The Film Crew Cometh

It would appear that I am back in the blogging (the word still makes me shudder, even after all this time) saddle far sooner than I had anticipated. I am rather tentatively sat in the saddle, like a rider whose last horse fell at the first, but here I am.

The reason for this is simple. Tomorrow a film crew comes to Carstone House. Do not get me wrong: I am quite a fan of film crews in their natural habitat. A film crew cosily ensconced in a film studio can create magical things. A film crew in the Italian Drawing Room here at Carstone, on the other hand, sounds far more menacing. When Shakespeare wrote "All The World's A Stage" in Act 2 Scene 7 of As You Like It, I get the feeling that a few of these chaps took him literally. Not all of Carstone is a stage, and not all of Sir Geoffrey's furniture is to be used as film props. An eagle eye is required I believe.

They are due here at 9am tomorrow morning. The battlements may not be formidable enough to protect the old place. With a due sense of dread, I shall be updating this diary over the next few days.

This Abandoned Ruin Of A Blog

I wrote this originally as a message on the previous post (are you still with me? I confuse myself sometimes) but, for visitors who like to nip in, pop their heads around the door, and then depart, cursing the name of Fielding, and comparing it to all that is lazy, I hope the following will explain the abandonment of this blog.

It is rather a romantic ruin these days. Byron would have approved.

So, here is the explanation for those who might have missed it:

"Well, there is always hope. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood!

I began to neglect this blog after its original intention (a day-by-day, blow-by-blow, account of life at Carstone) proved to be difficult to maintain. There always seemed to be something keeping me away from my chronicle. Samuel Pepys probably had the same problem, but handled it in a far better way.

I'm not sure that anybody would really be interested in posts every few days, or every week, or so. It was the day-by-day details that I wanted to capture.

I was frustrated in this act by, as Harold Macmillan would have said, "events, dear boy, events!"