Some Ground Rules For The Stewards

It is with a mixture of delight and trepidation that I welcome my good chums, the Stewards to our little corner of Wiltshire. After fleeing from the metropolis, they may find our charming country ways a little strange at first, but I have no doubt that after a bottle or two of Claret they will settle down, don their cravats and patronise the hoi polloi in a suitable way.

As the pre-eminent chap in this area, it is beholden on me to lay out some ground rules for them so that they do not make asses of themselves as is their wont:

1) If they should meet me in the street, they should doff their cap and offer to purchase a pint of the finest frothing ale from the nearest tavern.

2) They should refrain from mentioning that they once resided in London. It is most unseemly and considered frightfully gauche.

3) The temptation to rush hither and thither, as if they were still in the metropolis, will be strong. However, there really is no need to whip their horses into a gallop. The peasants are far more amenable and deferential in our corner of Wiltshire and so time can be taken to enjoy country ways and to savour the sight of labourers tilling the fields whilst trotting along the byways.

4) One has to be ready for a shopkeeper, or a member of the petit bourgeoisie, to strike up a conversation. Do not take it as impertinence, but merely a way for them to ingratiate themselves. Always be ready with a quip, both to put them at their ease and to put them in their place.

5) God forbid, but if Major Steward feels it neccessary to don his gaudy checked shirt on an outing, then he must wear a suitably sober Morning Coat to cover its worst excess.

If the Stewards can comply with these simple guidelines, I feel certain that they will have a super time here. Failing this, I will order the serfs to horsewhip them out of the estate and send them packing to the eel pie infested neighbourhood  they have just come from.