How the other half live
I've been away on a 2 day course at a swanky stately home kind of place in North Yorkshire the last couple of days. So posting was kept to a minimum because of that and damned blogger. I spent all Wednesday trying to post something, anything, but ultimately nothing. Maybe blogger had taken it upon itself to be my personal censor;
"Thats rubbish. You can keep clicking publish post all you want but this baby's going nowhere"
So you might see this, or you might not. Depending on bloggers whim.
I set off early Thursday morning for my trip to swankesville and yet still managed to arrive 2 minutes late. I always seem to be 2 minutes late for everything. I try and set off earlier but nothing ever changes, you can bet that 2 minutes after the scheduled start time I will sweatily appear.
It's frustrating though, I'd rather be an hour late than 2 minutes, at least with an hour you can come up with a decent excuse. 2 minutes late doesnt warrant an excuse, you are late and you are the reason why. I am destined to be 2 minutes late for everything.
The house had a long sprawling drive which led to the car park, it was a very posh place indeed. I could have sworn that I saw a few peasants being flogged out back but chose not to get involved. As i drove up the drive I noticed the dark silhouettes of 2 stags under a large tree in the front grounds, I think I wanted to believe that there was a kind of place that this happened so much that I forgot to ask myself the basic reality-check questions when seeing them.
Like "Dont be so silly"
It wasnt until I had made an idiot of myself a little later by commenting
"those Stags have been shading underneath the tree for a while" that I was told they were wire mesh sculptures.
Note to self: dont waive reality check questions again, they are there for a reason.
After parking the car I then fiddled around with the papers I'd spead all over the passenger seat, putting all my directions away, making sure all the pre-reading that I had done on the way up was in order, etc. I turned back to get out of the door and had the shock of my life. There was what can only be described as a butler peering in at me from my drivers window. I jumped out of my skin, his face didnt flicker, I bet he wanted to laugh his head off. Although I bet he's done it to many people many times. Its probably par for the course now.
How long had he been there? Was my mind playing tricks on me? If I closed my eyes and opened them again would he have gone?
He was real. He opened the car door for me to prove it. He didnt realise he was proving it to me, he didnt know that opening the car door was confirmation of his realism, to him he was just opening the car door for me, to me it was proof that I hadnt gone back to the early 20th century.
After my heart rate had come back down to normal levels he started bothering me with questions. Firing them at me like a well oiled rifle. No emotion to them, just the same questions he'd asked everybody else this morning and the same questions he'll be asking everyone else after me. He didnt want to know the answers, he didnt care. I just wanted to get my bags and get in, he wanted to know if I wanted them carrying, if I'd had a good journey, if I thought the weather was nice, if I would be requiring a table, if he was doing my head in.
All he was doing was making me later.
And he kept calling me Sir after every question, I hate being called Sir. Especially when I have no 'Sir' characteristics about me at all. You know I'm not a Sir, I know Im not a Sir, I know that you know that Im not a Sir, so do us all a favour and cut the Sirs out.
Unless Sirs thank butlers who carry their bags with "Cheers mate". I'd be a Sir then.
"Thats rubbish. You can keep clicking publish post all you want but this baby's going nowhere"
So you might see this, or you might not. Depending on bloggers whim.
I set off early Thursday morning for my trip to swankesville and yet still managed to arrive 2 minutes late. I always seem to be 2 minutes late for everything. I try and set off earlier but nothing ever changes, you can bet that 2 minutes after the scheduled start time I will sweatily appear.
It's frustrating though, I'd rather be an hour late than 2 minutes, at least with an hour you can come up with a decent excuse. 2 minutes late doesnt warrant an excuse, you are late and you are the reason why. I am destined to be 2 minutes late for everything.
The house had a long sprawling drive which led to the car park, it was a very posh place indeed. I could have sworn that I saw a few peasants being flogged out back but chose not to get involved. As i drove up the drive I noticed the dark silhouettes of 2 stags under a large tree in the front grounds, I think I wanted to believe that there was a kind of place that this happened so much that I forgot to ask myself the basic reality-check questions when seeing them.
Like "Dont be so silly"
It wasnt until I had made an idiot of myself a little later by commenting
"those Stags have been shading underneath the tree for a while" that I was told they were wire mesh sculptures.
Note to self: dont waive reality check questions again, they are there for a reason.
After parking the car I then fiddled around with the papers I'd spead all over the passenger seat, putting all my directions away, making sure all the pre-reading that I had done on the way up was in order, etc. I turned back to get out of the door and had the shock of my life. There was what can only be described as a butler peering in at me from my drivers window. I jumped out of my skin, his face didnt flicker, I bet he wanted to laugh his head off. Although I bet he's done it to many people many times. Its probably par for the course now.
How long had he been there? Was my mind playing tricks on me? If I closed my eyes and opened them again would he have gone?
He was real. He opened the car door for me to prove it. He didnt realise he was proving it to me, he didnt know that opening the car door was confirmation of his realism, to him he was just opening the car door for me, to me it was proof that I hadnt gone back to the early 20th century.
After my heart rate had come back down to normal levels he started bothering me with questions. Firing them at me like a well oiled rifle. No emotion to them, just the same questions he'd asked everybody else this morning and the same questions he'll be asking everyone else after me. He didnt want to know the answers, he didnt care. I just wanted to get my bags and get in, he wanted to know if I wanted them carrying, if I'd had a good journey, if I thought the weather was nice, if I would be requiring a table, if he was doing my head in.
All he was doing was making me later.
And he kept calling me Sir after every question, I hate being called Sir. Especially when I have no 'Sir' characteristics about me at all. You know I'm not a Sir, I know Im not a Sir, I know that you know that Im not a Sir, so do us all a favour and cut the Sirs out.
Unless Sirs thank butlers who carry their bags with "Cheers mate". I'd be a Sir then.
