because it might be Jonathan, and…
“Miss Mayford, she just won’t do,” Mrs. Granville-Seymour booms down the telephone line at me.
Another exception to current quietness is the job, or should I say honor, of babysitting Maximillion d’Or, a colorpoint red point Persian cat, belonging to Mrs. Hermione Granville-Seymour of Kensington Place.
“But—” I thought it was all arranged, I don’t quite manage to say.
Mrs. Granville-Seymour and her lady companion are flying off to Aspen, or similar, for her annual New Year get-together with old school chums, and her current agency just couldn’t provide satisfaction.
This could be our entrée into the world of rich people’s pets! You wouldn’t believe just how extensive is the need for pet minders, or poop scoopers, or dog walkers in the hallowed halls of the rich within the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. And if we can give satisfaction to “dear Maxie’s” owner, Mrs. Granville-Seymour will talk about us to her rich friends, who will also consider switching to Odd Jobs for their pet-caring needs.
“I just don’t feel quite right about her now. I just don’t think she’s fully committed to dear Maxie,” Mrs. G-S booms again.
I’m more than a bit cross about this, because I lined up aselection of perfectly good people with cat experience from whom Mrs. Granville-Seymour could select “dear Maxie’s” perfect carer.
Each candidate was required to spend a morning or afternoon getting to know dear Maxie and to learn about his needs. (Talking to him, playing with him, watching TV with him, listening to music with him—the list goes on.)
Unfortunately, I thought Mrs. G-S had settled on Claire, who is a very nice med student in need of some extra cash over the holidays, and Mrs. G-S is paying very, very well. Unfortunate, because Claire, it seems, wants her fiancé to spend New Year at Mrs. G-S’s with her and dear Maxie (I mean, the cheek of the girl, wanting to see in the New Year with more than just a cat for company), and Mrs. G-S doesn’t want a stranger in her home getting up to, well, whatever she thinks Claire’s fiancé, also a med student, will get up to. Playing doctors, possibly? Oh, I didn’t mean to think about doctors….
And despite reassurances from Claire that she’s prepared to continue with the arrangement sans her fiancé, Mrs. G-S does not, now, trust her to keep her fiancé at bay.
And so, on Christmas Eve, Mrs. G-S has decided to change her mind, as is her prerogative, of course, because the client is always right.
“Dear Maxie just didn’t take to any of the rest of the candidates, and time is running out, Miss Mayford.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Granville-Seymour, I really do,” I soothe her, completely hiding my crossness as I wrack my brain for another possibility.
But I’ve sent all of my best people to her already. Mrs. G-S is leaving on December thirtieth, which means that I have six days, excluding tomorrow, which is Christmas Day, also excluding the following three days because they incorporate Boxing Day and the weekend, to find a replacement.
Which means, in effect, that I have this afternoon and next Monday, only, to get someone in place.
“Let me run through our books, make a few phone calls and get back to you,” I tell her with a sense of impending lost-rich-pet doom.
“I personally feel that someone of an educationally higher level would be more appropriate,” Mrs. G-S booms, and I’m thinking, Why? Because looking after a cat isn’t exactly brain surgery, is it?
Oh, I didn’t mean to think about brain surgery, because that, inevitably, reminds me of doctors again…
“Dear Maxie is such an intelligent darling,” Mrs. G-S continues. “He needs intelligent conversation.”
But Maxie doesn’t speak English. I mean, how ridiculous is it? Surely the woman isn’t crackers enough to be suggesting that only a degree-level person could possibly handle caring for dear Maxie?
“I
“Miss Mayford, she just won’t do,” Mrs. Granville-Seymour booms down the telephone line at me.
Another exception to current quietness is the job, or should I say honor, of babysitting Maximillion d’Or, a colorpoint red point Persian cat, belonging to Mrs. Hermione Granville-Seymour of Kensington Place.
“But—” I thought it was all arranged, I don’t quite manage to say.
Mrs. Granville-Seymour and her lady companion are flying off to Aspen, or similar, for her annual New Year get-together with old school chums, and her current agency just couldn’t provide satisfaction.
This could be our entrée into the world of rich people’s pets! You wouldn’t believe just how extensive is the need for pet minders, or poop scoopers, or dog walkers in the hallowed halls of the rich within the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. And if we can give satisfaction to “dear Maxie’s” owner, Mrs. Granville-Seymour will talk about us to her rich friends, who will also consider switching to Odd Jobs for their pet-caring needs.
“I just don’t feel quite right about her now. I just don’t think she’s fully committed to dear Maxie,” Mrs. G-S booms again.
I’m more than a bit cross about this, because I lined up aselection of perfectly good people with cat experience from whom Mrs. Granville-Seymour could select “dear Maxie’s” perfect carer.
Each candidate was required to spend a morning or afternoon getting to know dear Maxie and to learn about his needs. (Talking to him, playing with him, watching TV with him, listening to music with him—the list goes on.)
Unfortunately, I thought Mrs. G-S had settled on Claire, who is a very nice med student in need of some extra cash over the holidays, and Mrs. G-S is paying very, very well. Unfortunate, because Claire, it seems, wants her fiancé to spend New Year at Mrs. G-S’s with her and dear Maxie (I mean, the cheek of the girl, wanting to see in the New Year with more than just a cat for company), and Mrs. G-S doesn’t want a stranger in her home getting up to, well, whatever she thinks Claire’s fiancé, also a med student, will get up to. Playing doctors, possibly? Oh, I didn’t mean to think about doctors….
And despite reassurances from Claire that she’s prepared to continue with the arrangement sans her fiancé, Mrs. G-S does not, now, trust her to keep her fiancé at bay.
And so, on Christmas Eve, Mrs. G-S has decided to change her mind, as is her prerogative, of course, because the client is always right.
“Dear Maxie just didn’t take to any of the rest of the candidates, and time is running out, Miss Mayford.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Granville-Seymour, I really do,” I soothe her, completely hiding my crossness as I wrack my brain for another possibility.
But I’ve sent all of my best people to her already. Mrs. G-S is leaving on December thirtieth, which means that I have six days, excluding tomorrow, which is Christmas Day, also excluding the following three days because they incorporate Boxing Day and the weekend, to find a replacement.
Which means, in effect, that I have this afternoon and next Monday, only, to get someone in place.
“Let me run through our books, make a few phone calls and get back to you,” I tell her with a sense of impending lost-rich-pet doom.
“I personally feel that someone of an educationally higher level would be more appropriate,” Mrs. G-S booms, and I’m thinking, Why? Because looking after a cat isn’t exactly brain surgery, is it?
Oh, I didn’t mean to think about brain surgery, because that, inevitably, reminds me of doctors again…
“Dear Maxie is such an intelligent darling,” Mrs. G-S continues. “He needs intelligent conversation.”
But Maxie doesn’t speak English. I mean, how ridiculous is it? Surely the woman isn’t crackers enough to be suggesting that only a degree-level person could possibly handle caring for dear Maxie?
“I
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