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September 11, 2000 |
Advice from Sir Charles Grandiose
presents
"The Lonely Life of a Baronet"
A devastatingly poetic poem by Sir Charles Grandiose, Bart.,
composed as the day went along its
weary course, to lend versimiliootysomething.
Readers mine, attend! Take heed
And readest thou this poetic screed
That's better far than than Byron, Mister
(It's rumored, you know, that he slept with his sister).
In time and adamant, my title's set:
"The Lonely Life of a Baronet."
Appreciate one's lonely days,
For Duty on my shoulder weighs.
Servants, family, readers, all
On one's services do call.
Determined to have what they can get
From the selfless life of a Baronet.
The servants dress one in the morn,
And make sure that one's jowls are shorn,
And bring one whiskey in a glass
So that the pain of the day will pass.
A secret nip, or she will fret--
That icy wife of the Baronet.
Another tipple, and off one goes
To observe a servant: Pretty Rose.
To make sure that her dusting's not
Amiss, and pinch her should she miss a spot.
A girlish shriek. A tipple. A slap
Enlivens the day of the Baronap.
Decanter in grasp, one slakes one's thirst,
And remembers that charity is always first.
One thus extends a helping hand
To the underparlourmaid. Oof! An unplanned
Swift kick comes nigh to ruin the set
Of familial jewels of the Baronet.
Pity me not, my hapless state,
For suffering is my noble fate.
Whimsey? Oft I have a bit
When dressing in a French Maid's kit.
But endurance is my high-born lot:
The sad, sad life of a Baronot.
It's thus one spends the livelong day.
The decanter is drained, and one does shway
From shide to shide, with noble gait.
The shun, it shets. It'sh getting late.
No more whishkey? Bloody poop.
It'sh hell, the exshishtensh of a Baronoop.
 The
Vicar of Whitefield writes:
Dear Sir Charles,
I had commissioned a portrait of my husband, the contract
for which specified that the painter would hang said portrait
at a designated place in the east drawing room. I left for the
continent before the work was actually completed, and when I
returned I was quite aghast to find the portrait had been hung
in the wrong wall--and crookedly at that!
The portrait company refuses to answer my calls. What must
I do to insure my husband is well hung?
Unsatisfied in Upper Marlboro
Sir Charles replies:
My dear lady,
What a sad, precautionary tale for us all. One has a story
of similar woe. At the time one became engaged to the Lady Felicia,
one commissioned a similar portrait of oneself for her future
bedchambers, so that one's future wife could go to bed every
night knowing to whom to be grateful for plucking her from obscurity
and instantly giving her family tree a quick spray of fertilizer.
The wedding took place. One escorted the Lady Felicia to her
new home. But imagine her shock and dismay, and her shriek of
utter disgust, upon entering her bedchamber to find that her
new husband was extremely poorly hung.
But, my unsatisfied correspondent, there is really only so
much the framer's can do for you. You might attempt some 'home
remedies,' as it were. Give it a few sharp tugs downward, or
failing that, hang some heavy weights from it to stretch it in
the direction you want.
If all else fails, you might try putting the portrait in a
different location, to see if it looks better there. And in the
spot previously occupied by the portrait, have a nice picture
of a horse hung.
Certainly glad to get in one's opinions on interior decorating,
one remains,
Sir Charles Grandiose
Hanging writes:
Dear Lady Felicia,
I am sure that your mailbox is crammed to the brim with social
invitations, and that your phone constantly rings from those
who must hear your dulcet tones or die. I find however, that
amongst my social set I am usually the one doing the organizing
and ringing around to catch up and keep the friendship going.
The message from my friends seems to be "We don't have to
bother making any effort, because we take it for granted that
you will".
My fortieth birthday is coming up (I am demanding a recount)and
I really wonder whether I can be bothered:
1) Reminding them that my birthday is coming up (they forget)
2) Enduring the diary recitals where I am read their social
calendar in detail, before they deign to nominate a date to see
me.
3) Trying to maintain some of the friendships at all.
I am assured by my wife (a redhead, and therefore a harsh
and critical judge) that I am quite nice, have a pleasant personality,
and a good sense of humour. She says that when she talks to my
friends they hold me in high regard and affection. What then
can I do about my circle who seem to have a complete inability
to pick up a d*mn (sorry) phone once in a while and make an effort?
How do you become a ring-ee as opposed to a ring-er.
I can imagine that my plight is so foreign to your own experience
that you may have to ask one of your staff, perhaps one of your
quiet and shy minions, what it is like not to be on the A-list,
but somewhere towards Z, but if you could help me out, I would
be extremely grateful.
Please advise,
Hanging on the telephone
The Lady Felicia replies:
Dear Hanging on the Telephone,
How I miss the days of gracious civility when one would pay
morning calls, chatting gaily for fifteen minutes - no more,
no less - if your acquaintance was "at home" or leaving
one's card with the butler if they were out - confident that
your call would be repaid within the week. One feels sure that
if your so-called friends behaved in those days as they do in
these modern times, they would be shown out of the back door
of Society faster than Caroline May broke her engagement to James
Gordon-Bennett, Jr. when he used his future in-laws' fireplace
as a . . . well . . . quickly and without remorse, in any case.
Follow my advice, my dear, and I promise you: your social
schedule this autumn will be a whirl of amusements. Your social
duty is clear. You must cut them. You must cut them all, thoroughly
and publicly if possible. Now you do know how to cut someone
properly, yes? Here is an example:
You are strolling down the street and one of these cretins
approaches you, Palm Pilot in hand, calling out "Hangster,
dude, we must get together one of these days!" Of course,
you must not see them, and here you have two options:
1) You must immediately cross the street to greet a dear,
dear friend whom you have just spotted (and surprisingly, complete
strangers will often be quite accommodating about being hugged
by you, particularly if you are wearing expensive parfum from
Paris); or
2) You must look right through the offending "friend"
and pass by. The trick to this more difficult "cut direct"
is in focusing your eyes on some far distant point while looking
in the direction of your former "friend's" forehead.
You will need a steely will to successfully accomplish the cut
direct without flinching - it is unnerving for even the most
accomplished socialite and a strong cup of tea afterwards is
usually required.
After a series of such encounters, you will probably begin
to receive phone calls from these people. Whether you are available
to speak on the phone is up to you. Whether you are willing to
confess the cut is also up to you, but I assure you that you
will find your friends' panicked scrambling most amusing. Probably
they will invite you out somewhere. You might be "too busy."
You might have to consult your Social Calendar. These
are the pleasant choices that you will have to ponder.
Are you having fun yet?
Serenely, one remains,
Lady Felicia Grandiose
 Whitney
writes:
Dear Lady Felicia,
I have a big problem and a question in line with it. I wear
my hair up often in a ponytail, and when I want to wear it down
there is a big crease across the back of my head, from where
I had it pulled back. I can not never seem to get rid of it.
How do I get rid of it quickly? I do appreciate your help.
Thank You,
Whitney
The Lady Felicia replies:
Dear Whitney,
If you are old enough, by all means wear your hair up. A neat
chignon, a Gibson tuck, a French twist are all acceptable styles.
But a lady ought never to wear her hair in a "ponytail."
Are you a horse, dear? I hope not!
Serenely, one remains,
Lady Felicia Grandiose
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