31 July 2020
996
R. Linda:
I was writing an article on children of privilege and once I had it complete, I sat back and thought of the one privileged kiddo I do know, that be the Weasil. But then me thoughts wandered to his own privileged kiddos.
Can you imagine what it would be like to be the son of the Weasil? Poor Maximilian he must be what 11 years of age now? Maybe 12? I watch Baron Trump and think, poor kiddo to have a father like that. But then what do I know really? Maybe Baron be a happy laddie, but he never looks happy. I was told by someone that he acts rather privileged and arrogant. I don't know to look at him he looks like a momma's boyo. When I look at the privileged Maximilian (that be the last time I saw him that is), he was rather on his own it seemed. The mad scientist daughter was the golden child, but she be a handful and has to be watched so she doesn't blow the Weasil castle down. She has her own laboratory I be told and that scares the bejesus out of me. Heaven knows what she be up to half the time and I hear about her a lot more than Max.
Anyway the time before last I saw Max, he seemed like a pretty good lad, but he was a bit opinionated and aggressive with his opinions. I think he was 5 at the time and this behaviour of being somewhat intellectual of current affairs rather surprised me. That aside, it was some years later (when Max was 8 or 9) I was invited to see the new property in Steamboat that Weas had procured. I was having lunch with the Weasil clan (something I had put off until I couldn't), and I hadn't seen the youngins for some years. The daughter was up in her tower doing the Lord knows what and informed her parental units that she was inclined to be very busy and would not be joining us, but do send something up. So it was Weas, Manda, Max and meself.
The luncheon started off with Weasil in the kitchen. He had fancied himself a chef, no culinary school or anything like that, no he had barged into the kitchens of renowned chefs (mainly in London) and talked his way into observing and then trying his hand at gourmet dishes. The kitchen, by the way, was in the basement of the castle (the castle, also by the way, was this dilapidated stone castle that was built in the late 1860s by some American railroad tycoon in Colorado, and left to rot until the Weasil came along and snapped it up). I was told there are several old stone castles around Steamboat Springs, some Sotheby-worthy and others collapsed wrecks. Well, Weasil's was the latter, because if you will remember the one he renovated in Scotland, well, then you understand why the wreck was more appealing to Weasil. Still (at the time) in renovations the Weasil had sunk much moola into it along with time and effort. It still had a way to go, but it was habitable. So the Weasil was literally downstairs in the basement where the kitchen was located (I suppose at one time there was an upstairs/downstairs situation going), while we three sat at table waiting for the first course. This whole idea of Weasil cooking was frightening to me as you will well remember those Rabby Burns dinners with the haggis and dowsing everything in Scotch and lighting it all up to a blazing inferno (without a fire extinguisher).
As we sat there the little laddie decided to make conversation.
"Hullo! I suppose you're the reporter."
"Yes, I'm Gabe. Nice to meet you again."
"I think that's terribly alarming you have no last name."
"I do, O'Sullivan."
"What do you do with it?"
"Do with what?" I was confused.
"Your last name. I mean it isn't like your Lord Denby or someone important so what do you do with it? Your last name," he added just in case I was still confused.
"What do you mean what do I do with it?"
"Well, it seems a waste of time doesn't it? All the O'Sullivan's in the world and you're the only news reporter?"
I was not following and his mother put an end to that line of questioning which was making me think the boyo was an arrogant prick.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, his mother glaring at him and fussing with her napkin, shook her head at him, and at that, he decided to give it another go in spite of her silent warning not to.
"Pleased to meet you."
"Pleasure be all mine I'm sure," I said rather stiltedly, unsure of where we were going next.
"I understand you play the organ." He said with a smirk and giggle.
"No, no I don't. Who told you that?"
"No one." He said looking around as if whatever his joke was would burst forth in peels of laughter.
"DO YOU play the organ?" I asked to be a pratt.
"Are you rotting on me?" He asked the mirth disappearing.
"No, do you?"
"Yes, I play Beethoven."
His mother cut in with, "No he plays Pop Goes The Weasel. As far away from Beethoven as one can get." And she heaved a great exasperated sigh, mumbling under her breath something about wasted money on organ lessons.
This rather amused me and he as well. His mother got up excusing herself for a brief moment to find out where her husband was on appetisers. But before she left she handed me a smoothly polished walking stick and told me if the young rascal got out of hand to "bop him one," and off she went to the lower bowels of the castle.
"Now THAT sir, is a very fine walking stick. I've used it myself to keep the butler in line." The young scamp offered as he admired the polished stick I was holding.
I just looked at him and for the life of me I don't know why I started laughing but I did and so did he.
"I probably have more of an intimate relationship with that stick than you could ever know." Said he smugly.
What he meant by that I had no idea but the organ and now the stick I was thinking double entendre. He was as wicked as his father. He was eyeing me like he was about to jump out of his chair, pull the stick out of me hands, and beat me with it.
"I shall very nearly kill you with this stick you do what I think you are thinking of doing," I said under me breath I thought in a half-joking manner. But really I was taken aback by his look of impending violence. I thought that was what it was, but wasn't sure.
"You have got me wrong you do Sir Gabe, I would no more do what you say with that stick than I would lie and pay you compliments I don't mean."
It was then that Weasil and Amanda came up with trays of appetisers that I must say looked . . . well appetising! It's a good thing too, because I don't know what would have happened if they didn't appear when they did, the air was intense between me and the son of Weasil.
I will say I was fairly impressed with the sight of all the deliciousness that graced the three platters. So much food would have done nicely if this had been a large party, but for four it was just too much food. No wonder it took so long for Weasil to appear, all that preparation must have taken him a long while to ready.
After the appetisers, the soup and then salad (a Greek affair), followed by the main courses went off quickly. The soup was old-fashioned vichyssoise, followed by Salmon in a lemon/dill sauce (that was actually quite good). Dessert consisted of a green cake which Weas informed me when I asked was a pandan chiffon which (because I know you'll ask me) was made with all the usual cake ingredients but with something called a pandan leaf to which the juice be extracted and gives the cake its distinct green colour in the sponge, thanks to the chlorophyll juice from the leaf. So one can rot one's teeth with the sugar in the cake and at the same time protect them with chlorophyll. I was informed the recipe was suggested by the scientific daughter who had been experimenting with chlorophyll and had extracted the juice all by herself. Enough said.
As be the Weasil family want, they proposed we take a walk after our repast in the gardens. I will say at the time I was not expecting much because the "castle" was in such disrepair and in the process of being rehabilitated that I did not think there were any "gardens" but alas, I was wrong. You know the Weasil's penchant for roses, well me dear R. Linda, he had gone all out on the gardens. They were quite exquisite and all his time and energy was obvious outside not inside. We should have dined in the garden, it would have been so much nicer! I know I am being a toff but really he does have a green thumb to go with his green cake baking.
The young toffy Max had run passed us to exercise the meal off him I suppose. I could see him scampering between the many rows of rose bushes like a young deer, just his head visible from time to time as if leaping between the terraced rows to see over making sure we were still way up at the top of the garden. Why? I hadn't a clue at the time, just thought it suspicious.
Amanda was called back to the house for a phone call from her brother and that left me and Weasil until Max suddenly jumped out and near about gave us both a heart attack. How he got back up to where we were so fast I do not know, but suspect there be a tunnel somewhere. This jumping out had really put Weasil off his feet and he fell into a bush. After I helped pick out some rose thorns (not without damage to me own fingers), he excused himself to go get a pair of clippers to snip off a few broken branches, muttering about scaring people and being a pratt as he went. That left me with Weasil junior who was grinning broader than the Nile at his successful tactics of fright.
"Last time I did that it was to the assistant gardener. He was out looking to shoot a snipe that had got into the roses. Unfortunately, he was caught so off guard he shot himself in the foot."
This said all matter-of-factly. I was shocked. I asked if he were all right now.
"Well, it was only a graze and we wrapped his foot up. I paid him not to tell father. He was in great pain but said he didn't need a doctor." He shrugged. "Well and he should not have, I paid him handsomely for his silence. But my sister saw the whole thing and came down and put some kind of her "special ointment on his foot." Then he paused for dramatic effect I suppose. "Three days later his foot turned black and they had to amputate it."
"WHAT?" I exclaimed stunned to me shorts.
Before I could get any more out of him, he took off as his father came back with hedge clippers, still mumbling under his breath about bad seeds and being in no fit mood the Weasil loped off the broken branches and I could see there was no opportunity to ask him if what his son related to me was true or not.
"What does Max want to be when he's done with school?" I asked Weaz thinking it was a calm subject and a way to wind me way to ask him about the gardener.
"Wot duz Max wanna be?" Weas contemplated a moment. "Well, he's hoping one of da Laphroaig sommeliers gets the DTs so he can get da jobbie."
THAT blasted me questions about the gardener right out of me mind.
Once the rose bush was made pretty again, the Weasil's mood was no better. He really has a thing about those roses. I thought it best to leave and told him I had to be on me way. He seemed genuinely sad at me leaving however preoccupied as he truly was on those roses, but after I thanked him for a wonderful lunch and a pleasant afternoon, his mood seemed a bit better, or maybe he was just happy I was leaving.
I told him I'd walk to the car meself I could see he was in cleanup mode. With a wave, I left and made me way down the gravel walk to the long narrow driveway where I had parked me rental. I was accosted by Max as I put me hand on the door handle.
'Sir Gabe, I hope you had an enjoyable time with us."
"I did, thank you." I was suddenly suspicious of where this was going.
"You will visit again won't you?" He asked so innocently.
"If I happen to be in Colorado and an invitation be extended I will certainly consider it."
"Good, good," the laddie said with an evil grin.
"Why? You have something you'd like to say?" I asked.
"Yes, I'd like to show you something before you leave. Follow me, it's just over here."
I was very uneasy because I simply did not trust him. We rounded a bend that brought us up to a tower. He pointed up and said in a low voice, "My sister is up in the ivory tower. But look over here at what a nutter she is."
To the right was a small sitting area and on one of the lounge cushions was a very nice leather and gilt book, The Prisoner of Zenda.
"You see what a nutter my sister is? This lovely edition has been sitting here in the hot sun for a week. She says it smells of mold so her experiment is to leave it out here for three months in the sunlight to kill the mold. I think it is the ruination of a good book don't you?" He said half seriously.
"Are you about these collector's editions?" I asked.
"What do you mean? I say, just look at that, ruination. I think you should kidnap the Prisoner and take him with you. That is if you can stand the smell of mold on your drive to wherever."
996
R. Linda:
I was writing an article on children of privilege and once I had it complete, I sat back and thought of the one privileged kiddo I do know, that be the Weasil. But then me thoughts wandered to his own privileged kiddos.
Can you imagine what it would be like to be the son of the Weasil? Poor Maximilian he must be what 11 years of age now? Maybe 12? I watch Baron Trump and think, poor kiddo to have a father like that. But then what do I know really? Maybe Baron be a happy laddie, but he never looks happy. I was told by someone that he acts rather privileged and arrogant. I don't know to look at him he looks like a momma's boyo. When I look at the privileged Maximilian (that be the last time I saw him that is), he was rather on his own it seemed. The mad scientist daughter was the golden child, but she be a handful and has to be watched so she doesn't blow the Weasil castle down. She has her own laboratory I be told and that scares the bejesus out of me. Heaven knows what she be up to half the time and I hear about her a lot more than Max.
Anyway the time before last I saw Max, he seemed like a pretty good lad, but he was a bit opinionated and aggressive with his opinions. I think he was 5 at the time and this behaviour of being somewhat intellectual of current affairs rather surprised me. That aside, it was some years later (when Max was 8 or 9) I was invited to see the new property in Steamboat that Weas had procured. I was having lunch with the Weasil clan (something I had put off until I couldn't), and I hadn't seen the youngins for some years. The daughter was up in her tower doing the Lord knows what and informed her parental units that she was inclined to be very busy and would not be joining us, but do send something up. So it was Weas, Manda, Max and meself.
The luncheon started off with Weasil in the kitchen. He had fancied himself a chef, no culinary school or anything like that, no he had barged into the kitchens of renowned chefs (mainly in London) and talked his way into observing and then trying his hand at gourmet dishes. The kitchen, by the way, was in the basement of the castle (the castle, also by the way, was this dilapidated stone castle that was built in the late 1860s by some American railroad tycoon in Colorado, and left to rot until the Weasil came along and snapped it up). I was told there are several old stone castles around Steamboat Springs, some Sotheby-worthy and others collapsed wrecks. Well, Weasil's was the latter, because if you will remember the one he renovated in Scotland, well, then you understand why the wreck was more appealing to Weasil. Still (at the time) in renovations the Weasil had sunk much moola into it along with time and effort. It still had a way to go, but it was habitable. So the Weasil was literally downstairs in the basement where the kitchen was located (I suppose at one time there was an upstairs/downstairs situation going), while we three sat at table waiting for the first course. This whole idea of Weasil cooking was frightening to me as you will well remember those Rabby Burns dinners with the haggis and dowsing everything in Scotch and lighting it all up to a blazing inferno (without a fire extinguisher).
As we sat there the little laddie decided to make conversation.
"Hullo! I suppose you're the reporter."
"Yes, I'm Gabe. Nice to meet you again."
"I think that's terribly alarming you have no last name."
"I do, O'Sullivan."
"What do you do with it?"
"Do with what?" I was confused.
"Your last name. I mean it isn't like your Lord Denby or someone important so what do you do with it? Your last name," he added just in case I was still confused.
"What do you mean what do I do with it?"
"Well, it seems a waste of time doesn't it? All the O'Sullivan's in the world and you're the only news reporter?"
I was not following and his mother put an end to that line of questioning which was making me think the boyo was an arrogant prick.
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, his mother glaring at him and fussing with her napkin, shook her head at him, and at that, he decided to give it another go in spite of her silent warning not to.
"Pleased to meet you."
"Pleasure be all mine I'm sure," I said rather stiltedly, unsure of where we were going next.
"I understand you play the organ." He said with a smirk and giggle.
"No, no I don't. Who told you that?"
"No one." He said looking around as if whatever his joke was would burst forth in peels of laughter.
"DO YOU play the organ?" I asked to be a pratt.
"Are you rotting on me?" He asked the mirth disappearing.
"No, do you?"
"Yes, I play Beethoven."
His mother cut in with, "No he plays Pop Goes The Weasel. As far away from Beethoven as one can get." And she heaved a great exasperated sigh, mumbling under her breath something about wasted money on organ lessons.
This rather amused me and he as well. His mother got up excusing herself for a brief moment to find out where her husband was on appetisers. But before she left she handed me a smoothly polished walking stick and told me if the young rascal got out of hand to "bop him one," and off she went to the lower bowels of the castle.
"Now THAT sir, is a very fine walking stick. I've used it myself to keep the butler in line." The young scamp offered as he admired the polished stick I was holding.
I just looked at him and for the life of me I don't know why I started laughing but I did and so did he.
"I probably have more of an intimate relationship with that stick than you could ever know." Said he smugly.
What he meant by that I had no idea but the organ and now the stick I was thinking double entendre. He was as wicked as his father. He was eyeing me like he was about to jump out of his chair, pull the stick out of me hands, and beat me with it.
"I shall very nearly kill you with this stick you do what I think you are thinking of doing," I said under me breath I thought in a half-joking manner. But really I was taken aback by his look of impending violence. I thought that was what it was, but wasn't sure.
"You have got me wrong you do Sir Gabe, I would no more do what you say with that stick than I would lie and pay you compliments I don't mean."
It was then that Weasil and Amanda came up with trays of appetisers that I must say looked . . . well appetising! It's a good thing too, because I don't know what would have happened if they didn't appear when they did, the air was intense between me and the son of Weasil.
I will say I was fairly impressed with the sight of all the deliciousness that graced the three platters. So much food would have done nicely if this had been a large party, but for four it was just too much food. No wonder it took so long for Weasil to appear, all that preparation must have taken him a long while to ready.
After the appetisers, the soup and then salad (a Greek affair), followed by the main courses went off quickly. The soup was old-fashioned vichyssoise, followed by Salmon in a lemon/dill sauce (that was actually quite good). Dessert consisted of a green cake which Weas informed me when I asked was a pandan chiffon which (because I know you'll ask me) was made with all the usual cake ingredients but with something called a pandan leaf to which the juice be extracted and gives the cake its distinct green colour in the sponge, thanks to the chlorophyll juice from the leaf. So one can rot one's teeth with the sugar in the cake and at the same time protect them with chlorophyll. I was informed the recipe was suggested by the scientific daughter who had been experimenting with chlorophyll and had extracted the juice all by herself. Enough said.
As be the Weasil family want, they proposed we take a walk after our repast in the gardens. I will say at the time I was not expecting much because the "castle" was in such disrepair and in the process of being rehabilitated that I did not think there were any "gardens" but alas, I was wrong. You know the Weasil's penchant for roses, well me dear R. Linda, he had gone all out on the gardens. They were quite exquisite and all his time and energy was obvious outside not inside. We should have dined in the garden, it would have been so much nicer! I know I am being a toff but really he does have a green thumb to go with his green cake baking.
The young toffy Max had run passed us to exercise the meal off him I suppose. I could see him scampering between the many rows of rose bushes like a young deer, just his head visible from time to time as if leaping between the terraced rows to see over making sure we were still way up at the top of the garden. Why? I hadn't a clue at the time, just thought it suspicious.
Amanda was called back to the house for a phone call from her brother and that left me and Weasil until Max suddenly jumped out and near about gave us both a heart attack. How he got back up to where we were so fast I do not know, but suspect there be a tunnel somewhere. This jumping out had really put Weasil off his feet and he fell into a bush. After I helped pick out some rose thorns (not without damage to me own fingers), he excused himself to go get a pair of clippers to snip off a few broken branches, muttering about scaring people and being a pratt as he went. That left me with Weasil junior who was grinning broader than the Nile at his successful tactics of fright.
"Last time I did that it was to the assistant gardener. He was out looking to shoot a snipe that had got into the roses. Unfortunately, he was caught so off guard he shot himself in the foot."
This said all matter-of-factly. I was shocked. I asked if he were all right now.
"Well, it was only a graze and we wrapped his foot up. I paid him not to tell father. He was in great pain but said he didn't need a doctor." He shrugged. "Well and he should not have, I paid him handsomely for his silence. But my sister saw the whole thing and came down and put some kind of her "special ointment on his foot." Then he paused for dramatic effect I suppose. "Three days later his foot turned black and they had to amputate it."
"WHAT?" I exclaimed stunned to me shorts.
Before I could get any more out of him, he took off as his father came back with hedge clippers, still mumbling under his breath about bad seeds and being in no fit mood the Weasil loped off the broken branches and I could see there was no opportunity to ask him if what his son related to me was true or not.
"What does Max want to be when he's done with school?" I asked Weaz thinking it was a calm subject and a way to wind me way to ask him about the gardener.
"Wot duz Max wanna be?" Weas contemplated a moment. "Well, he's hoping one of da Laphroaig sommeliers gets the DTs so he can get da jobbie."
THAT blasted me questions about the gardener right out of me mind.
Once the rose bush was made pretty again, the Weasil's mood was no better. He really has a thing about those roses. I thought it best to leave and told him I had to be on me way. He seemed genuinely sad at me leaving however preoccupied as he truly was on those roses, but after I thanked him for a wonderful lunch and a pleasant afternoon, his mood seemed a bit better, or maybe he was just happy I was leaving.
I told him I'd walk to the car meself I could see he was in cleanup mode. With a wave, I left and made me way down the gravel walk to the long narrow driveway where I had parked me rental. I was accosted by Max as I put me hand on the door handle.
'Sir Gabe, I hope you had an enjoyable time with us."
"I did, thank you." I was suddenly suspicious of where this was going.
"You will visit again won't you?" He asked so innocently.
"If I happen to be in Colorado and an invitation be extended I will certainly consider it."
"Good, good," the laddie said with an evil grin.
"Why? You have something you'd like to say?" I asked.
"Yes, I'd like to show you something before you leave. Follow me, it's just over here."
I was very uneasy because I simply did not trust him. We rounded a bend that brought us up to a tower. He pointed up and said in a low voice, "My sister is up in the ivory tower. But look over here at what a nutter she is."
To the right was a small sitting area and on one of the lounge cushions was a very nice leather and gilt book, The Prisoner of Zenda.
"You see what a nutter my sister is? This lovely edition has been sitting here in the hot sun for a week. She says it smells of mold so her experiment is to leave it out here for three months in the sunlight to kill the mold. I think it is the ruination of a good book don't you?" He said half seriously.
"Are you about these collector's editions?" I asked.
"What do you mean? I say, just look at that, ruination. I think you should kidnap the Prisoner and take him with you. That is if you can stand the smell of mold on your drive to wherever."
 |
| Poor book |
I did not know if he was serious or pulling a prank, but I did not take the book to his disappointment. I did pick it up and yes, it did have that awful mold smell. I had asked where she got it, but he was vague.
"Why do I have the impression that YOU, young man, somehow made that volume moldy just to get her goat."
"Why Sir Gabe, I have no clue what you are talking about and ME? Why never."
That was the last time I saw the young rascal or more appropriately -- criminal, and I can just imagine that by now he's perfected the art of wickedness, as he was well on his way at that tender age of whatever he was, 7 or 8. He also informed me that when his father got knackered of annoying me, he was wont to take over the mantle. Oh, something to look forward to in me old age. I tell ya R. Linda, the whole family be a bunch of loonies. Just to let you know I haven't been back to Colorado since and that's on purpose I have not.
Gabe
Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved
"Why do I have the impression that YOU, young man, somehow made that volume moldy just to get her goat."
"Why Sir Gabe, I have no clue what you are talking about and ME? Why never."
That was the last time I saw the young rascal or more appropriately -- criminal, and I can just imagine that by now he's perfected the art of wickedness, as he was well on his way at that tender age of whatever he was, 7 or 8. He also informed me that when his father got knackered of annoying me, he was wont to take over the mantle. Oh, something to look forward to in me old age. I tell ya R. Linda, the whole family be a bunch of loonies. Just to let you know I haven't been back to Colorado since and that's on purpose I have not.
Gabe
Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved
