Mrs Malaprop writes:
Dame Barbara and Miss Marple having awoken from their slumbers, they were escorted by Anticant and Ben to the dining room, where my best culinary efforts awaited them. To commence, Potage Zola, a weird concoction of yellow peas, mint, carrots, meat, and Marmite with Guinness, which the Finnish Gordon Ramsay had assured Anticant was “delicious” and a prime favourite at his
To follow, Roast Best End of Elk – another Maison Zola speciality, garnished with seakale and mashed potatoes. After chewing her first mouthful for five minutes, Dame Barbara observed somewhat grimly “If this is the Best End, I have no wish to become acquainted with the Scrag End!” I hastily substituted my own speciality, lobster champagne soufflé, for her ladyship.
Finally, Knickerbocker Glory, in honour of Ms. Lavenderblue, who, I am assured by Ben and the Beadle, is always glorious with or without knickerbockers.
During the meal, Dame Barbara confided that she had abandoned her ‘72 Virgins’ project, because so many frustrated young women were bound to squabble in an unseemly manner like a bag of Kilkenny cats and she would have had to wrestle with the dialogue. She had therefore reverted to an older project, ‘The Petulant Princess’, which did not call for any imagination in plotting, as there were abundant examples to hand.
Suddenly Miss Marple, who had been sitting quietly throughout the Dame’s discourse, jumped up saying “Good heavens! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”, and ran from the room. She soon returned, looking glum. “Wooffie has disappeared”, she cried, “and Dame Barbara’s jewel box has vanished with him.” “Do not be alarmed”, Dame Barbara responded. “Dear Wooffie is competing this evening in the annual St. Bernard’s Waltzing competition, and I promised he could wear my pearls for the event. No doubt he will bring them back safe and sound before the clock strikes midnight.”
“She has fewer doubts than I have”, murmured the Beadle.
6 comments:
I do hope St Bernard Manning is not being trashed here because I know that he had little or nothing to do with the Diana marbles.
HOW do you know? It sounds suspiciously as if you were involved in purloining Diana's marbles - on the dubious assumption that she had any in the first place.
Miss Marple had better investigate.
Just tap yer feet Missi and I'll come running.
Todeloo.
Be careful about tapping your foot - you never know who it may be you are tapping, Mr. Page tells me.
Probably some born-again Republican Senator.
This type of investigation is quite beyond the scope of a prim spinster such as myself.
I suggest you engage the services of the Merkin Lurkin and Gotcha private detective agency.
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