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Sing A Song Of Sixpence

standard March 1, 2007 6 responses

The smell of new money radiated from their gaudy wallpaper and gold gilded picture frames, it streamed out of the hideous fountain in their lobby and oozed from the pores of their gold strewn, orange tanned bodies. They were the new money on the block: Him, the no talent but very good looking movie star of the moment. Her, the blonde bimbo he dragged up from the gutter with him, ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mr and Mrs King, the worst employers ever…and possibly the most tasteless couple I have ever come across.

I came over to the States with my mom when I was 4, the family she worked for were an old money family, a Lord and Lady no less, who wanted to move to less rainy climbs and, with my dad having run off with that bar maid from the Dog and Partridge, my mum jumped at the chance of starting a fresh in a new land.

Back then America was still the land of dreams and opportunity.

When Lord P sadly passed away and Lady P decided she would be better off going back home to England, I decided to stay. Even though I had been born in England and had a very English accent from growing up running around the Big House and spending all my time with the other English house staff, and then later replacing my mom when she retired; America was my home.

It turned out that having that English accent worked in my favour and I quickly became sort after by all the ‘new money’ folks who thought that having an English housekeeper would make them seem more cultured and ‘old money’.

I worked for movie stars, investment bankers, oil tycoons and dot com entrepreneurs, most of whom had their little quirks and idiosyncrasies, but none of these had anything on the Kings.

The clues to how deranged the Kings really were, were there all the time; I just didn’t notice them until it was too late. I should have realised when they insisted on calling me the maid and not the housekeeper or by my name as all previous employers had done. I should have realised when they referred to their home as The Castle or when she insisted upon calling the breakfast room, the parlour. I thought that her calling him The king and he calling her The Queen was just one of those sickly newlywed things that quickly pass with time. I now realise how wrong I was.

These people were mad, quite mad.

Mr King was up in what they referred to as their counting house, but the rest of the world would call an office and she in her ‘parlour’. I was in the garden hanging out those hideous itchy scratchy bras and panties she thought were so classy when one of their flea bitten blackbirds started to attack me. God only knows what the hell was wrong with it, quite possibly it had just had enough of not being able to escape the garden; Mr King had built up 8 foot walls around the part of the garden next to the house and fixed a net over the top as an outdoor aviary. They had then filled it with 101 hideous squawking blackbirds.

Apparently they reminded Mrs King of home.

What ever was the matter with this infernal bird it had decided it was all my fault and was going to get its own back. Those horrible flapping wings beating at my face and its sharp nasty beak ripping at my skin are the last thing I remember until I woke up with Mr King standing over me, blood streaming down face, whilst he ranted and raved, practically foaming at the mouth, about how I had injured one of his precious birds. It would seem that in my pathetic attempt to defend myself I had managed to daze one of his crazy birds and The Queen had taken to her bed in anguish over the poor creature’s plight.

A few hours and several stitches later I was once again sat in the Kings parlour being given one last chance to redeem myself and only because I had come so highly recommended. New rules were laid down by the Kings; extra cleaning, longer hours and more attention to clearing up the bird mess in the garden were expected of me in return for their generous employment and forgiving nature. All of which I accepted with a bowed head whilst I uttered apologies and scurried off to the kitchen to prepare a feast fit for a King and Queen. At 72 I was getting too old for this nonsense.

Once they were tucking happily into their pie in the dining room I let myself quietly out of the back door chuckling quietly, a neat pile of black feathers and small bones sitting on the counter and the remaining 77 blackbirds twittering nervously in the aviary.

Now wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?

This was a guest post written by Surviving Motherhood.

When not chasing reindeer out of my garden, being chased over our farm by cows or servicing the needs of our 7 month old tyrant, Little Moo, I can usually be found at my blog, Surviving Motherhood which is where you will find Jessica, your usual hostess with the most-ess today as we partake in this months Blog Exchange. Go on over and see her there and don’t forget to check out all the other blog exchange posts this month.

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