The Fop

Chaos, and a return to the sanitarium

Let me open, dear reader, by entreating your pardon. I have neglected this  missive greatly in recent days, and while I do regret my delinquency, I am sure that the reasons for it are quite evident. As you have no doubt noted, the adversities in my life have accumulated rather rapidly as of late. Between my railway apprenticeship, the arrival of Ernestine Strothnuttle and a brief but horrific peasant's uprising, I have found myself faced with a veritable gob of hardships. And without a nourishing diet or the companionship of my dear chum Crispin (who has been away in the colonies) to support me, I collapsed under the weight of the chaos.

Yes, even we worldly gentlemen of hearty constitutions can fall prey to mental exhaustion, and it was thus that I found myself whisked off to the sanitarium, that very same place where we visited my Aunt Lavinia only a few weeks prior. And while I cannot say that the sanitarium director at first showed much enthusiasm at my arrival, I was afforded top-notch treatment, and returned home this evening feeling much restored.

Plenty has transpired in my absence, and there is much to be addressed -- not least of which is the latest piece of prevarication that the penny dailies are circulating. But this all must wait until the restoration of my health is complete. Though I have returned home, I am still subject to the sanitarium's strict recovery regimen, and must be off now to take my nightly bran bath.

Revolution

In my previous missive, I expressed my wish that the common people take to the streets, and set them awash in the blood of the wretched press. How dearly I rue these words now, as I sit quivering in the potting shed at the end of the garden! For it seems that I have unleashed a people's revolution, though hardly one of my own choosing. Instead, the dimwitted rank and file have joined the penny dailies in persecuting the gentry... and their assaults are becoming progressively more violent in nature!

I was first alerted to the present frightsome situation by a vigilant reader, Neville Blatherwick of Basingstoke, and if I am to survive the forthcoming turmoil, I shall be indebted to Sir Blatherwick for it. It was he who directed my attention to a dreadful episode involving Leonardo DiCaprio, and while I was certainly ruffled by the news, at that time I had little inkling of the further atrocities that it would usher in.

A string of similar assailments followed, each one more animal-like than the last. Ms. Cameron Diaz, a lovely little sprite, found herself the object of envious blows at an otherwise civilized soiree. And then, a third incident, one especially ghastly in both the choice of its object and its intent. Mr. Tom Cruise, the same poor moppet who has endured the wrath of the dailies for a good fortnight, suffered an attempt upon his life when a member of the press attempted to drown him! And while it would have been appalling in any setting, what gave this occurence a particularly sickening pall was the context of its execution: It took the form of a dry drowning, undertaken in the public eye!

While the beasts of the press make jest of these episodes, we of noble standing know all too well that civil unrest is not a merry thing. And though some amongst us have taken a courageous stand against those who would seek to drown us, most seek refuge in pantries or potting sheds, aware that anarchy may soon be loosed upon the world.

Dear reader, if you are of good stock and standing, I entreat you to do the same -- find asylum! And for those of you who aspire to usurp your social betters, who would have our lungs fill with black water, know this: It is by the design of providence that we are elevated above you. Neither man, beast, nor all the Henry Wigglesworths of the world shall upset the divine order!

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.

Prudence the cook

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.

Jam Roly Poly and Spotted Dick

Cook has given father her notice. Why she wishes to leave us I do not know, and it is of little consequence to me. Her beet stew was foul and I will be glad to see the last of her.

Father's secretary, Ms. Myrtleberry, will be conducting interviews to fill the position in the upcoming days. And I intend to be present at the proceedings, for it is imperative that the new chef be well-versed in preparing all my favourite meals, desserts and teatime delicacies. I am a great lover of Welsh Rarebit, Pigs in a Blanket and Flaming Chicken, and insist upon sweet treats like Jam Roly Poly and Treacle Pudding. It is equally pressing that our cook be proficient with my chum Crispin Devonshire's preferred dishes, such as Syrup Ginger Cake and Spotted Dick. Crispin is a dear friend and frequent guest, and his comfort and pleasure are of the utmost importance to me.

The black arts of David Blaine

It seems that good news begets further celebration: On the heels of recovering my stipend, I have learned that one of my preferred entertainers, the conjurer David Blaine, will be returning to performance! The sorceror Blaine's powers are truly extraordinary; one need only gaze briefly into his dark, mysterious eyes to feel the weight of his powers.

I am aware of the skepticism surrounding Mr. Blaine's works, but I know it is misplaced -- for I have dabbled in the black arts myself. In my school days, an old chum provided me with a talking "Ouija" planchette. He exchanged it to me for the fee of 10 quid (a sum I recall clearly because father was irate to hear of it, having paid a similar amount to acquire a plot of miserable, weed-ridden land). I put the planchette to test the very evening of the purchase, and witnessed its strange powers almost immediately... but this topic is not suited to the hour. I must be off to bed, and any further thoughts of these matters will set my nerves all a jangly and clutter my sleep with fright.

The shadow on my social delights

I do enjoy attending balls and other such social gatherings, especially when in the company of my beloved chum Crispin Devonshire. We laugh and drink ginger beer and chase each other about, then amuse our company by putting on a show in the guise of dainty ladies or in the blackface costume of a negro minstrel!

In the midst of such delights I often overlook the presence of some beastly reporter, and remain unaware until I find a photograph of myself, dressed in ladies knickers, on display in the social pages! Then I must endure father's lectures about the influential passengers on his sodded railways. Why can't an Earl's son pursue his simple pleasures in privacy?