This is the third and final review of the Mrs Lords range please click on the links below to read parts one and two:
It had taken several sharpeners to roust my Adonisian splendor from a fitful slumber after the night of mysterious miasma’s or phantasmagorical fog.
My mind insisted on recalling that wonderful weekend I had spent at Mrs Lords country pile and yet why?
This state of general puzzlement was overtaken by my perilous financial situation and the need to remedy it post haste by meeting with Don Nawtxi Snouffle, that notorious Andorran truffle magnate.
Arriving early at 4 we had planned for a leisurely sauna, liberally interspersed by several dips in the frigidarium, it does wonders for the constitution, or so they say, not to mention carefully calculated negotiations.
The old goat had a brace of rare, scarlet truffles for sale, which I knew a certain chef wanted for an especially important royal patron, when he named a price so obscene that even Salome would have blushed, I naturally demurred nonchalantly until I had secured a solid 10% for the gourmands retirement fund.
We sat in those tiny, sopping wet towels, sweating like snowmen in the sahara, Don Nawtxi’s appallingly awful toe cheddar coupled with the inane banter about his latest conquests festered inside the sauna and so even after repeated visits to the frigidarium, I was almost panting for a good vape.
I asked the foetid old fox if he would join me in a stiffener and a cheeky vape before we dressed for dinner and the rank old rogue immediately rang the bell for a butler.
We were about to shake hands on the trifling, truffle transaction when the doors opened to admit a man that looked curiously familiar.
I got as far as “I say…” when the fact that the insufferable Smythe was standing in front of me yet again, rendered me unconcious with rage, or so I thought.
In actual fact the bloody butler had thrown a tray of G&T’s along with a selection of vapes and assorted liquids at my head with all too much accuracy.
Picking my personage up after the unanticipated fracas, I ran after the oily oik catching him right between the staircase and the main door, his eyes flashed with anger as he turned and drew an umbrella from the stand like a bloodthirsty hussar unsheathing a sabre.
I reacted by ripping off my dripping rag of a towel and attacking immediately, whipping and flicking the wet cotton at a rapidly retreating Smythe. He fenced well and mounted the stairs even as I pressed home my advantage with astonishing ferocity, with the benefit of hindsight… it may well have been in sheer shock that I was still pursuing him with just a bath sheet, in my birthday suit?
Nevertheless, things came to quite the crescendo when we entered the dining room and the resourceful canard grabbed a matching set of flaming victorian crumpet forks… only to throw them directly at my norks.
I barely managed to entangle them in my towel mid flail and thankfully the gourmand family jewels survived for another day, I grabbed at whatever was nearest in a terrified riposte, only to lob a lobster at the lout.
While I apologised profusely to the previous owner of the crustacean… a Monsignor no less, the slippery Smythe ran off and after an unfortunate bow that caused further uproar throughout the entire dining room, I stupidly followed the villain up the stairs.
Dodging the flying ferns, antique urns and an entire suit of armour, only redoubled my efforts to collar the heel and give him a good shoeing.
I vaguely remember my nose breaking as he slammed the door to the roof garden behind him. Enraged I eventually cornered the malevolent manservant overlooking the cobbles and checking to ensure my towel was now firmly fastened, moved in to finish him off.
The Geneva Convention was abandoned as we exchanged haymakers, Glasgow kisses, donkey bites and even Chinese burns, grappling and struggling in the gathering dusk. After tussling for what seemed like hours, his left foot slipped on the gravel and I managed an uppercut that knocked him up onto the parapet, where as if in slow motion… he began to topple over the edge.
In an uncommon moment of remorse, I reached out my hand to grab his… finally I had the upper hand, the upper most of upper hands. Something clicked in my brain, so I loosened my grip ever so slightly and casually stated to the sinking Smythe, “It was you last night… you rotter!”
His eyes flashed with a murderous glint but with astonishing self control he merely nodded in agreement.
“Tell you what old chap” I said with an evil smile, even as my arm went numb with his weight, “let me try one of those liquids, won’t you?
“Now…sir?” inquired the butler in a tone that could only be described as infuriatingly together for a man in his present predicament.
“No time like the present” said I, as cool as a Siberian summer breeze even as the sweat rolled in rivers down my forehead and the adrenaline began to wear off.
With quite the wriggle and dance the bloody butler managed to fill the vaping apparatus and pass it heavenwards, I pressed down on the firing button and inhaled, mmmm Custard cream if I was not not mistaken?
I made sure to vape the lot, savouring every last custardy puff.
“Meh” I lied unashamedly, “I’m bored… have you anything else?” concentrating hard to ignore the growing pains in my arm and that beautiful biscuity aftertaste torturing my tastebuds.
“Anything else” repeated the insolent savage with a discombobulating amount of self control, “of course, what would sir prefer?”
“Why not a good absinthe?” said I… equally as sarcastically, loosening my grip a smidgeon to emphasise my love of the green fairy.
The man magically produced another bottle called Druide out of the air and then proceeded to fill the vape… finishing with a most vexatious, devil may care flourish.
Mmm that was good, the anise and the liquorice combined with a hint of the wormwood danced across my palate, a deliciously, decadent reminder of a certain little cabaret in Berlin, I thought to myself momentarily distracted.
“Not entirely bad” I lied again to the now white faced serpent, “but you really must try harder”.
The snake was as silent as his reptilian forefathers, even as my arm straightened to remind him just how truly merciless a mistress gravity can be, nevertheless, the refilled vape was back in my hand within seconds.
Liquorice this time, exactly like those curious little Pontrefact cakes, amazing just how astonishingly different it was compared to the Druide and yet… equally delicious.
Smythe had not uttered a single superfluous word, had yet to apologise or attempt to beg for his miserable soul, so even as all feeling left my arm, I demanded another delicious flavour.
“Another?” came the outrageously calm reply.
I simply handed down the vaping apparatus once again rather than dignifying such an annoyingly restrained riposte with a response.
Within seconds I was sucking down some Sarsparilla, now let us be clear here, the temperance movement holds no attractions for a man of my Bacchanalian appetites yet I loved it, some may argue that root beer or dandelion and burdock are stronger and better but to me it tasted of victory pure and simple.
So much so that it may have affected my stubborn disposition as the more i thought that this gentleman’s gentleman was no gentleman, the more I was forced to consider that here was exactly the man for me. Anyone who could deal with my vaping demands with such aplomb in such a precarious position could never ever be left to the deadly embrace of gravity.
And that is how the indispensable and unscrupulous Smythe (or as he is known online /u/Eternal_Sunshine) became my butler.
For further details on these most interesting of elixirs and the new vaping “apparatus” please do follow the link: http://www.mrslord.co.uk/
Rating: a carefully restored Constable.
Due to the violent nature of my vaping, I simply cannot be sure of the wicking materials, the wattage or the exact nicotine content enjoyed during that fateful encounter.