mad as a box of frogs! She's worried about eventually popping her clogs and leaving the family business in the hands of Charlie. I told her not concern herself she will probably outlive him and besides it would not be the first time country had had a mad king on the throne!
Anyway Sunday so far has had no emergencies that I've had to deal with, though I have had a voicemail from some German sounding bird asking about loans and the Euro, I think she said her name is Angela or something like that. I might give her a call back later, got a feeling it's got something to do with Greece, not the musical, the country, oh well!
Life can be a burden
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
To be an author
Good day to the absolutely zero amount of people who will read this, is a great pleasure to not know you.
I write, secure in the knowledge that these very words will never be read by anyone but me and I know what they are in advance! The statistical count on my page informs me that it is not visited by, well, anybody. Of course that is not the sole purpose of such pages, they are as much about , self-penned therapy, as much as one publishes them hoping the page might be read by some stranger who then becomes a regular subscriber?
So does it matter if I get the spelling correct or the punctuation in the right place? Well, if like me, you love the English language and like to read it, written in the correct way, then it does.
English is a much used and universal language, not given to say the romance of Italian or French,
it is never the less rich in its lexicon of words and the intrinsic ability to convey meaning in a varied and descriptive way, that in my opinion is unmatched in the world of so many different languages.
I am not promoting English as the greatest language but is is up there in the top one.
Of course I am English and therefore cheerfully admit to an unashamed bias. Many works of great literature have been written in languages other than English but when translated, by an expert, will almost always translate and convey the meaning that the author has written.
I aspire to be an author, they say there is one novel in everyone given the chance to express it, I have started many but never been able to write more than a few chapters. I consider myself to be a story teller but am unable or to lazy to sustain the effort.
These days every minor celebrity or anyone who believes they have a story to tell seem able to produce a volume (yes I know many are ghost written), book shop shelves and electronic media are groaning with the weight of all the words that are written and published every day. From chefs to Zoologists, there are books of every variety and stripe covering every subject that a human brain can concoct or think might sell and be interesting to a readership somewhere.
And that is good. Alright a lot of this blizzard of written words is crap but a great deal of it is entertaining, stimulating, life altering,informative, educating, moving, romantic, historical or just a great story, well told. It takes us to places we have never been, fires our imagination, makes us laugh and cry, sometimes helps in tough times.
A good read is exactly that.
I write, secure in the knowledge that these very words will never be read by anyone but me and I know what they are in advance! The statistical count on my page informs me that it is not visited by, well, anybody. Of course that is not the sole purpose of such pages, they are as much about , self-penned therapy, as much as one publishes them hoping the page might be read by some stranger who then becomes a regular subscriber?
So does it matter if I get the spelling correct or the punctuation in the right place? Well, if like me, you love the English language and like to read it, written in the correct way, then it does.
English is a much used and universal language, not given to say the romance of Italian or French,
it is never the less rich in its lexicon of words and the intrinsic ability to convey meaning in a varied and descriptive way, that in my opinion is unmatched in the world of so many different languages.
I am not promoting English as the greatest language but is is up there in the top one.
Of course I am English and therefore cheerfully admit to an unashamed bias. Many works of great literature have been written in languages other than English but when translated, by an expert, will almost always translate and convey the meaning that the author has written.
I aspire to be an author, they say there is one novel in everyone given the chance to express it, I have started many but never been able to write more than a few chapters. I consider myself to be a story teller but am unable or to lazy to sustain the effort.
These days every minor celebrity or anyone who believes they have a story to tell seem able to produce a volume (yes I know many are ghost written), book shop shelves and electronic media are groaning with the weight of all the words that are written and published every day. From chefs to Zoologists, there are books of every variety and stripe covering every subject that a human brain can concoct or think might sell and be interesting to a readership somewhere.
And that is good. Alright a lot of this blizzard of written words is crap but a great deal of it is entertaining, stimulating, life altering,informative, educating, moving, romantic, historical or just a great story, well told. It takes us to places we have never been, fires our imagination, makes us laugh and cry, sometimes helps in tough times.
A good read is exactly that.
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