Comfy Again

To my very great delight my chair has returned and I must confess that I find the new upholstering to be rather splendid. I have found every possible excuse to settle into it over the past couple of days. If anybody wished to find me, they would have to look no further than the now shining mid 19th century arm chair tucked next to the fire in the Butler's Pantry. There they would stumble across a butler content with his lot in life.

Mr Miles has been in bed for almost a week now. His influenza has quite knocked him for six. Sir Geoffrey, who never gets ill, but occasionally gets 'seriously ill', firmly believes that his son is faking illness to avoid accompanying him to the re-opening of the village hall tomorrow. If he is, Mr Miles has missed his calling, rather than penning mystic poetry, he should be treading the boards in the West End, or lighting up a screen in cinemas across the globe. His temperature remains high. He looks not a little green about the gills. In fact, his gills resemble a village cricket pitch at the moment. Dr Morgan has been called but merely diagnosed what we already knew: ie influenza which requires rest, and absolutely no opening of village halls in cold weather.

Dr Morgan enjoys visiting Carstone House, with good reason. He never leaves without a drink in the Servant's Hall, and a hot meal prepared for him by Mrs Styles.