Upon rising, I breakfast. A satisfying bowl of chilled salmon kedgeree with a dollop of Cook's splendid damson and pig's foot preserve, followed by a couple of runny eggs with some pressed baby moorhens to dip them with. A nice cup of tea rounds off the repast, liberally fortified with a dash or two of malt from the cruet. Lady Hovercraft-Norton hasn't discovered this little deception yet, but I really must plan ahead toward the time she does. I still shudder to recall my four weeks of subsisting on tractor-start and gun oil following the discovery of the malt in the Bovril jar. After breakfast, I chase one of the housemaids around the laundry room just for appearance's sake. I always feel that one must consider the feelings of domestic staff, regardless of how ugly they may be. One does have a certain obligation, after all.
Around midday, I take the opportunity to discuss the arrangements for this weekend's shoot with Rodriguez, the Gamekeeper. Rodriguez, or 'Roddy', as Lady Hovercraft-Norton insists on calling him for some reason, is a real find. He is from Colombia, apparently, where he spent many years working for a General. I must say that he takes a very hard line indeed on trespassers, particularly if they happen to be in his herb garden. We've had very little trouble from those Rambler's Association Johnnies since he's been keeper. Indeed, several of the more voiciferous ones seem to have disappeared altogether. Communication is sometimes something of a problem, occasionally leading to some embarrassing episodes. Last year I was mortified to discover that he had misinterpreted my request that he arrange the game for a large pheasant shoot. You can imagine my embarrassment when in front of all my assembled chums, he produced four hundred pairs of Peasants. Well, as you can imagine, it was disastrous. They had no idea of what was expected of them, we'd shot the bloody lot of them within ten minutes. They were damn tough eating as well. Still, learned from the experience and all that. We shall hunt them with dogs this time. That should make a bit more sport of it.
I generally have luncheon brought to me in my study at around three in the afternoon, while I'm going over the books. I've nearly finished 'Fox in Socks' now, I plan to immerse myself in 'The Cat in the Hat' next. Luncheon will typically be a frugal meal, consisting of perhaps a small suckling-pig or a couple of dozen stuffed quail, with a decent bottle from the cellar. The Estate Cellar is regarded as one of the finest in the world, although the inclusion of several dozen crates of Irn Bru testify to the Thirteenth Earl's unfortunate congenital condition.
After luncheon, I unwind by sending eviction notices to randomly selected tenants, and writing letters to The Times to complain about the amount of nudity on the radio nowadays. I'm certain that the woman who read the six o' clock news yesterday was completely naked. The rot set in when they stopped calling it the wireless, mark my words. That Noel Edmonds has a lot to answer for.
Lady Hovercraft-Norton joins me for dinner at half past eight each evening. I'm generally on the stilton and brandy by then, as dinner is served at seven sharp. Dinner is eaten on the rooftop if the weather permits, a tradition started by my father, the Fourteenth Earl during the last war. He found that it allowed him to play his part in the war effort by taking pot shots at passing enemy aircraft with his duck gun. He was asked to desist after the War Ministry launched an investigation into why so many routine training flights disappeared in the so-called 'Chadcaster Triangle'. The menu for dinner is somewhat restricted by the requirement for Chalmers, the butler, to balance each course on his head whilst climbing the drainpipe. It's not the most satisfactory arrangement, I know, but sadly there is no servant's staircase to the roof, and it would of course be unthinkable to allow staff to make use of the master's staircase.
After dinner, Lady Hovercraft-Norton retires to her wing of the house to do whatever it is that she does. I generally take the port with me to the Trophy Room, as Chalmers always seems to be unavailable after dinner. I like to take the time to reflect upon the day's labours before retiring to bed. I feel a strong sense of harmony with Mother Nature in the Trophy Room, surrounded by the cherished mementoes of many an afternoon's pleasant slaughter. I am particularly proud of the Eleventh Earl's truly splendid collection of almost thirteen thousand dodo heads. I like to ensure that I get plenty of sleep in order to make the most of each demanding day, so around eleven I check that the Holland & Holland is loaded and placed handily on the nightstand, and go to bed, to dream of another busy day.