Let slip the dogs of war!

Tonight a great divide has sundered our household, one that I feel shall ne'er be traversed. We have entered into a state of conflict, one which neither truce nor surrender shall cease. I fear that peace shall only be salvaged with the demise of one of the warring parties: Mine own, or that of Prudence the cook!

In an earlier missive, I told of the arrival of Prudence, and of the manner in which she, under the banner of nutritional sanctity, swept all things tasty and sweet from the kitchen pantries. This at first caused me considerable anxiety and distress, but I am an ingenious fellow, and swiftly concocted a solution. Thenceforth, at my daily visit to the sweets shop, I would purchase an additional quantity of treats to enjoy at my leisure. I would then stow them away in my private pantry: A velvet-lined Mauchline snuff box which I kept hidden away under my bed! It was a cracking good plan, in that it both concealed the delicacies from Prudence's prying eyes and afforded me the opportunity to use the lovely Mauchline box (which until then had only proved suitable for marble storage).

Today, after a good romp about town with my old chum Crispin Devonshire, I returned home with a taste for some cinnamon balls. I stole into my room, retrieved my Mauchline box... and discovered it empty! A frantic search of my quarters did not unearth the rations, but it did provide a clue as to their mysterious disappearance: An oil lamp by the entryway had been upset, no doubt inadvertently toppled by Prudence's enormous girth in her very act of theft!

I resisted the instinct to confront Prudence directly, instead biding until the evening supper when I could expose her in the company of father and Ms. Myrtleberry. The hour arrived, and I sat down to the table, gleefully anticipating the look of shock and disgust on their faces at the news, and Prudence's ensuing dismissal from the grounds.  So imagine my horror, dear reader, to learn that not only did my guardians know of the criminal act, they had endorsed it! They have agreed to allow Prudence to extend her dietary crusade outside the confines of the kitchen, and she intends to use this new freedom to deprive my palate of all treats and pastries!

My mind is all atwitter, for I know not what I shall do. I cannot satisfy my stomach's cravings in the sweets shop, or in a public house or anywhere else in the general view, for the same reason that I will not wear short pants: It is not behaviour befitting of a gentleman. And I cannot have Crispin sneak sour plooms or pontefract cakes into the household for me, for Prudence is terribly suspicious of him and insists upon searching his pockets at the entryway.

I do know this, however: By her actions, Prudence the cook has declared war. If my sustenance is restricted to her beet tarts and turnip stews, I shall surely perish. My only recourse is to instead bring about her demise -- or, failing that, her swift dismissal. The means by which I shall achieve this continue to elude me, but I am confident that Crispin will help me devise a strategy. He is such a clever lad, and shrewd, too.

Comments

[Lane Russell]

Dear Sir,

Scandalous! Absolutely scandalous! Totally unacceptable! It is understandable and proper that a gentleman in training should be made to forgo a surfeit of sweets, in order to whet his wits toward surmounting adversity; but for Prudence to have invaded your chambers without invitation and to have robbed you of that which is your own shows a lack of respect for your person and property most unbecoming in a bondswoman. And to have been sent on this errand by your father and Mrs. Myrtleberry? If your father wishes to deprive you of your simple pleasures, let him be man enough to take them himself, rather than send an underling! Such action on his part shows a lack of regard for you--he believes his fatherly duty to irritate you to be beneath his personal attention and so assigns his responsibility to a menial! The nerve! The audacity!
I wish you and Crispin every success.

[Lord Byron]

Kind sir,

Perhaps the low volume of responses to your posts has given you the assumption that your readership somehow parallels that low volume. I grant you my firmest assurances, young man -- that assumption could not be more false. With that said, I’d like to politely and humbly request that you update posthaste. I am quite anxious to hear the delightful anecdotal tales of your romps with Crispin and your baneful railway apprenticeship.

Warmest regards and salutations,
Lord Byron or Yorkenshiresquare