Tea with Mrs Peters
The new Vicar had arrived in Little Thorndon
And his young wife Christobel Luxon
Is busy filling her new social calendar.
There was one visitor
Who had not yet called:
The mysterious Mrs Peters,
Matron of the District,
Who is mentioned in hushed and reverent tones.
A card is sent.
The invitation is accepted.
On Wednesday at three o’clock
A carriage draws up.
In sweeps Mrs Peters in her lacy shawl
Carrying her pedigree Maltese, Seymour.
Seymour leaps from her arms
Rushes yapping around the drawing room,
Pees on the carpet,
Shreds a satin cushion in his jaws,
Then jumps back into Mrs Peters lap.
Young lady Christobel conceals her horror.
Tea? She demurely asks.
Coffee, replies the commanding Mrs Peters.
Havana Dark or Kenyan Highland roast?
Instant, replies the inscrutable Mrs Peters.
Jersey Cream or black?
Condensed milk, replies the intimidating Mrs Peters.
Staff scuttle around and Christobel
Senses her composure starting to falter.
Just as her trembling hand
Starts to pour the Nescafe,
Mrs Peters rises suddenly.
“I’ve decided I would prefer to have instant coffee
Back at my Estate,” she announces.
“I’ll send an invitation, next month …
Or perhaps the month after that.”
Without another word, Mrs Peters picks up Seymour
And sweeps back out of the drawing room,
Leaving poor young Christobel
Blinking back hot tears of mortified confusion.
Getting established in Little Thorndon
Is proving harder than she had hoped.