My feet did hurt. I consulted Merciless Mary the next morning (so named because as children she was quite a ruthless nurse and suffered no nonsense if you needed her administrations).
She recommended avoiding wearing such impractical footwear and to suffer in silence as I was the author of my own misfortunes. Then she made me fruit toast with lashings of butter and a huge mug of tea and went in search of her first aid bag. In there she found some blister plasters which seem to have done the trick. At least I could comfortably manage my run around the estate (well, not the whole estate obviously) but a nice route into the woods and then back through the gardens. I dropped into the kennels first though and borrowed Seamus and Finnegan (the Convivial Count's Irish wolfhounds). Have you met them yet? They are adorable. It's not that I ever feel at risk when I'm running there but I have come across the odd person I haven't recognised and those two are sooo HUGE that they serve as an excellent deterrent to strangers and a badge of belonging to any of the estate workers. They really are the most sweet-tempered of dogs but anyone who doesn't know them wouldn't necessarily think that so it also means that my runs out there are not often disturbed. Unless you are the Dashing Major of course.
He appeared when I had just got into the woods. He ran past me at first and then some small distance later turned round to say good morning. He hadn't wanted to startle me and would I mind the company. So that's how I found out a little about him. And now I know why you called him the Dashing Major. He is ex-military. And I can see that in him or is that just because I know he is and therefore now I see it but wouldn't have seen it before if he hadn't have told me. Anyway it was all very pleasant but just to put your mind at ease my panties stayed very much intact and did not at any point threaten to combust.
Oh and neither of us knew how Plastic Patty fitted into the weekend. He hadn't met her previously and nor had I. He was fairly sure you didn't know her as the whole weekend was very much a spur of the moment thing and, as far as he knew, you were meeting us all for the first time.
Anyway at the house we parted ways and I went to my room to grab a shower and change. Jovial James was in the hallway when I came down with Merry Mildred and Giggling Gertie. They are the newest additions to the staff and have only been there a matter of months I think (unlike the other staff who have been there years). Merry Mildred and Giggling Gertie were neither merry nor giggling at that point though and it seems as if Plastic Patty was none too well during the night and none too careful where. Jovial James was directing them to where they needed to deal with the aftermath and neither of them were best pleased about it. He promised them both an extra afternoon off which seemed at least to be grudgingly acceptable to them both.
With all the shenanigans at the party, and now this, I thought it a fair assumption that Plastic Patty would make her apologies and get out of there. But that woman truly has no shame and as brazen as you like she appeared at the breakfast table, in cliché sunglasses no less, demanding painkillers and coffee. The way she speaks to the staff (Giggling Gertie having reappeared to serve breakfast) really annoyed me so I decided to take my coffee to the kitchen and see what the others knew of the situation (and moreover what they knew about Plastic Patty).
Good staff don't gossip - apparently. Well they do but not with guests. Thankfully, for reasons I have explained, I'm not considered a guest. Turns out Plastic Patty is actually the Convivial Count's cousin. Which is odd that she hasn't turned up before now at any of the events we attended as children. Perhaps she did but wasn't quite so ... obvious. She has been out in your neck of the woods for a while though, working for some fashion house or other (though no-one knew as what), when she turned up a couple of weeks ago having had some disagreement with her parents. The Convivial Count, feeling increasingly less inclined to be convivial I'll wager, has been trying to encourage her home ever since. No-one knows why she isn't heading back to the States either but the betting is that she has left, or been sacked from, her job and has had to return home.
It was also whilst there that I learned that the order of the day was to go shooting. It's not that I disapprove of shooting game, or fishing for that matter, but I like to think that it isn't just for the sport; that someone, somewhere makes use of them if they must die. The Convivial Count has assured me on many occasions that the birds are shared out amongst the party and those not taken are then provided to the local butcher. The butcher, in turn, either sells them in his shop or sells them on to a local farm shop. Either way as far as he is concerned they end up on someone's plate. But it's not something that interests me. I might have gone if it was clay pigeon shooting (at which I'm not as bad as you might think) but I have no interest in blamming birds. Which probably makes me a bit of a hypocrite as I will be more than happy to eat them.
Then it occurred to me that if Plastic Patty was nursing a hangover she would be unlikely to join them so I quickly decided that it would be good day to continue cataloguing the library.
Do you know that the Convivial Count has no idea what books are in the library? No records, no index, nothing! It is a monstrous crime in my book (no pun intended) and, as a closet librarian, I had taken it upon myself whenever there to start the humongous task of creating one. So with laptop under my arm and a large cup of coffee I retired to the library in the hope that Plastic Patty had no desire to go there herself. Which was a good bet because I saw nothing of her until late afternoon.
I did however find you there.
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