Bunty Takes Sanctuary at the Manor

A BIRTH AND A BIRTHDAY

   Happy 55^thBirthday to me. Am I really that old? It’s a whole year since darling Brexit joined the family. Extra Bonios for him today.
Crichton was up in town so I’d have to wait until later for a gift, but Cook did bring me breakfast in bed as a treat. 6.30am is a little earlier than I would normally wake, but it’s the thought that counts. Two poached eggs on toast with a nice big pot of tea and the Daily Telegraph crossword, then a lovely long bath with the Toasted Coconut Ice Bath Gel that Bunty had given me. It was rather gritty, and I came out smelling like a sweet shop. 

Just cards from the children. I have long given up expecting gifts from them, but the emerald green stretch turban from Kitty was very welcome. It’s a wonderful to have a friend one 
has known from one’s early childhood. When they’ve seen you wet your knickers during Latin, there can be no secrets, and we each know exactly what the other likes as a treat.

I searched the study and Crichton’s dressing room for a present from him, but no sign of anything. This was most worrying, as in twenty-seven years, I’ve only failed to find twice. I needn’t have worried, he arrived at lunch time and divvied up the most beautiful little brooch, shaped like a sausage dog with a diamond twinkle in its eye. It looks expensive so all good.   
Dentist at 2.30…I said a quick prayer to St Apollonia which she seemed to answer.
   ‘Everything is tickety-boo Mrs Trehorlicks. Just a quick polishing is all that is needed,’ says Mrs Sanku in that lovely accent of hers. 
She is so gentle, despite being foreign. I have no idea why Crichton insists on sticking with Mr Gibson. He must be seventy if he’s a day and everyone knows he drinks. 
Of course, Crichton came home with a numb face and a request for 24 hours on soft food so there was no question of going out for a birthday dinner. 
While he was happily dripping soup onto his tie, the news came through. Isolde had been delivered of a male child and Monica and Donald have become grandparents for the fourth time. Little Samson was born at 2.25 this afternoon with a full head of hair and weighing in at an astonishing 12lb 10oz. 
I am delighted that he and I shall share a birthday.
Surely Isolde will stop breast feeding the triplets now they are at prep school? 
She’ll never be a C-cup again.
Crichton Comments
   I’d forgotten Cynthia’s birthday present and I think she may have suspected, but I managed to head her off by fibbing that I had to collect something from the jewellers. I rushed over to Garrad’s and forked out a fortune for a dachshund brooch, but I knew she would love it. Nothing can cost as much in exasperation and chewed clothing as The Sausage does in real life, so I suppose I’ve got off lightly this year. 
My dental appointment came not a moment too soon. The broken fang had been cutting my tongue to shreds. A hundred and fifty quid for a patch up and Gibby wants me to come back to have a crown on top of it! Goodness knows what that will set me back. At least I shall be able to eat again when my face returns to life. 

A quiet evening with Heinz tomato and the papers. I read that chaps with blood types A, B and AB are four times more likely to suffer impotence. Cynthia wouldn’t stand for that. Thank God, I’m boring old O +ve. 

When I told Alex Whaffler, he said he’s AB and proud of it, and never had a problem. But then he would say that. 
I have signed him up for a bumper pack of Viagra to be delivered to the office. It will pay him back for the April fool’s trick.