Friday, 21 May 2010

Crusty Returns From Death’s Door.

If ever one was in need of the muscular, yet velvety soft, healing hands of Doctor Christian Jessen it would have most certainly been this week.

One was going about one’s daily business - in an elegant fashion (naturally) - on Monday when at 21:32 - and while passing a moment of mediocrity with the vicar playing Connect 4 in the conservatory - one began to feel something a little strange at the back of one’s throat. One thought nothing of it, thinking Chu Me had acquired a little more “knock awf” gin from Robin Gett in the village. Perhaps he had tried to slip it in on the sly for our visitor, so as not to waste the good stuff.

Tuesday came and one’s throat was a tad worse, plus one seemed to have a slight fluidic cascade from one’s nasal passages: One was beginning to get slightly alarmed as this Dame is most definitely not for sniffing.

By Wednesday, the flood gates of … not to put too fine a point on it … nasal residue were well and truly opened. One’s throat felt as rough as Anne Robinson’s heels and temperature-wise, one was as hot as the sight of Jake Canuso in a pair of skimpy, skin-tight, budgie-smugglers, smothered in baby oil and lying back with a red rose gripped between his teeth.

As one sat in one’s private office on the Wednesday morning, attempting to reply to the myriad of agony emails from troubled poppets, Chu Me entered. He was about to put the Baccarat tumbler of medicinal gin on the coaster by one’s diary, when he caught sight of one still adorned in one’s silk, embroidered Mark makes-my-mouth-water Warr bathrobe. Unkempt hair (still clinging to a hint of gorgeousness), a face like Margaret Lockwood made up in the style of a teenage Goth and coughing like a docker on 80-a-day made Chu Me whisk away the tumbler and demand one went to bed immediately.

When one saw his little face, saturated with concern, one could not have argued (plus, in fairness, one didn’t have the strength). The rest of the day was spent with complete and utter bed rest. Chu Me would pop in from time to time with a cup of Miso soup, dressed alarmingly in fishing waders, a surgical gown, face mask and marigold gloves. Poppets would be right to imagine the scene as one from Holby City.

One’s pussy, Crotchet, loyal as ever, remained by his mistress’s side throughout, adopting the deportment of the Sphinx at the bottom right hand corner of one’s bed.

One managed to find the strength to use one’s laptopular device briefly and one must say one was pleased one did. The combination of Chu Me’s care, Crotchet’s protection and the abundance of love and concern from one’s Twitterchums allowed one to awake - after a restful nights sleep - refreshed and running at 92.3% of optimum elegance.

Crusty Hall has now been wiped down thoroughly with disinfectant, including the household staff, in an attempt to rid the residence of the any further sniff-inducing germs, so fingers cross, one has seen the last of it.


  1. I hate those fluidic cascades! Man do I hate them! However, I'm reassured by your quick recovery. Chances of a relapse are probably no more than 70%.

  2. Jake Canuso? The greasy barman in Benidorm?

    Just proves the notion that the Upper Crust (no pun intended) often fancies 'a bit of rough'.

  3. Glad to hear you are on the mend! Take good care of yourself!


  4. My dearest Uncle Dick,

    One prays the odds on a relapse drop quicker than Cheryl Cole's popularity, poppet and one can keep the sniffles at bay.

    mwah mwah

  5. Ian, dear, one refers to the very same one. He is like a tap ... plopping out gorgeousness in little droplets!


  6. Katrina, poppet, your concern warms one's very inner components. Be assured one is on the mend and Chu Me is ensuring one has plenty freshly squeezed orange juice each morning to boostulate one's Vitamin C levels.