Lord and Lady Oakwood are en route to the (other) country house. I hesitate to say for ''the weekend'', lest Lady Violet sneer at me for being a parvenu, but they will reside there from Thursday to Monday, leaving me rattling around at Oakwood Hall for the duration. I'm trying not to be green with envy at the thought of them stuffing their faces with chocolates and fritjes, or swooping up to Sluis on Sunday for poffertjes at Kaai 39. Still, Mr A will be coming to call on Friday, and we have cunning plans of our own.
I've noticed, in my trips to town, three micropubs - all in the same vicinity, and all reachable by public transport from Oakwood Hall. This fills Mr A with a mixture of delight, coupled with abject fear - delight at the thought that he can have as many scoops of delicious ale as he likes without risking his driving licence and fear at the thought of having to sit on a bus with the great unwashed. Still, like my job, it's a means to an end, and will fill Friday evening quite nicely. Saturday, we'll venture further afield, perhaps even into Hamwic proper. There's a decent art gallery and ''big shops'', and I'm sure we can fill our time there until the evening. I've not ''done town'' of an evening since I last lived here in 1988. We could be in for a proper shock.
Before then, though, there's a MEETING and fuckwittery to address, and a fashion show to attend. Life's not too bad, even though I'm absolutely knackered; brain-knackered mostly, not physically knackered. I'd forgotten how bloody tiring it is to cram your cranium with book-learnin'. Means to an end, though, means to an end. This is my mantra du jour, and I constantly repeat it under my breath. It keeps the fuckwittery at bay...
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