It seems that my apprenticehip at Father's railway offices has already produced ill effects; Ms. Myrtleberry has hired a new cook! Because I was drudging about the vile railways, I was not present at her interviews, as I had planned to be. The consequences of my absence are far more profound and dire than I feared they could be, and it seems that they will dog me for the rest of my days.
The new cook's name is Prudence. She is a great beast of a woman, all ruddy in the face, and even the most menial of labour sets her panting like a sheepdog. How she came to be of such immense girth is a mystery, but I am sure it was not the result of her own cooking, which is wretched in every regard.
We had our first taste of Prudence's preparations at our evening supper, which consisted in a runny turnip stew accompanied by black bread so tough that it pained my gums to chew. A single mouthful set me gagging loudly, and I set the meal aside, electing instead to satiate my famine with the dessert. But no dessert was forthcoming this evening, nor will it be any evening hereafter. Ms. Prudence is of the firm opinion that all things sweet are poor for the constitution, and has banned all forms of them -- jellies, jams and pastries y compris -- from the kitchen!
Upon learning of this I immediately implored both father and Ms. Myrtleberry to dismiss the beast, but was met with reproach. Not only do they both share Prudence's views on proper diet, but it was for her nutritional convictions that the mammoth was offered the post! I must devise a solution, but am too weak with hunger at present to broach the matter. In the morn, I am off to the sweets shop, where I shall stuff myself with licorice rolls and aniseed balls.
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