A Benidorm Guide to a Happy Holiday - A Must Have!

It has long been recognised that one has some very special men in one’s life; none more so, than the exquisitely delicious and award-winning, comedy genius that is Derren Litten.

For many years, Derren has brought laughter into our lives, whether through his comedy acting or through his wonderful writing. His partnership with his school friend - the gorgeous Catherine Tate - brought us the sublimely gigglicious 'Catherine Tate Show' and without him, we would not have had the pleasure of the wonderful ‘Benidorm’ (The television series, not the town, dear. …He’s not a construction worker!).

The latter has introduced us to a plethora of characters that we have grown to know and love; the Garvey family with the sun-drenched, chain-smoking matriarch, Madge; the wonderfully sarcastic Gavin and Troy; the swinging shenanigans of Donald and Jacqueline and the saucy antics of the Solana’s very own Mateo (played by one’s treasured poppet, Jake Canuso).

Derren has proved that, not only can he write fabulous comedy lines but also bring us story lines filled with emotion and sentiment. In Series 4 of the show one had many a droplet force itself from one’s tear ducts at the story line he brought us, which paid perfect homage to the late, great Geoffrey Hutchings.

Anyhoo … one was in Litten’s this afternoon – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall. Chu Me had just poured one a tumbler of gin but was having considerable problem trying to get some ice cubes from a clump in the ice bucket that had frostily welded themselves to one another. One was standing behind the bar and gazing upon the picture framed magnificence of one’s comedy poppet and wondering whether to re-apply a lipstick imprint of one’s kiss upon his cheek when, suddenly, one felt an intense and very pleasurable vibration round one’s downstairs area; it was one’s mobile device.

As Chu Me, gripped his weapon of choice and managed - with a quick bash and a degree of panting – to get his rocks off, one read the screen while he deposited a handful into one’s glass. One squealed loudly.

Apparently, not only had one’s dearest poppet, Derren,  been locked in a room, beavering away furiously on Benidorm Series 5 …but he had also been writing a book!!!! Good Lord, he never stops!!! Sufficed to say his work is complete and is available to pre-order from our wonderful Amazonians. One has already made one’s reservation and urge all of one’s poppets to do the same. It is guaranteed to exercise your chuckle-muscles and provide hints and tips from Madge on the art of tanning, from Donald and Jacqueline on getting into the 'swing' of things and advice from Mateo on holiday romances (oh yes, it's not all down to pert buttocks and gossamer thin budgie-smugglers, I can tell you!)

It will be the most delicious read and the sort of thing you can always give a quick fingering every now and then. You’ll also find it’s currently a hard one (and who can resist one of those), so reserve it now before it goes soft. Simply click on the image below to get your copy from Amazon!

Rained In With Jordan.

The weather outside was horrendous! Mother Nature certainly appeared to have a lot of angst that she wished to rid herself of. The heavy, swollen liquidity of her tears plummeted from the heavens and exploded violently upon the grounds here at Crusty Hall. One stood with a Baccarat tumbler of gin at the Study window watching this heavy curtain of water fall upon the day’s production and random droplets ricocheting from the lush green foliage of gardener’s borders.

From behind, one could hear the slapping sound given off by the flip-flops of one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me. As he came up one’s rear, one sighed and said, “One fears today is not a day to venture outside, dear.”

One had no appetite to go into the Library; by the time one had searched through the immense catalogue of books on the shelves, it would be quite possible that the day would be over. What could one do with the day? One placed the glistening crystal tumbler on the corner of one’s desk.

“Chu Me, dear, ask one of the household staff to come in, would you?”

Within a few minutes a small, slender girl entered, grabbed the sides of her skirt and curtsied, “Ma’am.”

“Ah! You there … run down to the village would you, and nip into the newsagent and bring one back some interesting reading. One is becoming extremely bored.”

The young creature looked towards the rain battered windows then back to her mistress with sad puppy-esque eyes. “Run along, dear!” One shooed with the back of one’s hand.

Following her to the front door she extended her, almost skeletal, arm towards the umbrella stand. One let out a shriek. “Good Lord! Those umbrellas are antiques, dear! You mustn’t touch them. Honestly, you shall be quite safe. Your uniform is made of synthetic fabrics so you shall be adequately protected against the rain. Now, hurry along.” Chu Me opened the great oak door and we watched her – her hand held out in front of her to shield her face from the rain – run down the saturated drive.

An hour later, one was sashaying from Litten’s – the oak-panelled bar at Crusty Hall – towards the little Dame’s room. Someone lifted one of one’s knockers and whacked it against the door. Opening it, one saw what looked like a drowned rat with the made-up face of Alice Cooper standing in front of one, shivering and clutching a sealed plastic bag. It was the member of household staff that had ran one’s errand. She handed the bag to one, to the almost Salsa-esque sound of her chattering teeth (and one must confess one felt a little shake of one’s tail-feather at the hypnotic rhythm). Then, completely unexpectedly and quite outrageously, the creature made a move to put her foot over the threshold! With the protection of the plastic bag, one propelled her back with a mighty push to her chest. One looked at her sitting there looking up at one, “Not this way, dear!” One said, closing the door, “you’ll play havoc with the parquet flooring.”

Anyhoo … One made one’s way to the Doctor Christian Room and fingered through the selection of magazines in the bag. One of the glossies that the girl had brought back was the recent edition of Closer. Reclining back on one’s chaise, one was immediately drawn – for some inexplicable reason – to the never ending, self-promoted troubles of Katie Jordan Price. It would seem that she is having a few problems with her latest beau, Leandro Penna. (Oh Lord! Here we go again!)

She has apparently told friends she feels “empty and lost”, which is quite coincidental because one has long since thought the same; one has always considered her vacuous … and … as for the point of her … one could never find it.

The report by Amy Swales, tells us she is suffering mood swings and is constantly arguing with poor Leandro about his behaviour in public and what he wears (He’s of Latin extraction, dear, he could be wearing cowbells and a smile and he’d still be stunning …whereas, if you were wearing cowbells you'd be ….well …quite at home, one fancies). The man is a successful model. One is quite sure he is highly knowledgeable about style and fashion. That is worlds apart from Katie Jordan Price who – though she may be referred to as a ‘model’ – would not have absorbed the same expertise from kneeling in a skimpy pair of pants, arching her back and thrusting forth her mammoth hooters.

The relationship situation has been made all the worse – Amy reveals - because our morsel of Argentine tottyness’ English has been improving and he’s now beginning to understand what the unnaturally blonde abomination is saying. Now … one would always urge any person one meets to learn a second language but one is saddened that one never met Leandro prior to his meeting the gutter-press goddess to whisper, “Stick with what you know, dear!” (and after all, who doesn’t adore the Spanish tongue?)

It may well be (as if one even cared) that her moodiness is being caused by the liquid diet she is on. She’s off to Marbella for a holiday and wants to lose some weight. (Holidaymakers, if you’re reading this, you still have time to pack and run ... now!). As an aside, one remmbers when one enjoyed a liquid diet some years ago. When one told the local Slimming World rep that one had lost just over a stone on it in a week, she mocked and demanded, “ What proof do you have?”

“38.5% ,dear, unless Fanny’s got an imported bottle in behind the bar.” One told her, while slapping her across the dish for her rudeness.

Having reflected upon this article, it would seem that the ceaseless stories and updates of this over-exposed eyesore are to continue. There will be a well publicised split, then when some other poor victim is drawn into the Katie Jordan Price Circus, we will be deluged with the stories of her heart-to-hearts with, not only Peter you-can-scrub-y’-washing-on-my-6-pack André, and Alex I’ll-fight-you-but-don’t-ladder-me-tights Reid but now the smoulderingly sexy deliciousness of Leandro too.

Will it ever end?! Alas, one fears not!

Outrage on the Village Green.

One was gliding elegantly along the pavement by the village green the other day, in a stunning pair of Gucci pumps and gorgeous trouser suit. The air was moist with an agreeable level of humidity and a warm breeze brushed one’s velvety cheeks like that given off from the exhaust pipe of a Harrier jump jet.

In the far corner of the green, one could see Mrs. Tickles, with her daughter Tess, planting an array of floral delights. To one’s right the row of picturesque cottages with their gardens in resplendent bloom. The heady scent of Mr. Craddick’s sweet peas filled one’s nasal passages with molecules of odorous splendour as it drifted heavenly across the narrow road. It was a most fragrant morning indeed.

Just as one began to take a deep and lung-bulging sniff, one stopped suddenly when one noticed a small dog squatting down to one’s left, making ready to leave a little parcel for Mother Nature.

One looked down in total disbelief. At that same moment, the village school teacher, Molly Coddle, strolled by reading her weekly glossy magazine and stopped for a chat.

“Morning Dame Crusty. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”

One was forced to hold out one’s exquisitely manicured hand and shake it to command silence.

The little creature completed its task, held its front paws steady and scratched its back legs through the grass; then with a half turn, looked up at one, wagged its tail and shot off with a yapping noise towards a car belonging to a visitor to our sleepy hamlet.

“Good boy!” the woman shouted in a child-like manner, as she lifted the tailgate of her Vauxhall Corsa. “Mummy’s very happy you had poo-poo! Yezzz she is; yezzz she is!”

Looking down at the small deposit squidged on top and between the blades of grass, one wondered if the owner was intending to bring her legging-clad, gladiator-sandaled self over to remove the offending mass. Instead, she bent down and kissed her Shih-tzu (quite a trick in anyone’s book), closed the tailgate to secure her inside and walked towards the driver’s door. It was all quite outrageous!!

What happened next was like the superhuman combat precision one only sees in Hollywood blockbusters such as the Matrix. In what seemed like slow motion, one turned; the previously fluttering hand now reached out to grab Molly’s magazine – opened on the page where Katie Price stated she felt fat and ugly (for a brief moment one thought, 'if it’s any consolation, dear, you look it too!') – and in a wide arc-like scooping movement, shovelled the faecal matter onto the pages and with a fairy godmother like flick, fired the bullet of botty business across the street to land with a thud against the rear panel of the escaping car.

The woman drove off without knowing, while the little pooch recoiled back from the window with the shock of the thud. One turned to hand Molly her magazine back.

“No time to stop and chat now, dear. Off to the Badger’s Snatch for a coffee with Fanny.”

One had only made a couple of steps when one heard Molly shouting from behind.

“Dame Crusty?!”

One turned, “Yes, dear?”

“My magazine?! The pages are covered in shit!”

“Oh I know dear! … and to think they call themselves journalists!”

With that, one turned and picked up one’s pace (naturally, maintaining elegance at all times) to arrive at the Badger’s Snatch on time.

One was not all sure what Molly was shouting as one gained a greater distance from her, but by her inflection one feels it was certainly not befitting an educator of young children.

Barry Manilow - Odo Know Better.

One was reclining on the chaise in the Doctor Christian Room last Friday, while indulging in a small plate of Mediterranean nibbles and a glass of chilled Pere Ventura Cava.

The television was on in the background but one was not paying a great deal of attention to it. One’s pussy, Crotchet, had decided to have a mad half-hour with a paperclip he had came across on the parquet flooring; watching him spring forward with this paws pushed together and outstretched and jumping somersaults around the room had proved far more interesting than what our broadcasters had to offer. Indeed, an extended broadcast of Wimbledon had caused havoc with one’s Friday routine of titterlicious comedy programmes.

Anyhoo … A momentary distraction drew one away from one’s feline fascination when one heard rapturous applause. Looking up, one saw that an episode of Star Trek was on. Police constable Odo was singing Karaoke in the bar on Deep Space 9. He’d dispensed with the slicked back hair and had gone for a much softer style with highlights. It was certainly less severe but one couldn’t help thinking it was highly unusual for the character to be performing in such a flamboyant manner; he was usually so reserved.

Barry Manilow

Curious to see the synopsis of the episode one found oneself pressing the information button on one’s remote. One squealed with surprise when one discovered one was, in fact, watching Paul O’Grady Live … and it was not the interstellar changeling,Odo, as one had thought but , in actual fact, Barry Manilow!

At first one couldn’t believe it, however, looking at the dancing technique with the Big Bird-esque legs and the shipyard constructed shoes, one soon realised it was indeed the velvety-voiced, Copacabanial poppet.

Odo

(oh dear, do you know, one's not

quite sure now!)

Sitting on the guests sofa, he turned frequently to talk to the host – Paul O’Grady – and as he did so one moved closer to the screen to see if one could catch a glimpse of a bulldog clip clamped onto the back of his neck, but there was no evidence to support one’s suspicions. Something must have happened for him to, seemingly, have the need to put so much effort into blinking his eye-lids. And when he sang a line that required lipular rounding, the words tried their utmost to tease his lips into movement but one was on the edge of one's chaise expecting his cheeks to split open like the knicker elastic around a fat man’s thigh.

One’s faithful houseboy entered the room at that point, exhausted after watching one of his specialist nature DVDs in his quarters – ‘Dirty Mares In The Paddock II’ (something about horses, one imagines) - and declared Mr. Manilow had had a facelift.

“Goodness, dear, one’s never seen Clingfilm pulled that tight …let alone skin!” (Yes, one knows one rarely cooks oneself, but one does occasionally stretch a piece across the household staff’s toilet bowl for a bit of a giggle.)

One honestly does not know why people do it! … And do you know, poppets, one is convinced every time he closed his mouth one saw his toes curl up!

Connie Candleshaft - A Village Says Good-bye

The tragic demise – or rather consumption – of Connie Candleshaft had shocked the entire village. Word had spread quickly throughout the local cliques of gossip, the bar at the Badger’s Snatch and across the counter of the village Post Office so, as the day of the funeral arrived, many were expected to line the streets to pay their last respects … and to see how the occasion was to be handled; bearing in mind the grizzly circumstances in which she met her end.

There had been some controversy in the days prior, however, when the village undertakers Digget & Buryham had gently moved the – rather gelatinous – fish tank from the back of Diana Scrunch’s salon to the preparation room of their funeral emporium. The ravenous aquatic killers had already been removed by specialists but the question remained; how were they going to retrieve poor Connie’s remains in order to give her an appropriate send-off?

A traditional coffin would certainly not suffice, as poor Connie would simply seep through the knots and dovetail joints. No, the occasion required something more practical and it was not until one paid a short visit to Mr. Peppercorn’s butchery shop and bumped into the two partners – Al Digget and Al Buryham – that one was able to assist with a little Gusset resourcefulness. Mr Peppercorn was busy giving one some tongue and a length of his sausage as we chatted and the pair had clearly dwelled upon the dilemma for an age and, as a result, one could see the stress etched into their sombre faces.

“Dame Crusty, we are at a loss! We don’t know what to do?” declared Mr. Digget, “and the funeral is planned for two days time!”

“Goodness, poppets, what a fix you find yourselves in! Circumstances have certainly caused complications, have they not?!” It was at that very moment that one’s eyes strayed to the back counter of the Mr. Peppercorn’s preparation area and one was struck by an inspirational “eureka” moment. For there, placed at the side of Pat Tissery’s mouth-wateringly plumptious baps - from the village bakers - was a tub of pease pudding.

“Tupperware!” one exclaimed.

“Sorry?!” asked Al Buryham.

“Tupperware, dear! Get yourselves a large receptacle of Tupperware and use that! Simply ladle the … broth – for want of a better word – through a sieve … or, better still, a large piece of muslin. You can get that from the vicar’s wife; she’s always making jams and uses it for …for…”

“Taking the pith?” Mr. Digget asked.

“No, one’s quite serious, dear! But if you don’t want one’s help …”

“No, Dame Crusty …the muslin …for taking the pith of the fruit … to make the jam.”

“Ahh!” One acknowledged. After a moments thought, they looked at each other, realised it may just work and set off upon their mission.

Marjorie Flecks, the vicar’s wife, had taken it upon herself to telephone Connie’s sister, Clarissa, as soon as the time and date had been arranged. This would give her enough time to travel up from Hitchin, where she resided with her collection of garden gnomes …. “I explained the whole sad tale to her, Dame Crusty.” Marjorie later told one, “It was a terribly crackly line but at least she heard the news from someone in the village and not some stranger.”

After the death of their parents, Connie and Clarissa had spent many years living together in the family home here in the village. However, as years passed by the relationship had become strained. Connie’s eating habits had become a great cause for concern; Apart from a penchant for Mustafa Sidoon’s kebabs, she could quite easily eat anything that was put in front of her and one day, after Clarissa had been roasted by the sun in the back garden and coated herself in Greek yogurt to soothe the redness, she had entered the kitchen to find Connie sitting with a cotton serviette tucked down her cleavage, a knife and fork in her hands and a look of hunger on her face with unnatural lip-dribblage occurring. She could take no more and moved out.

Anyhoo … problems solved and preparations made, the sad day of the burial arrived. The Tupperware container was placed in the back of the Daimler hearse and the crowds that lined the streets of the village, dipped their heads in respect as it passed. It was all very Egyptian; just as in times gone by, bits of a pharaohs were buried in small jars, so here, Connie was to be laid to rest in something similar …only plastic …and with an air-tight lid.

Sadly, there was no sign of Clarissa, who was and always had been as intelligent as a block of wood. However, the event – between the funeral parlour and the vicar – was timed with almost military precision and no delay could be accommodated.

After saying our farewells to dear Connie, we all returned to the lounge of the Badger’s Snatch, where Fanny O’Dour had put on a wonderful spread for Connie’s wake. There was a subdued and respectful ambience as people tucked into the food and raised their glasses in honour of our lost poppet. Then, just as one had had a nibble on Fanny’s prawn ring, the door swung open and Clarissa appeared, looking quite flustered.

It turned out (and one was not in the slightest surprised) that she had arrived at the wrong venue. She had turned up at a small chapel very near to the village, however it was the one for the pet crematorium. She had thought it odd that there were only a few people present and, more so, that there was no one she recognised. It was only when the coffin was brought out with a with a bag of Shapes on top of it and a black leather collar with a tag with Connie, studded across it in diamante tackiness, that she found out she was paying her respects to a 15 year old Golden Retriever. Needless to say, she made a hasty exit.

One stool with Clarissa by the brightly lit fruit machine, near the fireplace. Flanked by Kitty, Fanny, Mrs. Tickle – from the garden centre - and her daughter Tess, none of us could find appropriate words of consolation.

Eventually the silence was broken. “Well!” Clarissa sighed, “She had a good life! At least she went the way she would’ve wanted.”

Fanny dropped her glass and we all turned to look at her…”the way she would have wanted, dear?!”

“Yes! Eating!” Clarissa nodded, “She always had a passion for food.”

“No, dear … EATEN!! She was eaten!”

Tragedy In The Village - RIP Connie Candleshaft

It has long been the case that people, in the village beneath Crusty Hall, look towards one for guidance and advice, both in their private life and with their business ventures. Indeed, some have had the benefit of both; Claudia Shaver for example. One was there - in a fashion - as a shoulder to cry on when her husband, Klaus Shaver, ran off with his gingham clad personal assistant, Tristan, to open their flower shop in the Yumbo Centre on Gran Canaria. Then later, performing one’s public duty, at the opening of her new business; the village model agency.

Recently, while standing under the greengrocer’s canopy and feeling the ripeness of his plumbs, one saw the village beautician, Diana Scrunch out of one’s peripheral vision.

“Ah, good morning, Diana dear!” One said, turning towards her.

“Morning Dame Crusty.” She said in a rather rattled voice.

“Good Lord, poppet, you seem all of a hoo-har. What troubles you so?”

“Honestly Dame Crusty, I don’t know where to begin. The shop toilet is over-flowing, so customers are having to use a wheelie bin in the back yard with a loose bit of wicker fencing for privacy; my car had a flat tyre this morning and I’ve found out I’ve got a leaky valve; the only clean pair of knickers I could find when I got dressed are two sizes too small and slicing through me like a cheese wire and - if all that wasn’t bad enough - I’ve been running an advert for my new therapeutic foot cleansing sessions … but the fish haven’t arrived!! I’m supposed to start the sessions in two days!!! I’ve been trying the suppliers since 6.30 and they’re just not answering the phone!” With that, she let out a highly audible and unpleasant scream. “Aaaaaaggh!!!!”

The shrill outcry made one jump and one’s natural instinct contracted one’s gorgeously manicured hands until one felt a ‘pop’ and felt a sticky, liquid feeling. One realised one had just crushed the greengrocer’s plumbs in one’s hands! One paused a couple of seconds to reflect upon her dilemma ….

“Fish dear?! What on earth do you need fish for? Surely you’re not thinking of using their scales to file you customers toes nails?! … or use their sharp, spiny fins to clean their cuticles?”

A little calmer after her battle cry, she explained further. “No Dame Crusty, it’s the new rage. You put these special fish in a large tank and then dip your feet in. Their natural urge is to nibble at the dead skin on your feet and it leaves them feeling refreshed and soft. It’s a wonderful feeling. You should try it …IF I EVER GET SORTED!!!”

“Calm yourself, poppet! Now … though one appreciates your bizarre offer, one prefers Chu Me to work his magic in one’s weekly foot massage session by one’s indoor pool … and so one must decline. However! One does have a few contacts and may be able to sort out your fish problem for tomorrow.”

The look of gratitude across her heavily made-up face was overwhelming …or at least from what one could make out.  Arriving back at one’s beloved Crusty Hall, one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, wiped the squashed, dripping fruit residue from one’s hands with a luxurious soapy flannel.

“Chu Me, dear! We have a mission … one’s phonebook, if you please!”

One made the call to one’s specialist supplier. He supplies one’s estate with all its aquatic creatures for one’s own ponds and water features. One was confident he would know the variety Diana required. Alas, he was bamboozled. He had not heard of such a strange practice and laughed at the very thought.

“One knows, dear, it all sounds very odd. Needless to say, it’s fish that eat flesh. One’s sure you can find something. I’m under the impression we need quite a few of them too, so about a hundred would suffice, one fancies.”

Two days later one had completely forgotten about one’s good deed and had ridden down to the heart of the village on the back of one’s trusty steed, Dribble. When one reached the village green there was a huge degree of excitement. There was an ambulance slowly leaving via the north route and looking over to the corner of the village, a police car was blocking off Briggs Street with its blue lights flashing and a cordon tied around the nearby lampposts. One could also see the hearse from the local funeral parlour, Digget & Buryham, parked in the back street of the beautician’s emporium. Riding over, one was concerned that one’s mount may be spooked with all this activity but, thankfully, one managed to hold Dribble calmly between one’s knees.

One dismounted and one’s Jessica Feltcher curiosity came over one in an instant.  There was a sound of weeping and one spun to see Diana Scrunch sitting on a step crying into her hands.

“What on earth is the matter, dear. What has happened to cause so much excitement?!” One enquired.

Apparently, all had gone according to plan and the fish one had requested had been delivered and plopped into their new home; the large glass container in the back of the salon.  At 9am that morning, it would appear the first to try the treatment …well …came a bit of a cropper. The paramedic –who one had seen driving out of the village moments earlier - had advised Diana that the actual fish needed for the procedure were Garra Rufa …and not the Piranha that one’s specialist supplier had delivered. Who knew?

Anyhoo … as a result, poor Connie Candleshaft was no more but one thing’s for sure, with her constant diet of fatty foods and desserts, the little beggars must have certainly had a slap up meal!

“Honestly, Dame Crusty!” Wept Diana,”They ate practically everything …except her ring!(sniff)”

“Well who could blame them dear, with the number of Mustafa Sidoon’s kebabs she’s ate, it would have hardly been the tastiest part!”

It turns out, however, it was the nine carat gold puzzle ring she bought from Ratners some years ago. 

Wildlife at Breakfast

The fire cracked in the hearth like Dame Birley Shassey’s hips. The flickerations of orangey-yellow light danced across the walls of the room and glistened off one’s epidermal moisture. The gentle sounds of one’s dear twitterchum Holly Johnson’s voice filled the air from the Bang & Olufsen music system and a feeling of pure paradise welled up inside one’s elegant frame. One rubbed one’s oily palms together contentedly. Then, leaning forward and… just as one began to rub the warmed baby oil into the tanned, pert buttocks of one’s most treasured poppet, Jake Canuso … one woke up!

Chu Me had knocked on the door of one’s bedroom to bring one breakfast and this noise, that of his small hand upon one’s wooden door, had plucked one from one’s dreamy paradise.

One adjusted oneself into a seated position while Chu Me placed the breakfast tray on the table to the side of the bed. He plumped up one’s pillows so maximum comfort could be enjoyed. One settled back into their downy plumptiousness and looked at the exquisite array of bacon, sausage and egg one’s faithful houseboy had placed before one. Delicious!

One had just picked up one’s knife and fork when Chu Me shouted, “Peacock!”

Cutting through the thick rasher bacon one replied, “No, thank you dear. One doesn’t need one at the moment. Perhaps after some food and a cup of tea.”

He tugged at the sleeve of one’s nightdress. “Good Lord, Chu Me! One is not a machine. One can not just go at your beck and call!” It was then that one  looked at him and saw him  pointing – with his other hand – toward the window. There, behind the pane of glass, was indeed the face of one of the estate’s peacocks. It was quite amazing. 

One has often seen a peahen but ...goodness ... it has been a while since once saw a cock outside one's bedroom window!