It appears I have plenty of time to talk to you today.  I have been waiting for our holiday guest all afternoon.  I invited him for Thanksgiving because he didn’t seem to have other plans.  So I woke early this morning to see to tomorrow’s preparation and menu and came in here to wait by the fire.  And that is where I still am now, several hours later.  Waiting.

I understand life can get harried and perhaps we will not end up at our destination on time but have they outlawed messengers in these parts and forgot to tell me?  If I were to be but two minutes delayed I would send some nice scones and a note begging for my hosts’ forgiveness; but that’s just me… the one who was raised properly.

I drifted off in my chair waiting for our guest (I cannot be faulted, someone thought that wretched Emma Woodhouse’s silly little life would make for an interesting story.  Boy were they wrong.  I could have told them that and saved them the time.)  Mr. Rochester came in and roused me, offering me his handkerchief for the drool on my chin – that man is so thoughtful.  (And, apparently, I might need to think about a stronger tooth powder since there aren’t many ways for a blind man to detect drool.)  It seems Mr. Rochester knows our guest and came to the sitting room to wait for him with me.  Sometimes its nice to have a moment, you notice things you normally rush by.  For instance, I noticed the Rubber Plant next to which we were sitting has gotten a bit out of control; it is practically a Rubber Tree.  I noticed the pillows on our couch are a bit frayed; I should replace those before Christmas.  And I hate the wallpaper in this room; but I always have so that was not a real revelation.

After a few hours, Grace brought in some tea and biscuits.  Doing two things at once is a bit beyond her skill set so in an attempt to walk into the room and carry a platter, she tripped over what I can only imagine was her latest thought and spun about the room in an impromptu dance that sent Mr. Rochester’s mother’s china to each corner of it.  I imagine she will not remember any of this tomorrow.  Twit.

In the middle of Mr. Rochester and my fascinating discussion on the Concert of Europe (which is not a large gathering of musicians, it turns out), the gardeners who tend to the iris beds came up to tell us they weren’t sure our guest was coming.  When I reminded them that they told me just yesterday that they told us he would be here today, they acted as if we hadn’t even spoken just a day prior.  I don’t know why I listen to the gardeners anyway; my gerbera are only half the size they were last year and I think it is a result of their foolish fish head idea.  That side of the manor smells like Batsfjord at low tide.

Well, I am sorry but I have things to do.  I cannot sit around and wait all day for some erstwhile guest who doesn’t have the common decency to let his hosts know his proper arrival time.  I swear I am going to get up for this chair and go about my business.  I…

Oh for heavens sake!  Turns out that Waldo is just a big joker and was hiding behind the Rubber Plant the entire time.  How did Mr. Rochester and I not see him with that bold-striped shirt on?  (I suppose Mr. Rochester can be forgiven for that but I should have seen him.  I told you that wallpaper was horrid.)  Well, this has all been well and good but I must see to the silver being polished.  I left Mr. Rochester with Waldo; I hope he doesn’t pull another disappearing act, poor Mr. Rochester has been known to chat to an ottoman for hours.  And I do hope he does wear that terrible knit cap to dinner tomorrow.

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