Hooray Henrietta Gruffington-Gussetts

Hooray Henrietta Gruffington-Gussets came to visit her sister Fanny today. She rolled up in her Toyota Gorilla then proceeded to wrestle a small, rather odd looking pushchair which was covered over the front with a heavy black mesh from out of the boot

Hooray Hen is the younger sister of Lady F and has never married. She never got over her crush, nay complete utter heavenly adoration of the Gym mistress, Dorothy Dimwitty at St Pustule’s School for Silly Little Rich Girls. Hooray Hen was sent there as a boarder whilst the family concentrated on a suitable marriage for their eldest offspring, Lady F, who went to the more prestigious St. Rhubarb’s School for Young Ladies. Lady F was much more elegant, prettier and so much more refined than her tomboyish sister. Hen never really saw the attraction of boys.

St Pustule’s School for Silly Little Rich Girls was, despite its name and horrendous fees, very austere. All cold showers, porridge and jolly holly sticks. The gals there never shaved their armpits or their legs. I am quite amazed at Hen’s legs. I’m surprised she doesn’t moult, it’s almost like a pelt from her knees to her ankles.  

Hooray Hen doesn’t dress as elegantly as Lady F. She seems to favour Harris Tweed knickers, liberty bodices and an assortment of thrown together ensembles, rejects from the sale rail from the local charity shop. Finished off with rather clumpy, oversized walking boots that have seen far better days and smell like a camel has died in them, many years ago and is still festering away in them. She has an air of moth balls about her. Hooray Hen is rather loud. In fact we can hear her trumpeting from two counties away as she is rather deaf. We’d never lose her with all the noise she makes.  Skrowte rather kindly suggested to her that the perfume she wears is called ‘Evening on a Sewerage Farm.”

I don’t love Aunty Hooray’s pushchair, well what in inside it to be precise.

The dreaded pushchair was in the lounge with Aunty Hoo fussing over it and cooing. She lifted the heavy black mesh and unzipped the side then out plopped her two shit-zoo dogs. Fat, obese, waddling wobbly dogs with snotty eyes and snotty noses. And snotty bottoms. They both exude the dreadful smell of ancient mouldy, damp dogs. Clearly as well as deaf, Aunty Hoo has no sense of smell.

The cry went up from Lady F;

“Hoo let the dogs out?” as the doggy duo wobbled their way into the kitchen to harass Skrowte who detests them. They harass him for scraps and if none are forthcoming, they nip his ankles. I find this a great spectator sport and will follow at a safe distance to view the entertainment.

I love Aunty Hooray. She shops at Mogs and Sparklers and White-rose where she buys tins of organic tuna in springy water which she gives the Lady F to serve to me with my little silver fork when we have our monthly afternoon tea together. The two sisters sat on the battered old horsehair sofa with a tray of tea but instead of Master Kippled cherry bakewells on the porcelain cake stand, Skrowte has, for the past few weeks since the funeral, substituted them with Cherry Fakewells, from the ‘Everything’s a Quid’ shop where everything is just one squid. The gals were so busy chatting they didn’t notice the subtle change, no doubt all part of Skrowte’s masterplan to save money and line his own nest.

Afternoon tea over. Teaspoons all counted and correct as Hoo does a habit of ‘collecting’ things, Her police records officially call her little hobby ‘kleptomania’ or if she was a chav it would be listed as’ shop lifting’

The ladies said their good-bye’s and kissed each other. Then her ladyship went to the desk to catch up on correspondence as the shit-zoos were rounded up by Hooray Hen and herded towards the front door.

On the way out, the shit-zoos snapping at Skrowte’s heels, Hooray Henrietta turned to Skrowte and commented how well Lady F was looking, especially after the appalling, sudden loss of Sir Teddie.

“Never seems to age, my sister,” she trilled as eau de mothballs and damp dogs clogged his nostrils, as he held his handkerchief to his nose to prevent himself from gagging.

“Good breeding and gene pool, Modom,” Skrowte informed her politely.

“I quite agree, however, I’m thinking about having a teensy weeny spot of Botox. What do you think?” she coyly asked Skrowte.

“Honestly?” he asked, stifling a snigger.

“Oh yah,” she carried on, “Iron out the very tiny, itsy little wrinkles which I seem to see when I look very hard in the mirror, with my  extra strength spectacles on.”
 
“I think, Modom,” Skrowte began, as he examined the wrinkly face in front of him.  He restrained himself from commenting that it looked more like an ancient goat’s scrotum.

“I think, Modom,” he began again, “it’s an industrial panel beater you need,”  as he shut the door behind her and the stinking doggies.

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