Veronica here! LOL! You are such a rude bunch here! You're like a gathering of depraved toothless hillbillies from the Ozarks, as I imagine them in my mind's eye. Aunt Penelope looked at some of your postings, gave a disgusted snort and toss of her lovely head and marched out of the room. On her way to do something "more interesting", I expect. She has been moody lately, and getting in rows with Uncle Winston over really nothing at all, and then the next day before you know it they're all lovey-dovey again, apparently. Aunt Penelope has a way of always getting what she wants, but then she finds out it really isn't exactly what she wants after all.

I could say the same. I think it runs in the family.

At any rate, I have been having a simply smashing time racing about in my gorgeous zebra-striped car, the Porsche! (Hmm... Well, perhaps "smashing" is not the best word to use in this case.) It goes like a rocket, la, la...up hill and down dale at an incredible speed...causing astonishment and consternation to the sleepy bucolic locals hereabouts. I caused a farmer's horse to panic the other day and pull the poor man's cart, which was loaded with barrels of something, off the road into a bog! What a scene! He used some very colourful language of a type not proper to a lady, and I hope he finds a quiet moment or two to repent of that, and perhaps send a written apology round to Rutledge House. One really should not have to listen to such language on a sunny day. It spoils the whole effect. I mean, I understand the man was upset, but really...there are limits. People should learn some self-control in moments of stress.

Does anyone remember the parrot? Uncle Winston had made it the mascot over at the Vicar's Inn, where it entertained the gents in the pub nightly by swearing in the most dreadful and vituperous manner. As time went by this caused a certain deterioration in the atmosphere at the Inn, such that the more polite clientele abandoned the place and it became more and more a haunt of dissolute gentlemen of obvious means but very little character. Uncle Winston seems to be amused by such types, many of whom go on his hunting expeditions. One of them even got shot last week, but he survived. I think it was an accident.

Well, back to the bird...they had taken to giving the parrot strong liquor! This would cause him to become more raucous than ever, and to rave on madly, flapping his wings and breaking into the most filthy bawdy songs which these wretches had schooled him in. Aunt Penelople swore off going to the Inn because of this, saying it was a disgrace.

The upshot of the matter was that the poor bird apparently drank itself to death. One night in an alcoholic frenzy it had consumed several shot glasses of scotch whisky and was swaying back and forth on its perch, belting out one verse after another of "Barnacle Bill the Sailor", possibly the most obscene song in history. Suddenly the parrot stopped in mid-verse, made a strange sound, and fell off its perch! This was met by a roar of laughter from the audience, most of whom were as drunk as the bird, but their laughter soon turned to alarm when the parrot showed no signs of life. They rushed it over to the bar and attempted to revive it by fanning it. "Get back!" yelled Uncle Winston. "Give him air!" Then Bertie Matchless ran up with a shot glass of 150-year-old whisky, the best in the house, and said, "Try this! He'll come back from the dead for a shot of William Wallace '1855'.

It almost worked. They poured a teaspoon of the William Wallace, held it in front of the bird's beak and prayed silently....

The bird opened one eye blearily, fixed its reddened and failing gaze upon the William Wallace, and downed it in one last spasmodic effort, then shuddered and expired!

Uncle Winston says that at least he died happily.

I think it's terribly tragic. I bought flowers for poor Tony...the bird was named "Tony Blair" for some reason...and made a prayer for his little Avian soul. I dearly hope he doesn't go to hell, but I fear he shall, because he lived a very evil life, truth be told. Still, he was just a bird, and I don't think a bird should be held responsible for bad habits passed on to it by human beings. After all, we are stewards of these simple creatures and must bear the responsibility for them, just as we once did for the less sophisticated races around the Empire.

So, the human Tony Blair has outlived the bird. That, I think, is the most tragic part of all. We could have done far better with the bird, all things considered.

But...life goes on! I have had the servants wash and wax the car and I am planning to get a couple of girlfriends and go on a road trip. That should be great fun.

TTFN!

* Veronica