The determination of an Englishman

One of the nobler aspects of an Englishman is one’s absolute determination to not let anything hinder the pursuit of one’s hobbies. Today’s musing is to take my top hat off to William Willett.

He is the chap who is responsible for the hour going back today. Now those who complain about this, kindly consider why this is required.

Many mistakenly assume it is due to my tenant farmers wishing to work the land for longer. Pah! Why on earth would we ruling classes wish to incovenience ourselves for the benefit of our tenants? I say to my tenants; get up earlier you slack jawed yokel and drink fewer flagons of cider.

No, the reason for the hour change is because the darker evenings are really most inconvenient for us to pursue our hobbies.

A duel before breakfast, followed by a ride around the estate and then in the afternoon, my favourite pastime of trapping a peasant, are necessary activities for the day. However, these pursuits must be done in daylight and I, like most landowners, really do find it most cumbersome to have to awaken early.

Willett understood this, and managed to draw himself up from his armchair, put his bottle of claret aside and saunter off to persuade those that mattered to make Daylight Saving law.

As a result, I can still nurse my morning hangover and have time to pursue my hobbies in the civilised hours of daylight.

An Anarchist is in our Midst

I have a lot of time for the ex Composer to the Royal Household’s Pets, Boogaloo D’Ormant. However, my patience is beginning to wear thin in light of his latest revolutionary activity.

As those of you who have had the misfortune to spend an hour or two with him in a backstreet ale house, the briefest of time passes before he recounts tales of challenging Dr Brian Mawhinny to a duel, or blathering on about how the railways have gone to the dogs.

This evening he accompanied me to a recital, to which I had been invited to add gravitas and a soupcon of style. I should have realised trouble was in the air when he arrived at my mansion and declared that he was a tad peckish and insisted on mixing with the local riff-raff by going down to what is commonly called “the chippie.”

Upon his return, rather than eat said peasant food in the servants quarters, he insisted on eating it in the Royal Dining Room whilst reading one of  my leather bound first editions. The stench of the working class emanated through my mansion.

We then took the phaeton to the music hall where we imbibed a glass or two of cheap wine and patronised the local dignitaries before listening to a chap play his wind instrument to great affect. I thought the evening had passed without incident; that Boogaloo had been kept off the subject of the railways, until I made the mistake of introducing him to the Mayor.

They shook hands and Boogaloo, sensing an opportunity for notoriety, trod on the Mayor’s frock and she promptly stumbled down the stairs. The militia were quick off the mark, but not before Boogaloo realised  an evening in the stocks was imminent and feigned gallantry by stopping her fall.

The Mayor was all gratitude and graciousness but I knew that all was not what it seemed. I knew that Boogaloo’s revolutionary tendencies had got the better of him but, as with all anarchists, he soon realised that he would be cut off if his Pater discovered such caddish behaviour, and quite frankly, he enjoyed Pater’s benevolence a little too much to stick to these revolutionary whimsies.