Bank Holidays Are So Very Tiresome

I do find bank holidays so very tiresome. They were introduced by the trading classes as a sop to those who were even lower down the social scale than themselves.

Why do the labourers feel as though they should have an extra day off? Is not one morning a week to go to Church sufficient? 

If those who serve us have a day at some squalid seaside town, who is there to iron my Thunderer, mix my morning Bloody Mary, or butter my crumpet in the dull time before the bar opens at 6?

Furthermore, the tracks and lanes are full of the hoi polloi traipsing to their Great Aunt’s cabbage infused hovel. I can barely pass them in my Four Wheel Carriage without knocking them into the ditches and drains.

Needless to say, I vehemently opposed the passing of The Bank Holiday Act in the Lords. It was one of the few debates that I have managed to awaken from my drunken slumber during the proceedings and stir myself into arguing a coherent stream of invectives against giving the labourers any rights beyond their feudal obligations. 

We lost the vote due to a large section of Whigs deciding that patronising the lower classes would earn them their love and affection. Do they not realise that this type of behaviour will lead us down the rocky path which can only end in the ghastly guillotine?

 

The Good Ladies Are Having A Soiree

We are honoured with the presence of Lady Consuelo Cortinovis this week and all the days of her stay have been spent discussing this evenings excursion to the docks of Bristol for a soiree at the Music Hall. The ladies have become quite faint with the excitement of mixing with the rum soaked seafarers and imbibing copious quantities of cheap intoxicants.

I have been left to tend the country pile while my good Lady Barrington Beak and Lady Consuelo take the carriage to the port. There, they will meet Miss Mary Pommes de Frites and their escort, Anton Sparkman, who just for this evening will don a pink gown and pink lipstick, and become Antonietta Sparklemaid.

And it is not any old Music Hall that they are visiting, but one which has taken the fashion from the East where they have to sing the songs themselves. My concern that they would have to mix with the hoi polloi have been tempered by the fact that they have their own private booth and hopefully their own private safe for the diamonds.

They can therefore sing to their hearts content without bringing embarrassment upon our aristocratic brethren. It is bad enough that they are within the proximity of the sea salt infused commoners, but to have to perform in front of them would have brought shame upon the ruling classes. Next our heirs will be marrying showgirls.

I fear that the soiree may be a little messy……