Reggie pranced around the sitting room in old Uncle Teddy’s peignoir.
‘Now, where is that dash rifle of mine?’, he muttered angrily. ‘Enough of this absurd woke nanny-state nonsense trying to consign our innocent school-boy japes to history’, he huffed.
The front door clunk shut. It was the housekeeper.
She opened the door to the sitting room with the fervour reminiscent of a sprightly spring morning in, shall we say, ‘more normal-times’…
‘Oh, by ‘eck, forgive me Mr Reggie’, she gasped.
Rifle perched over his shoulder and said silk peignoir ajar, Reggie stood in a state of arousal.
‘Mrs Daddywood! Splendid to see you! I am just doing the morning Selfie for the Instagrammistas’.
Visibly shocked, Mrs Daddywood closed the door and repaired precipitately to the pantry to prepare Reggie’s breakfast.
‘The man is raving mad’, she said as she shook her head in disbelief. ‘Absolutely bonkers!’
A few minutes of silence ensued; a great peace hung over the house. Mrs Daddywood thought it decent not to bother Mr Reggie and instead got to work with the morning errands: ironing the napkins, organising the dinner invitations, polishing the candelabras, replenishing the snuff boxes and the like.
‘Mrs Daddywood!’, shouted Reggie. ‘The coast is clear. One is decent. Porridge with condensed milk and lightly buttered crumpets, when you are ready, dear’.
‘With coffee à la viennoise’, he added laconically.
‘Ee by gum, Mr Reggie, fancy you photographing yourself with loaded gun! The grouse season don’t start til August, ain’t it luv’, offered Mrs Daddywood mischievously as she pushed the French double doors open with the mahogany Casa Padrino baroque serving trolley.
‘Have you read the papers, Mrs Daddywood? Yet more absurdity. This time, a perfectly innocent fellow was arrested on his return to Blighty for posting a photo of himself holding a gun. A snowflake was “upset” by it, got onto the boys-in-blue and after several days’ intelligence involving half the Met, they ascertained the whereabouts of the IT contractor – Howley-in-the-Hills (just north-east of Orlando, if I correctly recall). He was detained at the airport for “causing upset”. What utter codswallop, Mrs Daddywood!’
‘It difficult to believe, ain’t it, Mr Reggie’, said Mrs Daddywood. She looked rather wistful as she removed all kinds of impedimenta from the dining table in an attempt to prepare
for the morning extravagance otherwise known as break-fast.
‘I should say, Mrs Daddywood. Anyway, a few of us chaps on X thought it might be rather fun to pose with our guns to see how much “upset” we can cause. Safety in numbers and all that, you know. One is getting rather tired of all this suicidal empathy. What we need, Mrs Daddywood, is persiflage not fake compassion. Whatever happened to the light touch? Where will be without banter? Hyper-sensitivity will relegate the British sense of humour to the dustbin of history. Remember when our friend, Bergson, explained how humour was a control mechanism for deviant behaviour and a social means of recognising an absurdity. Without it, who is to say one is not living in a totalitarian state, I ask you, Mrs Daddywood? Totalitarianism masquerading as democratic and free! Oh, by golly, the irony! We are just one step away from that…I am sure of it!
‘If it cums to that, then we’d better stock up with all Mr Reggie’s favourites! Quiche, Beef Wellington, smoked salmon and quails eggs with that dukka stuff or how pronounce it luv?!’, she said suddenly, her eyes peering out of the window. Outside, somewhere close at hand, a clock struck ten. ‘Oh, Mr Reggie, I must be letting you get on with things’.
Reggie spent the best part of the morning poring over erotic Dari poetry. He had enjoyed several cups of coffee, pancakes, porridge and a great deal besides. It was time for his constitutional, he thought to himself, before that beastly rain sets in. It was all quiet in the house. What had occurred with Mrs Daddywood?, he wondered. He rose from the walnut, William III baroque carved giltwood settee, rearranged his genitalia and made for the pantry.
‘Mrs Daddywood’, he called.
‘Hold on, Mr Reggie’, she implored as Reggie swung open the door to the pantry in the manner of a don’t-stop-me-now kind of a chap.
‘Great Scott’, bellowed Reggie. ‘Who should have imagined it! How splendid!’
Mrs Daddywood stood with one leg raised on the worktop, revealing fish net stockings of another era entirely. In her right hand she held a rolling pin cocked to her eye in the manner of a rifle. Her iPhone flashed and caught the delicious sparkle of the saucy moment.
‘Safety in numbers and all that’, she roared. Never expecting to be outdone by his housekeeper, Reggie rolled in an ecstasy of mirth. Tears of laughter coursed down his cheeks.
‘Splendid, splendid Mrs Daddywood’, shouted Reggie and planted for the first ever recorded time a kiss on his housekeeper’s cheek. That is precisely what this country needs to regain – its air of persiflage! Bravo!