Oh lord help me, I may not survive today. I, extending my usual generous nature, offered to look after the children for my dear friends the Darlings. They used to be dear friends, I don’t know what is going on over at that house now.
Ever since they got here, the children have been flying about Thornfield. No, I don’t mean they are scampering about like the energetic rascals they are, I mean they are doing swan dives off the top floor banister and landing on my grandmother’s grandfather clock. Who allows their children to do that? Surely the idea didn’t just occur to them; someone gave them their blessing to fly about the rafters when the whim suited them. And why did George and Mary not issue forth the appropriate lectures when one travels to a good and proper friend’s estate? “Listen, Darlings, when at Thornfield, Miss Eyre is to be minded, manners must be at the forefront, be grateful and humble and let’s keep our feet on the ground during your stay.”
I expect this behavior from John and Michael but I had long held the impression that Wendy was a bit more sensible than to allow herself to become airborne. Well, you know who’s to blame in these matters – undesirables with whom the children are allowed to fraternize. Oh certainly George and Mary plead ignorance about where this new behavior is coming from but I think they are shirking their parental responsibilities, if I may be so bold. We are, after all, talking about a couple that thought a Newfoundland was an appropriate nurse for the children. Wendy has gotten involved with some reprobate named Peter, it seems. She goes positively pie-eyed when she mentions his name. He already has her chasing after his lost things and is darning his shadow for him – you can just imagine how demanding he will be if the relationship goes any further. Honestly, the young man sounds like a child! Traveling by the seat of his pants, running around with a pack of boys who appears to have learned their table manners in prison, playing pirates and Indians at his age? Oh Wendy Darling dear, you could find a nice weaver that might provide you with a nice little comfortable life.
And don’t tell me things aren’t messy with this young man. He has so many women floating around him; Wendy would be well advised to stay away. I am not one to make assumptions but I think we can guess their profession with names like Tinkerbell, Tiger Lily and Hook (who, may I say, is one of the homeliest women I have ever seen. I don’t know how she can captain any performance.)
Oh for pity’s sake – what are those blasted children doing in my fishpond? Is that rock salt? For goodness sake, when I said they could house the mermaids there, I assumed they were freshwater mermaids – this has all gone too far. I have had it with that tramp Tinkerbell’s insolent glare all morning. And those ridiculous boys running around do not seem to know where they are going, which would be fine if they did not insist on declaring war on my prize-winning roses and knocking the blooms off with there stupid wooden swords. Looks like “Princess” Tiger Lily’s nose is out of joint again, she’s just sitting in the middle of my pond stoically ignoring the chaos around her. I wish I could too, dearest.
Oh confounded! What have those children done to my poor clock? I swear I have never heard it tick like that before. Honestly, if sounds like it is walking into the very room in which I am writing this!