Now, don't get me wrong. On the whole I love my job. I have a very short walk, up a leafy lane, and with stunning views, to get to my work.
At 7.30 am, yesterday morning, for example, it took me a couple of minutes to let out the hens and walk up to work amidst a fresh nip in the air, rhododendruns bursting out all over, and loads of noisy birds vying for attention with the sounds of their chirruping.
This was the last morning of a long week at work - up to 12 hours for each of 8 days and yep, Not a chocolate, Not a big bunch of flowers, Nor yet even a cash bonus was I given for a tip, as my predecessors had.
I am head cook (producing the best of Gary, Gordon, Nigella and Mary Berry), bottle washer, laundrymaid, shopper, seamstress, bed-maker, toilet cleaner, shoe-shiner, butler, soother of ruffled feathers, etc for my boss and his guests. Rose, Mrs Bridges and Mr Hudson et al, all rolled into one.
All for the princely sum of £5.35 per hour (basic minimum wage.) That's what I get. Mr T, for being gardner/handyman and general runner abouter has our tied cottage thrown onto his salary package.
My boss visits only a few times a year, but expects, and gets, full service. Except, of course, any 'service' above and beyond the normal call of duty- *ahem*.
And. Joy of joys - I heard that the rancid old crow, who used to have my job yonks ago, but has now climbed herself up to the dizzy heights of paid 'companion', made up Lies about me. A big problem for her is that I am good at my work.
Fuck, I do wonder why I am doing this.
Especially when I am asked what will happen to the leftover food; will it get saved and put into the freezer?
Perhaps I should be grateful for the 'showy offy' glass of champange I was persuaded to drink the other lunchtime.
Just made me drunk in charge of an Aga.