Boiling mad, I am. You know what they’re saying? Don’t stop stirring just ‘cos I’m talking. Soon as I heard I thought I’ve been doing that for years. Anyone round here’ll tell you. Just cos he’s gentry and
I’m from a village bakery. Yes, add the sugar. Tip it all in. Don’t dither, girl.
That old lech. Drinking and gambling with his posh mates in that so-called gentleman’s club, while the rest of us work day and night. Oh yes, I’ve heard the rumours about what he gets up to with young girls.
It’s like a sport with his sort. No thought for their reputations. I put money on there being half a dozen of his bastards round about. His reward for that behaviour? Chief admiral, if you please. And a right royal mess he made of it too. I’d have done a better job and I’ve spent my whole life in a kitchen. Silver spoon.
No, don’t get me a silver spoon. I mean he was born with one in his mouth. I just get to polish them and be grateful for the sit down job. We’ll have some tea once this is ready. Bread and butter. Plum jam, cheese, meat occasionally. Of course he has meat for every meal. Gooseberry jam. Rhubarb. Red currant. No, it will be at least another half hour. You should listen more carefully. Fetch the jars. We’ll put them in the oven.
That girl’s useless. Oh dear. I’m getting hot and bothered. I just absolutely hate to think that people are saying anything in between two slices of bread is a sandwich. People should be calling them Harriet Wilsons. A round of cheese Wilsons. Jam Harriets for the kids. Damn him. I don’t care if he is an Earl. At least if they had my name it wouldn’t make you think of sand in your food. I hate that. All gritty on your teeth. That makes me mad too. Boiling mad.