My Escapade with Daisy
I once worked as a housekeeper for the rich and affluent Goldwell family and their spoilt and bratish ten year old twins. They lived in an expensive rambling farmhouse in Wiltshire. It was my unfortunate lot in life to run the farm with the help of Joe, a dim witted giant of a man with a speech impediment. Although Joe was a kind and gentle imbecile, it didn’t pay to get to close to him as you could find yourself drowned in his spittle. Some years earlier, Mr and Mrs Goldwell bought their rascal twins a pet lamb.
The children named her Daisy. Daisy was loved dearly and was treated as part of the family and to my disgust she was even allowed in the farmhouse kitchen. Joe of course adored and doted on her. All my troubles began when the Gold well’s took their annual holiday. I was left with the help of the nitwit Joe to run the farm and of course to indulge and pander to Daisy the blasted sheep. I drove to work expecting the usual day but a red-eyed weeping Joe met me at the gate.
“Tttthhhh” he stammered and sprayed “What ever is the matter Joe? I asked, puzzled and stepping back from the line of spit he was spraying. “Ssssshhhh, Ddaisy ….. Dead ” he managed and successfully showered me in salvia. He was becoming hysterical. So, I wiped a greasy blob of drool from my eye and slapped his face. My eyes then followed the direction of his giant and pointing hand. I couldn’t believe it! To my horror Daisy was in the yard, on her back, four rigid legs stuck up in the air as if she’d been struck by a thunderbolt. I went over to her and gave her a kick, she obviously didn’t respond, as she was as dead as a doornail.
I admit that my initial thought was how was I to tell the poor children their cherished sheep was dead. That was soon pushed aside by a more immediate thought. How the hell was I going to dispose of a hundred weight of dead sheep? “We’ll have to bury her,” I groaned to a weeping and snivelling Joe. So, as Joe the nincompoop, bubbled and dribbled snot everywhere, we dug a grave in the north field. Finally, Daisy was snugly in the ground and Joe dribbled ” I love you daisy” So to pacify him I said a little prayer and told him Daisy was in heaven.
This seemed to do the trick and we could get on with the real work. Upon my return to work the next day things seemed to go from bad to worse. I was met at the gate by fat ruddy faced breathless man who seemed to have asthma . He announced he was from health and safety. “You can’t bury a sheep” he wheezed ” it’s a health hazard” and his several chins wobbled in agreement. He was followed by a tall skinny, hawked eyed man with a nose the size of Concorde. “You’ll have to dig it up” he squawked as he marched towards me. This is national trust land” and he gestured with a claw like hand. “And I’m the area officer” he gleefully announced as he glared at me with his birdlike beady eyes. So with Joe who was still gurgling and sniffing, and I, feeling exasperated we dug up poor old dead daisy. I was now faced with the problem of what to do with a half decomposed, very wet, very muddy, very putrid and very dead sheep. As I puzzled my dilemma, a light bulb pinged above my head. Ping! Went the light bulb. Ping! Went the idea. We’ll burn her in the furnace.
So, with the help of snotty Joe we filled the furnace with old discarded tractor tyres and a dash of kerosene for good measure. When we had a nice blaze roaring we unceremoniously dumped Daisy onto her rather impressive funeral pyre. Joe was still sniffing and dribbling snot everywhere as we stood back to watch our splendid work. Surly this would be the end of the problematic daisy. But as I heard the screaming of sirens, my heart sank like a rock. As I looked down the lane, I could see the whole of the British fire brigade hurtling towards us at a hundred mile an hour.
They screeched to a halt and before I had a chance to offer an explanation, Firemen began barking orders and running hither thither. A thousand snakes of firehouse slithered over the yard. The flurry of activity left me feeling stunned dizzy and sick. I composed myself and approached an important looking chap who was yelling orders over the wail of sirens. I drew my self up to my full height and tried to communicate with over exaggerated waving of my arms, shaking my head and grotesque facial gestures. “Stop Stop! ” I screamed upon deaf ears.
I must have looked like a demented lunatic and I hoped I wasn’t dribbling. To no avail and he looked at me as if I was as barking mad as Joe. Before I could make an explanation, the firemen trained the hoses in unison at the cherished nineteenth century farmhouse (with original fixtures and fittings) and turned on the water. It was then that I cried begged and then collapsed. I was utterly devastated. Eventually I managed to explain about Daisy to the Chief Fire Officer and much to the amusement of the on looking firemen.
He was very apologetic and explained the neighbours had reported the plumes of black smoke. They had, and not unreasonably, thought the farm was on fire. Did I detect a few sniggers and giggles as they all finally left? The yard was awash with black muddy water. The nineteenth century farmhouse (with irreplaceable fixture and fittings) was ruined. The beloved pet sheep was dead and smouldering on a very damp funeral fire, and poor old Joe has had a nervous breakdown and is now frothing and spitting over the psychiatrist. How the hell was I going to explain all this to the Goldwells and still keep my job?
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