blog-readers – can that sort of thing really be what the viewing public desires? (Note to Gaynor, I believe in transparency, so anything you say to me might appear in this e-diary).
I shall return to this page anon, to keenly read your answers – and ponder your reactions to tonight’s footage.
Thank you for your attention.
Chapter 7
Shouldn’t I be the angry one, dear Uncle, because you didn’t know about my terrible childhood accident? For most of my formative years (yes, cool phrase off Lady C) I’d been in a coma. So excuse me if I didn’t know all your ancestral anecdotes…
*Sigh* - I kind of guessed that such an excuse wouldn’t stick. Plus I couldn’t face making up any more big lies. Who could blame the Earl for being mad? I hadn’t even recognized my supposed granddad. So, instead, on the way back along the corridor, past the portraits, I simply mumbled to the Earl about the teenage years being ‘difficult’. I explained that most of what my father said went in one of my petulant ears and straight out the other. For some reason – thank goodness—this tickled his humour. From what the Earl remembered, his brother could have broken any Guinness World Record for non-stop waffling.
Just as we headed downstairs to the Parlour, Edward joined us, having quickly updated his blog. I’d read a snitch last night. Talk about conscientious! Clearly he saw it as his duty to reply to almost every comment—which was kind of cute. I couldn’t believe he thought me, acting as Abbey, spontaneous. Blimey, he’d have fifty fits if he met the real Gemma! And, as for his rambling, well – bravo Edward, for trying to convince people that you and I were close and you really cared about my fall. Anyway, then we chatted about the upcoming screening. My stomach twisted a little as I considered important questions, like did the camera really put on ten pounds and would High Definition telly magnify any old acne scars?
We reached the first floor, crossed a long corridor over to the left side of the house and entered the Parlour, which was nothing like I’d expected – much more modern, in fact homely, with Mr Thompson drinking tea on an ottoman-style pouf and Kathleen and Jean chilled on a cosy mustard sofa. Nick sat on the floor, in between their legs. Opposite them was a slimline telly, with a laptop on a desk next to that. The room was well lit, with a real fire as well. Newspapers and magazines were piled up on a low coffee table in the middle of the room, next to a teapot and cups and a plate of yummy-looking biscuits. There was wood-panelling on the bottom half of the walls, the top half painted a warm orangey-red. The Earl sat down in a high-backed terracotta armchair to the right of the telly and was already puffing on his pipe.
The cook got up to pour us tea but Edward shooed her back to her seat.
‘You’re not on duty Sunday evenings, Kathleen,’ he said, while pointing me to the space next to her on the sofa. ‘You put your feet up and let me hand around these delightful biscuits.’
The cook nodded her appreciation and untied her floral apron. Nick looked up and winked at me – I smiled, sat down neatly, knees together, hands in my lap, wishing I could get really comfy and tuck my legs under my bum. Edward passed me a cup and rested next to me on the sofa’s wide arm, then Kathleen turned down the telly and we chatted about how the weekend had gone – and what the week ahead might have in store. My chest tightened after some chat about tomorrow’s unveiling of the Applebridge Food Academy and my first lesson. I really was going to be teaching. There was no backing out now.
Another cup of tea later, Edward was just about to go over some boring health and safety message about lapel mics again when (thank God) Nick jumped up, turned up the telly volume and, from the screen, Charlie’s familiar voice shouted out:
‘Welcome, folks, to the final two weeks of Million Dollar Mansion . Put up your
I shall return to this page anon, to keenly read your answers – and ponder your reactions to tonight’s footage.
Thank you for your attention.
Chapter 7
Shouldn’t I be the angry one, dear Uncle, because you didn’t know about my terrible childhood accident? For most of my formative years (yes, cool phrase off Lady C) I’d been in a coma. So excuse me if I didn’t know all your ancestral anecdotes…
*Sigh* - I kind of guessed that such an excuse wouldn’t stick. Plus I couldn’t face making up any more big lies. Who could blame the Earl for being mad? I hadn’t even recognized my supposed granddad. So, instead, on the way back along the corridor, past the portraits, I simply mumbled to the Earl about the teenage years being ‘difficult’. I explained that most of what my father said went in one of my petulant ears and straight out the other. For some reason – thank goodness—this tickled his humour. From what the Earl remembered, his brother could have broken any Guinness World Record for non-stop waffling.
Just as we headed downstairs to the Parlour, Edward joined us, having quickly updated his blog. I’d read a snitch last night. Talk about conscientious! Clearly he saw it as his duty to reply to almost every comment—which was kind of cute. I couldn’t believe he thought me, acting as Abbey, spontaneous. Blimey, he’d have fifty fits if he met the real Gemma! And, as for his rambling, well – bravo Edward, for trying to convince people that you and I were close and you really cared about my fall. Anyway, then we chatted about the upcoming screening. My stomach twisted a little as I considered important questions, like did the camera really put on ten pounds and would High Definition telly magnify any old acne scars?
We reached the first floor, crossed a long corridor over to the left side of the house and entered the Parlour, which was nothing like I’d expected – much more modern, in fact homely, with Mr Thompson drinking tea on an ottoman-style pouf and Kathleen and Jean chilled on a cosy mustard sofa. Nick sat on the floor, in between their legs. Opposite them was a slimline telly, with a laptop on a desk next to that. The room was well lit, with a real fire as well. Newspapers and magazines were piled up on a low coffee table in the middle of the room, next to a teapot and cups and a plate of yummy-looking biscuits. There was wood-panelling on the bottom half of the walls, the top half painted a warm orangey-red. The Earl sat down in a high-backed terracotta armchair to the right of the telly and was already puffing on his pipe.
The cook got up to pour us tea but Edward shooed her back to her seat.
‘You’re not on duty Sunday evenings, Kathleen,’ he said, while pointing me to the space next to her on the sofa. ‘You put your feet up and let me hand around these delightful biscuits.’
The cook nodded her appreciation and untied her floral apron. Nick looked up and winked at me – I smiled, sat down neatly, knees together, hands in my lap, wishing I could get really comfy and tuck my legs under my bum. Edward passed me a cup and rested next to me on the sofa’s wide arm, then Kathleen turned down the telly and we chatted about how the weekend had gone – and what the week ahead might have in store. My chest tightened after some chat about tomorrow’s unveiling of the Applebridge Food Academy and my first lesson. I really was going to be teaching. There was no backing out now.
Another cup of tea later, Edward was just about to go over some boring health and safety message about lapel mics again when (thank God) Nick jumped up, turned up the telly volume and, from the screen, Charlie’s familiar voice shouted out:
‘Welcome, folks, to the final two weeks of Million Dollar Mansion . Put up your
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