My current maid, Basil, went on a little 5-day break with some of her Essex girlfriends on Monday. They went to Benidorm on a 'cultural' tour.
The following video footage shows Basil visiting Aqualandia, a water park.
Below left is a pic of Basil before she went on holiday, taken on Monday. And the pic on the right is her, this morning, as her Sleazyjet flight touched down at Luton airport. Seems like Basil forgot to pack her depilatory creams.
Most alarmingly of all, she is wearing a Wonder Woman outfit, much beloved of my ex-maid, Belladonna Bitchhole, who is currently incarcerated in a Perspex tube in the alligator pit at Sydney zoo. Not sure if that's a Halloween joke on Basil's part to wear such an outfit, but it is in very poor taste.
Mitzi's wonderful blog entry about the literature she took on holiday inspired me to write about the reading material of my maid, Basil. At a recent posh soirée, one of my esteemed guests found the following novel stuffed down the side of my antique 1920s cobalt-blue Chesterfield armchair. Up to that point, the evening had been a rip-roaring success; even the surprise dish had gone down well, my 'experimental' vols-au-vents stuffed with eel and fricasseed frog.
The guest pulled the book out in front of everyone, holding it by one of its yellowed and very sticky pages. My throat shrunk and a tiny whimper came out of my voicebox: "It isn't mine!!!!"
Really, for bringing disrepute to me at one of my famous evening parties, Basil deserves to be flogged at dawn with a cat o'nine tails. I also found this 'book' in her living quarters. She has often spoken of giving up meat and fish and becoming a lesbo-vegetarian:
And this...
I mean.. I'm puzzled that Basil should want to consider robbing a bank with a sawn-off shotgun in her spare time... it's not that she isn't remunerated well. I pay her an exceptionally good hourly rate.... £1.20 an hour [US$1.85 an hour] for a 168-hour week. And she gets to lick all the crockery clean after grand banquets (no, not the House of Fraser crockery or the Jasper Conran rubbish, but the 18th century Delft dinner service), and to live in the old abandoned pig-sty with fresh hay and running water. It's quite large and very dry! There's plenty of Eastern European maids who would give their false teeth for such a position!
And I found this book. The problem being that the book cover claims one can use 90% of your mind to increase the size of your breasts. The truth is that, at the age of 14, Basil asked that her brain be donated to
medical science to further research into the causes of hypo-manic
schizophrenia. As her lobotomization didn't cure her, she doesn't even have 90% of a brain. More like 4%. And most of that is located in her more-than-generous ass.
And this! Words fail me!
There are four absolute certainties in life: Death; taxes; the occasional dose of pubic crabs; and a visit from the Jehovahs Witnesses at the most inconvenient moment. At 8am, as I lay in bed dreaming of my recent love-making with the entire Under-25s Portuguese Rugby Team, the doorbell rang and rudely interrupted my reverie. "Baaaassssssssiiiiiiilllllllll!" I shouted.
When one appoints and remunerates a maid, one at least expects hand-service.
"I'm doing lady-stuff" my maid, Basil Wiggleswade, bawled back, sounding like a Cockney fishwife. The finality of her tone meant she had no intention of answering the door.
"Lady-stuff?" I bawled back, sounding like a Texan millionairess beauty queen.
"Yes, I'm out on the town tonight, so I'm waxing my lady-purse. Have you seen the third tube of Nair? I could be some time" my maid called back, gaily.
Lady-purse? THREE tubes of Nair?
Fuck me... Basil must be as hairy as a baboon down below if she needs not one, not two, but three tubes of Nair!
As I was pondering this addition to my vocabulary - Lady-Purse - I was forced to get up and don my Chinese silk and duck feather dressing-gown, jam my pudgy feet into my Antarctic penguin feather slippers, and tiptoe down five flights of stairs, telling myself to "keep calm" and open up the front door, only to come face-to-face with two elderly male Jehovahs Witnesses in charity-shop black suits, waving a pamphlet entitled the Resurrection of God and slavering at the gills.
Their presence, on my doorstep, put the wind up me, I can tell you.
Fortunately, my father was a keen game-hunter in the African bush, and I still keep a collection of antique loaded rifles in my downstairs lobby, in expectation of such visits from strange, unsolicited men preaching religion. A bullet in the bum, my father used to say.... and now it's my turn to deal with Basil...
