Away, Ye Blaggard!

Today husband had an out of body experience: the deferential Liverpudlian re-emerged and took control. This time it wasn’t the corn cob chewing, cider swilling, thread-bare cap tipping peasant that last made an appearance when we met the Cotswold hamlet squire. It was more fumbling yet well intentioned knight.

It happened when husband was escorting his new boss, a real lord, to a west end restaurant for lunch. Said luncheon had been long anticipated but materialised on short notice, leaving husband all aflutter. Adding to the chaos, roadworks required they walk the two blocks to the luncheon establishment – the lord of course has a driver who’s typically employed for that kind of distance. Thanks to his company, husband was treated to gawking usually reserved for those choosing to walk around central London stark naked.

Just before the restaurant a particularly gnarled Big Issue vendor made an aggressive sales pitch to the lord. Cue the knight. Husband thrust his body in front of the homeless person, covering him from sight, then extended his arm to usher the lord onward. He repossessed himself just as he was about to shout, “away ye blaggard!” and throw his suit jacket over the man’s head.

That would have been embarrassing, but husband took care of that later when he ordered French onion soup. I have often tutored him on the necessity of avoiding holding one’s fork like a shovel, but even Emily Post is no match for melted cheese in hot liquid when attempting to look composed.

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