The Tourists Cometh

Tomorrow there is an invasion. The hatches will be well and truly battened down. Supplies have been stockpiled. The tin hat is firmly placed upon my head. I intend to defend my pantry to the last round of ammunition. For tomorrow, a tour party will be wandering around the House. They arrive at 2pm and their tour will be conducted by Sir Geoffrey's archivist (a part-time position). I have a grim forboding about this event. This morning I spotted a raven of the most blackened hue at the very top of the Cedar Tree. It gave, what I could only ascertain to be, a look of warning. Surely this was a grim omen. Of course it could be that the bird was looking for worms and saw me only as a distraction, but that is neither here nor there.

Members of the public tend to wander. They see a tour party as something a little similar to Colditz. It is their duty to escape using any means necessary. I can assure you it can be very disconcerting when cleaning the Georgian candelabra to look up and find a complete stranger, camera dangling around the neck, gazing at you with a look of intense curiosity. You feel like the depressed gorilla at the zoo. It is not a pleasant feeling.

Below Stairs is not part of the tour. The tour contains wondrous rooms full of baroque carving and remarkable early 17th century ceilings. It is a rare chance to view the state rooms of Carstone House. It is not an excuse to stray into the Pantry and jab the butler with a pointy stick hoping he will do tricks.

Robert, the Hall Boy, looks tired again this morning. His gloom continues. He now has a little of Jean Paul Sartre about him. I will not mention anything to him. If he has again stayed up to watch the cricket, the poor lad has suffered enough.