Goodness! How quickly the year speeds by. Summer already, though you wouldn’t know it from the grey sky and daily precipitation. At least my butt is full to capacity, which means I am well-prepared for watering the pots when the sun finally makes an appearance.
The herbaceous borders are not the only things providing a splash of colour. Mr. Slope took leave of absence this week to go to something called ‘Silverbridge Pride’, which I assumed was some theological symposium exploring one of the deadly sins. He asked if he could borrow his lordship’s barouche and off he went. Imagine our horror when he returned with the carriage painted in every colour of the rainbow – no longer an episcopal conveyance but a fairground charivari. When I remonstrated at this vulgar display, he had the temerity to say it was all the rage, and he got the idea from a police inspector.
“Good heavens!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, that’s the fellow,” replied Mr. Slope.
He really does take the biscuit.
But not my hobnobs.
Yesterday, at Signora Vesey Neroni’s afternoon tea party, the subject of the Prime Minister’s judgement, or lack of, came up. The folly of calling an unnecessary election was touched upon, though that subject had been discussed before, but conversation focused more on the new alliance between Shariah Dismay’s ‘Conservatives’ and those bog-hopping Ulsterpersons, aka the Real Conservatives. The Signora, long a devotee of eugenics and opponent of the back-street coat-hanger trade, was thrilled by the opportunity offered to the errant colleen to nip across the Irish Sea for a taxpayer-funded sort-out. In her view, this was progress. I could not less this go unchallenged, pointing out that if we stopped this massacre of the innocents there would be little need to import so many denizens of the souk. The Signora dismissed this with a wave of her fan, but I think my point struck home. The Countess de Courcy remarked that this non-coalition coalition has provoked condemnation from Comrade Corbynov’s Brownshirts, proof positive it was the right thing to do. Her words reminded me of another politician who was fond of ‘the right thing to do’, one who sold us off to the Zollverein and who would have jumped into bed with the D.U.P. to save his administration. Politics is a dirty business.
I found the Archdeacon in jubilant mood the other day, which made a change from the usual. I took a deep breath and asked him what could possibly have brought about such joy.
“I have been reading The Jupiter, dear lady,” he beamed, “and there is much contained within to celebrate! The Bolshevik’s French pin-up boy, Monsieur Macaroni, has invited President Trumpelstiltskin to visit Paris; and across the Rhine, Frau Merkin has refused to sanction same-sex marriage, despite being the doyenne of Zollverein-ish liberal codswallop. Lefties across Europe must be hopping mad!”
At this point Mr. Slope interrupted.
“Pardon me, Archdeacon, but I think Frau Merkin allowed her party a free vote on the issue and same-sex marriage has been approved.”
“What! What! This is typical cabbage-troughing Poland-marching Hunnish double-dealin-duplicity,” he spluttered, looking much more like his volcanic self.
“Might I advise caution, Archdeacon,” continued Mr. Slope. “The Germans have also legislated about hate-speech.”
I left them too it. Having promised to call in on the Barchester Mother’s Union following their controversial decision to abandon non-violence, I felt they could use my latest tract: ‘Girding the Loins for Jesus: A Christian’s Guide to Weaponising Your Surgical Appliance’.
Until next week, when the news hound of determination digs up the long lost integrity of the Labour Party, I bid you all adieu.