A Week Of Calm

Another few days drift by without a post. Oh dear. It seems to have become more of a journal than a diary. Nevertheless, onwards and upwards, what is past is past, etc etc.

Not an awful lot has happened since I last posted an entry here. We have had a quiet week. It is sometimes the way after a large event like the Monarch's Ball, that Carstone House, like a middle-aged former athlete, now finds that it needs to catch its breath after such an exertion.

Sunday will see the return of Mr Miles, who is entertaining some literary friends; the publication of his book of verse 'The Salmon' is imminent. My Master Sir Geoffrey is not particularly looking forward to this event, and he will try to stay out of the way as much as possible. To him, any poetry written after Alfred, Lord Tennyson died is just plain balderdash and totally incomprehensible. Lady Carstone will play hostess, which she will do with some aplomb.

I am on the hunt today for a new hammer for the dinner gong. I am afraid the old one snapped yesterday evening. The details of which I would rather not go into.