Mrs Curmudgeonly, The Right Reverend, Reverend Curmudgeonly’s wife arrived in a froth of 1970’s Crimplene and a cloud of old altar wine wearing  a rather battered hat with a veil and squashed feathers, and clutching a cluster of crinkled paperwork. A rather shabby but very rotund lady, she stood, determined, on the doorstep of Gripewater Grange.

Her mission? To ensure that her ‘dearest friend’ Lady Fanny Fart Trumpington Trubshaw was in fine fettle and getting over the grieving process after the sudden and desperately sad loss of her husband. Of course, if there was anything, absolutely anything, she could do to ease the pain then Lady Fanny only had to say and she would be there for her to comfort and enclose her in hugs of affection (and then pass on any snippets to all and sundry in the village of Little Sozzlebury who cared to listen).

Her real aim, however was to squirm her way into Lady F’s circle, thus getting one over Mrs Snottington-Periwinkle, head of the local Genteel Ladies of Lower Sozzlebury Union, with whom Mrs Curmudgeonly had been daggers drawn ever since Mrs Snottingham Periwinkle decreed, nay trumpeted rather loudly in front of the entire village, that green mould was not an essential ingredient of strawberry jam during the judging session of the ‘Ladies of Sozzlebury Local Jam Making Jamboree’ at the summer fete.

Mrs Curmudgeonly had hoped, as indeed every unannounced visit brought hope, that she would be invited, arms open with welcome, into Gripewater Grange for a superb afternoon tea with Master Kippled assorted cakes and dainties along with tea from Fartnums served by the butler on finest china. To date this had never happened, as her Ladyship was always either on the verge of just going out or about to welcome guests, which sadly meant that Mrs Curmudgeonly was always bustled out before she had so much as put a battered charity shop shoe over the threshold.

This day, Mrs Curmudgeonly brought great news, which she was desperate to impart to Lady F. The Headmaster and children of The Archbishop Cardinal ASBO School in Lower Sozzlebury were going to give a concert in remembrance of Sir Teddie Trumpington Trubshaw (at this stage she was all overcome and blushing like a schoolgirl at the mention of Tiger’s name).

Lady Fanny accepted her invitation with great grace as Skrowte attempted to evict Mrs Curmudgeonly before she could reach the lounge and plonk her very large bottom down on the horsehair sofa. If that happened she would be there all afternoon gossiping away in a rather put upon pseudo-posh accent, as she would then list every demeanour and grudge she personally held, and which she felt the entire village was in full support of her cause, against Mrs Snottingham-Periwinkle, the demon dragon of the Genteel Ladies of Lower Sozzlebury Union.

She dropped her umbrella with such a clatter onto the antique tiles floor in the hallway which spooked me and had me running, ears back with fright, outside to get away from her. I am sure this was the true aim of Lady Fanny as Mrs Curmudgeonly was known as a crashing bore.

“Do bring your friends Chulls and Flip,” she trilled. “The more the merrier, and of course don’t forget wallets and credit cards as it will all be in a good cause, we are raising money to erect a plaque in memory of Sir Trumpington Trubshaw, to be hung, in perpetuity, in the ladies loo at the Archbishop Cardinal ASBO School.”

By now Skrowte had got Mrs Curmudgeonly almost in a firm armlock and had turned her round to face the driveway as he was forcefully escorting her off the premises whilst she was still in full flow.

She looked at Skrowte with almost seducing eyes and told him.

“My granddaughter told me I’ve got hairy ears. I told her when you get to be as old as me it grows in places you don’t want it to be.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to tell her you were a Hobbit,” Skrowte growled as he firmly slammed the door behind her.

 

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