I am going to have to be more attuned to Mr. Rochester’s invitation list.  We recently hosted two dreadful men that I thought would never leave.  The only reason I agreed to hosting them is because Mr. Rochester implied some kind of connection with the Danish crown. They stumble in with their perfectly impossible to pronounce names, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern – I am not making those up; I swear, I kept mistaking one for the other the entire time they were here.  Their manners were deplorable.  I am not sure what passes for conversation in Denmark, but when having a discussion at Thornfield, we dispense with the flipping coin!  I splattered tea all over my new frock, jumping each time one of those fools yelled out “heads again!”

I tried to press the point about their association with King Claudius and Queen Gertrude but this only seemed to confuse them.  They were hoping to have more information about Prince Hamlet and seemed downright distressed that they couldn’t remember it.  And I don’t know who Ophelia is but I agree the nunnery is her best option if these two are any indication of her court’s guests; I imagine she is drowning in this nonsense.

When I inquired as to their trip thus far, they became quite animated about some roving acting troupe they encountered.  Well, Mr. Rochester and I love a good bit of theater so I asked them to elaborate – oh!  I don’t know what passes for theater in Denmark but if what they described happened in our town square, we would have to bring in extra stockades – heavens!  With a rather throbbing headache coming upon me, I suggested some sport to clear our heads.  We all went to the nets where both Mr. Rosencrantz and Mr. Guildenstern assured us they were well versed in the game.  Nonsense, they never touched a birdy and barely even kept their rackets.  They preferred to dominate our game by asking these inane questions and when I tried to answer ever one of their rapid-fire inquiries, they called me out.  I hadn’t even taken a shot!

Fortunately, the scatterbrains remembered some fool errand they were to perform and made haste out of here.  Well, I don’t care if they ever come back; they’re dead to me.


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