feet and enjoy an hour of swanky scenery, grand game-plans and blue-blooded banter. Head to head, it’s Marwick Castle and Applebridge Hall. Meet the families again. Enjoy their Chat with Chingo!’
‘Not much different on screen, is he?’ murmured Mr Thompson, still in his Sherlock Holmes hat, with his voice as deep as any bass instrument.
‘Maybe a bit more orange,’ said Jean and caught my gaze. We grinned at each other.
‘Super biscuits, Kathleen,’ I said in a muffled voice, crumbs of lemon loveliness tumbling from my lips. Crap – should’ve helped myself to a napkin.
‘Och, thank you, Miss, they were nae bother,’ she said. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the dishes you make in your cooking classes tomorrow. Applebridge Hall has only seen honest home cooking before, not haute cuisine.’
I gave a nervous giggle, hoping it would be mistaken for ladylike modesty and not ginormous stress. Tonight I would creep down to the cellars and go online to pick up more tips from Nigella and Delia on YouTube. For a few moments I ran through the recipes in my mind. They sounded simple enough. Perhaps I wouldn’t let anyone down.
I turned my attention back to the screen. Everyone was watching last night’s footage at Marwick Castle – a raucous hen party. Charlie Chingo explained how the Baron had spent his twenty-five thousand on kitting out the dungeons with water, lighting and heat. At first he stood by the entrance, just past the drawbridge, where there was a humongous stuffed grizzly bear. Charlie Chingo then made his way down to the dungeons. Women dressed up in tutus and Playboy ears shrieked with laughter as topless hunks brought food to the banquet table and topped up their wine glasses.
‘Classy,’ muttered Mr Thompson and wrinkled his nose.
Weapons better suited to any bondage den hung on the walls. A figure stood dressed in full armour. One of the women went to flash her boobs and, just in time, the camera panned away.
The old Earl puffed furiously on his pipe, while Nick had a grin on his face. Jean watched with her mouth open and Kathleen shook her fading red curls. The Baron sure had sexed up his place. As an expert on reality shows, I knew younger viewers would love this footage. Edward’s face was deadpan as Charlie Chingo went on to interview the Baron and his son, The Honourable Harry Gainsworth. I sipped my tea, trying to decide whose fake tan was loudest—Charlie’s or the Baron’s.
‘The Castle was built in the eleventh century, old boy,’ said the Baron, a grin on his face, his fingers and wrists showing off his clunky gold jewellery. ‘It was part of that William the Conqueror’s castle building plan. Steeped in history, this place is,’ he said and clapped Charlie on the back.
Okay, that all sounded sexy and romantic and from a distance the Castle was awesome, with its mahoosive grey stone walls, turrets and waving flags. A drawbridge crossed the moat and forest surrounded the whole place. Wow. It brought out all those basic instincts—women could fantasize about warriors with six-packs, while men imagined chucking spears and rescuing fair maidens.
‘My grandfather was a very successful industrialist,’ said the Baron and puffed out his chest. ‘And I think our plans for Marwick Castle prove that good business sense runs in the family.’
‘Too right, Dad,’ said Harry Gainsworth with a smirk, showing off his celebrity whitened teeth. ‘Your granddad bought this gaff in the Twenties, didn’t he?’
The Baron nodded. ‘Just after he was awarded the title of Baron of Marwick in 1920. Then he renamed this place and renovated the Castle. It was a right dump back then.’
The Earl snorted. ‘The government outlawed the awarding of titles in 1925. It’s an outrage. People should be born to their names, not buy them like a loaf of bread. And if the Baron was so jolly successful, he wouldn’t have needed to enter this competition.’ He muttered ‘pompous arse’
‘Not much different on screen, is he?’ murmured Mr Thompson, still in his Sherlock Holmes hat, with his voice as deep as any bass instrument.
‘Maybe a bit more orange,’ said Jean and caught my gaze. We grinned at each other.
‘Super biscuits, Kathleen,’ I said in a muffled voice, crumbs of lemon loveliness tumbling from my lips. Crap – should’ve helped myself to a napkin.
‘Och, thank you, Miss, they were nae bother,’ she said. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing the dishes you make in your cooking classes tomorrow. Applebridge Hall has only seen honest home cooking before, not haute cuisine.’
I gave a nervous giggle, hoping it would be mistaken for ladylike modesty and not ginormous stress. Tonight I would creep down to the cellars and go online to pick up more tips from Nigella and Delia on YouTube. For a few moments I ran through the recipes in my mind. They sounded simple enough. Perhaps I wouldn’t let anyone down.
I turned my attention back to the screen. Everyone was watching last night’s footage at Marwick Castle – a raucous hen party. Charlie Chingo explained how the Baron had spent his twenty-five thousand on kitting out the dungeons with water, lighting and heat. At first he stood by the entrance, just past the drawbridge, where there was a humongous stuffed grizzly bear. Charlie Chingo then made his way down to the dungeons. Women dressed up in tutus and Playboy ears shrieked with laughter as topless hunks brought food to the banquet table and topped up their wine glasses.
‘Classy,’ muttered Mr Thompson and wrinkled his nose.
Weapons better suited to any bondage den hung on the walls. A figure stood dressed in full armour. One of the women went to flash her boobs and, just in time, the camera panned away.
The old Earl puffed furiously on his pipe, while Nick had a grin on his face. Jean watched with her mouth open and Kathleen shook her fading red curls. The Baron sure had sexed up his place. As an expert on reality shows, I knew younger viewers would love this footage. Edward’s face was deadpan as Charlie Chingo went on to interview the Baron and his son, The Honourable Harry Gainsworth. I sipped my tea, trying to decide whose fake tan was loudest—Charlie’s or the Baron’s.
‘The Castle was built in the eleventh century, old boy,’ said the Baron, a grin on his face, his fingers and wrists showing off his clunky gold jewellery. ‘It was part of that William the Conqueror’s castle building plan. Steeped in history, this place is,’ he said and clapped Charlie on the back.
Okay, that all sounded sexy and romantic and from a distance the Castle was awesome, with its mahoosive grey stone walls, turrets and waving flags. A drawbridge crossed the moat and forest surrounded the whole place. Wow. It brought out all those basic instincts—women could fantasize about warriors with six-packs, while men imagined chucking spears and rescuing fair maidens.
‘My grandfather was a very successful industrialist,’ said the Baron and puffed out his chest. ‘And I think our plans for Marwick Castle prove that good business sense runs in the family.’
‘Too right, Dad,’ said Harry Gainsworth with a smirk, showing off his celebrity whitened teeth. ‘Your granddad bought this gaff in the Twenties, didn’t he?’
The Baron nodded. ‘Just after he was awarded the title of Baron of Marwick in 1920. Then he renamed this place and renovated the Castle. It was a right dump back then.’
The Earl snorted. ‘The government outlawed the awarding of titles in 1925. It’s an outrage. People should be born to their names, not buy them like a loaf of bread. And if the Baron was so jolly successful, he wouldn’t have needed to enter this competition.’ He muttered ‘pompous arse’
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