My Barsetshire Diary
The Daily Events of the Gentry Recorded for Posterity
By Lord David Prosser
Copyright @ 2011, David Prosser
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Title: My Barsetshire Diary: The Daily Events of the Gentry Recorded for Posterity
Date of Publication: 2011
This book is dedicated to Julia and Yvonne,
who allowed me to distort their real nature
I would like to offer thanks to:
Ilil, for her faith, her encouragement,
the editing and the constant nagging
Lis, who made me pause and stop in the right places
Baron John and Muriel, just for being there
Cassidy's and Butterfly's, when surfacing
for food and drink.
Oscar, for sometimes letting me use
his chair to write in
Joey, for the hours of entertainment
and for being the only one on my side
Pilgrim, for taking Julia's time and thus
allowing me to smoke in peace as I write
And in memory of
Lynda, who would have laughed
Copy editing by Elisabeth Eastwood
Table of Contents
Introduction by Ilil Arbel
Preface: How the odd update from modern day Barsetshire had begun. By Lord David Prosser
Saturday, July 17, 2010
5:30 a.m. In the Height of Summer
Sunday, July 18, 2010
The Nieces Arrive
Monday, July 19, 2010
Joey Has a Ball
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Baron Descends
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Ysabel's Shopping Expedition
Thursday, July 22, 2010
The Furniture Removal
Friday, July 23, 2010
A Fitness Programme
Saturday, July 24, 2010
A Fête Worse Than Death
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Wages of Sin
Monday, July 26, 2010
An Arresting Day
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Ugly Tree
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Concert
Thursday, July 29, 2010
The Funeral
Friday, July 30, 2010
The Robbery
Saturday, July 31, 2010
The Alien
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Car Boot Sale
Monday, August 2, 2010
The League of Fiends
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Did I Buy This?
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The Dentist
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Blood Pressure and a Diet
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Quiz
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Edna and the Germans
Epilogue
Introduction
By Ilil Arbel
In the beginning, Anthony Trollope created Barsetshire and its cathedral city, Barchester. He devoted six novels to this mythical place, and while many readers prefer his Palliser novels, others are adamant that his large body of work contains nothing as fine as the Barchester novels. The final Barchester novel, The Last Chronicle of Barset, was published in 1867, when Trollope, apparently, stopped visiting his favorite shire because of an unpleasant conversation he had overheard about their quality. Silence reigned for many years, with only one small interruption in 1935 by a set of short stories written by Ronald Knox, a clerical gentleman who loved Barsetshire. The book was not a great success but is still available through various booksellers.
About sixty years after Trollope’s death, a new and major voice brought Barsetshire back to life. Angela Thirkell, a fascinating writer who was connected to such luminaries as Edward Burne-Jones and Rudyard Kipling, decided to return to the mythical county and allow the descendants of Trollope’s characters to live there. She wrote other books, but her thirty or so Barchester novels are her best work. She started at 1933 with High Rising, and her last book, Three Score and Ten, which was completed by Caroline Alice Lejeune, was published in 1961. Her books were enormously popular in all English speaking countries, and even today there are two thriving Angela Thirkell Societies, one in England and one in North America.
In 2007, I was asked to write the first sequels to Angela Thirkell by the North American Society. Two books were published, now available on the Society’s web site. I did not dare to write about the modern descendants, for the simple reason that I do not live in England and do not know the modern lifestyle. Therefore, I wrote a sort of “prequels” that took place in 1954 and 1955. And there the matter stood until recently, when through a strange set of circumstances, I met David Prosser, Lord of the Manor of Bouldnor. Lord David and I corresponded on unrelated business matters, but somehow or other we came to discuss the Angela Thirkell Society and my own sequels, and I told him about my reluctance to write about modern Barsetshire.
Suddenly, out of the blue, I received the first segment regarding Lord David’s life in modern Barsetshire. I was amazed, since I knew he had never read any of her books – but here were the English summers, the necessary woolen clothes, village entertainment, agricultural competitions, fêtes, runaway bulls, and Slavic girl singers. How could this be? When I asked Lord David, he explained that the Welsh village where he lives has much in common with the type of life described by Angela Thirkell, and before her, by Anthony Trollope. It became clear that a book was needed, and that Lord David had to be persuaded into writing it. Interestingly, the length of time that has passed between the last book of Angela Thirkell and Lord David’s book, and that between Angela Thirkell and Trollope, is very much the same.
I am happy to present the new Barchester story to new readers in all English speaking countries. It is a charming, very funny book, full of fascinating characters of both Upstairs and Downstairs, family, friends, animal companions who demand their place in the sun, and interesting spots where one can shop or have a good cup of tea. Our intrepid hero moves among phantasmagoric images, unperturbed by all who assail him, navigating the ever present, comic obstacles with good nature but a strong mind of his own. The book is highly original, but its delightful humor brings to mind a charming glimpse of a character worthy of a P.G. Wodehouse novel, mixed with touches of a mature, but still somewhat innocent Candide.
Ilil Arbel
2011
Preface:
How the odd update from modern day Barsetshire had begun
By Lord David Prosser
In this changing world I think it necessary to record my daily events for posterity. Generations to come should know how the gentry live and behave so that they can emulate us to the best of their ability.
Long Live the Empire!
January 18, 1991
I had just celebrated my 40th birthday when the call came. I was to attend the office of my solicitor at 12.00 o'clock promptly. I had recently heard that my father’s mother's brother's son, who I think is my second cousin, or is it first cousin once remove
d? was ill. His name was Enoch (pronounced Enock rather than Ee nock as some say) and I had never met him. It may be that I was needed to make the funeral arrangements.
I arrived promptly as I know Mr. Figg-Newton is a stickler for punctuality. He was in the reception area waiting for me and ushered me into his room.
"Well Mr. Prosser", he said. "What are we to do? That little bump your wife had in the car last week has caused a furore as the woman she hit is the wife of the local mayor. She has suggested that the damages are tremendous and wants to take the case to court. What do you want me to do?"
"Mr Figg-Newton", I responded. "I want you to accept that my wife was not responsible for the accident as our vehicle was not actually moving at the time, as we were parked up in an official space in the car park. I should also point out that though the mayoress smashed our rear light, all she sustained was a scratch along her car".
"I see", said Mr Figg-Newton. "So her claim that her front light and bumper were damaged is untrue?"
"Indeed", I said. "She has probably had another accident since ours the way she drives and the other party is asking for the damage to be repaired".
The following day Mr Figg-Newton's secretary phoned again and asked me to attend at 12 o'clock. I expected him to tell me he'd need a statement about the accident for court.
When I arrived I was again met by him but his greeting was a little different. "Please enter and sit sir", he instructed me. I did so.
"You may be aware your relative has been ill”, he said and I nodded. "It's my duty to tell you he has passed over, My Lord", he said.
"My Lord, Mr Figg-Newton? What's that about?"
Mr Figg-Newton told me my cousin had been Lord of the Manor of Bouldnor, and because he had not appointed a successor, the title now passed to me as the eldest male heir. I was flabbergasted, and after receiving a written document from him to confirm I had received the title, got up to leave and tell Julia. Just before I left he called me back a moment. "By the way", he said, “you can forget the accident. When I phoned the mayoress I accidentally called you Lord Prosser, and the woman, Edna something, told me to forget it, she would pay for the repairs herself. Quite a good news day all round for you".
Saturday, July 17, 2010
5:30 a.m. in the height of summer.
I awoke to a curtain of rain surrounding the house leaving me to wonder if there is any such thing as a summer in the UK.
After a breakfast consisting of a gallon of coffee Her Ladyship went off to the livery stable to see to her horse and to check if a barbecue to which we had been invited was still on. This left me free to concentrate on answering my mail which generally means writing to a series of companies confirming that NO, I do not actually require incontinence pads, hernia belts or the latest aid in the war against senility yet.
12.30 pm and the sun peeped out to let us know it existed here even though it had sent all its warmth to Florida. Lady Julia returned to let me know that not only was the barbecue still on but that I needed my winter woollies as I was to be treated to a display of musical dressage by the Curmudgeonly, Armed to the Teeth, Slavic Girl Guides Unit, or some such. I feared it may turn into Singing in the Rain after checking the forecast.
In the meantime, knowing the vagaries of the British weather and our inability to master a BBQ without the Services of a Minister at a cremation, I suggested we lunch in town.
True to form we parked in a convenient spot and ventured into the High Street where we were confronted by what appeared to be Armageddon. There were uniforms from the Army, Navy and Air Force, there were police cars, ambulances and a tank. Having revived me with the kiss of life, Lady Julia informed me it was just the Forces Day parade showing off their skills.
Our regular cafe found us a table and we settled down to order. This particular cafe uses extremely large cups which we have nicknamed buckets, so when a young waitress came to take the order I requested "A bucket for my wife and I'll have a tea please". It seemed that there was consternation written across her face until I realised that she was a new Saturday girl and had no idea what a bucket was… however there was some amusement at a nearby table as Julia was still in stable clothes.
We ordered her a chicken dinner and for myself a plate of cholesterol. After all the ambulance service was at one of the tables so I would be OK.
Lunch came and was proceeding swimmingly until Lady Julia tried to pierce a particularly recalcitrant piece of cauliflower. In doing so, a proportion of the remaining veg swept over the pristine tablecloth.
My call of "Excuse me young lady, my wife has pea-ed on the tablecloth", did not help when the aforementioned ambulance service broke into laughter. Julia's colour rose rapidly and I winced from the kick on the shin my remark had earned me.
I successfully paid and we left to smiles all round. We reached the car without further incident and returned home where I patiently waited until it was time to leave…
5.30 pm. The time had come. Fortunately it was dry out so despite that fact that it was minus 20 I wore a short sleeved shirt. However for safety's sake I wrapped a coat round my waist. I was tempted to suggest Her Ladyship would be better not wearing white on a trip to the stables but after my earlier slight hiccough in the cafe I decided that discretion was the better part of valour. In fact I even put two small apples in the pocket of my coat in case we should visit Pilgrim in his stable… this was an error as I discovered as I sat on them in the car.
We arrived safely at 5.45 pm as the flow of traffic had been steady and the lights in our favour all the way. Was this a sign that all would be well? Read on…
Pilgrim enjoyed both the unexpected visit and the apples. He made no comment on their slightly odd shape or their unexpected warmth from my posterior. He actually made such short work of them that I counted my fingers after passing mine over. Lady Julia fed hers and was left with a handful of grateful slobber. I knew my luck had held when she forbore wiping it on me. This was probably due to the punishment she knew I was due to suffer.
I must point out, dear reader, that I find horses to be beautiful animals but that Her Ladyship is actually the fan in the family. My field of interest seems to be staring incredulously at the bills for feed, tack and housing etc. However I digress…
At 6.00 pm on the dot the musical fiesta started. We fans of such extravaganzas leant on the fence with a smile to watch the proceedings. Actually it was more of a grimace on my part and that was frozen to my face by the fierce northerly gale from Siberia. Lady Julia took pity on me and brought me from the direction of the sump of an old clapped-out lorry something that resembled used engine oil that she assured me was coffee. At this point I must say that if it was coffee, then the Trade Description Act is very lax on this point. However I did manage to peel my fingers off the fence long enough for my shaking hands to froth it up ready for drinking.
The display over, we retired to the kitchen area for drinks and nibbles. There was no sign of the promised BBQ and no smell either. This of course could have been a godsend anyway. The kitchen, a room smaller than the inside of our oven, was filled with people standing cheek to jowl and straining to lift their arms in unison. It was never going to happen. The best we could manage was staggered drinking. To show how brave I actually am, I asked for another coffee. At least they won't have to preserve my stomach at death, it's already done. I looked for the nibbles and spotted a bowl containing nachos on the small side table. Now I knew I was in sophisticated company I would have to behave correctly. Lady Julia dutifully introduced me around. “Bransgore dear, this is my husband David. Diptheria, my sweet, this is David…” I knew at this rate it would soon be Sunday.
“Excuse me”, I said. "Hello everyone, I'm David, pleased to meet you". You see how organised is the male brain?
Everyone stopped talking and attempted to thrust drinks and dishes at me all at the same time. Another mistake as there was so little space they all jostled each other and we soon stood in about three inches of various drink
s. Perhaps individual introductions are best.
Flagging by now I suggested that we leave. Malnutrition was setting in and the nachos, though looking older than me, were beginning to look more wholesome. Sense prevailing, we walked to the doorway before we turned to say goodbye. At least I had space to wave now.
As we reached the car I saw people spilling out of the building, hands wrapped round steaming beefburgers that had just been made.
Resigned by now to my fate, I remained in the car and we came home to an unseen episode of X-Files, a real coffee and an egg custard.
Maybe the day wasn't so bad after all.
My Barsetshire Diary (The Barsetshire Diaries Book 1) Page 1