Mrs Cholmondeley-Warner; breeder of hens and exploding children
Dear Miss Poptoe,
Your recent dissertation about babies in the workplace prompted me to post a reply, but regretfully life in the shires can be a dizzy whirl of bucolic activities thus delaying my response. My latest mission is to track down replacement poultry. Were you aware that I am currently between hens? Dahlia was mortally savaged by a marauding badger, Sky succumbed to a mystery fowl pest, whilst Henrietta and Violet had their necks terminally stretched. The demise of the two latter was a fortuitous demonstration of pragmatism and the inexorable realities of life and death, as I expounded to my grandchildren. Hens are primarily oviducts with legs and feathers, and failure to produce a regular supply of eggs leads to the pot via the herb garden.
But I digress – babies in the workplace. No doubt you are cognizant of the film The Empire Strikes Back? Well an event many years ago was a case of a baby making vengeful retaliation. I was in the early days of maternity, my fecundity amply demonstrated not only by the sleeping infant in my lap, but by the lacticly bountiful bosoms and still voluptuous proportions in my middle region. (To be truthful, the analogy of a collapsed soufflé springs to mind.) Content in my domestic seclusion, I was visited by the female (young and single) who had replaced me at my place of employment. In she shimmied, lithe, taut, pert and fashionably garbed, radiating lissom beauty, freedom and wealth. The baby soon adjusted my visitor’s complacent facial expression with a well aimed posset down the back of her angora jumper and a trail of nappy overflow that extruded lava-like down her snugly fitting newly purchased trousers. She beat a hasty retreat, never to darken my doorstep again, and I’ve ever since had a fondness for the black and mustard colour combination.
Pip pip dear thing,
Mrs Cholmondeley-Warner
Pretty Feet, Pop Toe 
….who would’ve thought, it’d actually make sense if you read it :O …. Sorry if I was rude about your last post.
Worry not about your lack of politesse my dear young man…chicken executioners and multiple producers of bratlings have exceedingly broad shoulders.
I figured, but seeing as they’ve named you Cholmoonsomethingsomething….. I didn’t want to add to it :O . Again, my sincerest apologies.
There were so many ways this could have been said. This one has to be the best!
Too too kind
Mrs CW needs to get her own blog!
My dear thing, I have been practising keeping my thoughts to myself as I have found over the years that the expression of them have given rise to great offence, or as with Mr Rantonit, a lack of comprehension.
I truly admire your stranglehold on the English language. It’s precise and eloquent.
Your storytelling is second to none.
Well, perhaps some, but certainly not many.
Bravo.
You appear to be rather dapper in the wordsmith department yourself, so it is gratifying to receive your compliments.
Great guest post!
She’s rather a treat, isn’t she?
Thank you kindly. I have my eye on your insignia…it looks as though it would suit me rather well, but I submit to PFPT’s elegant illustration with good grace.
Somehow, I kept hearing the voice of Penelope Keith as I was reading this….in between chuckles of course!
Ah Penelope Keith. Now there is an exponent of Cholmondeley Warnerisms if ever I heard one!
I would NEVER eat my chickens! I’ll become a vegetarian before I would ever do that.
Whoa, wait a minute, this chick came to Ms. C’s home to see the baby? That’s different than bringing the baby to the workplace. That chick deserved to have puke thrown up on her!
🙂
Pray tell, whose chickens would you eat? Mine are reared with love and understanding,and are eaten in the same vein. unless they are recalcitrant layers, in which case they are gnashed with savagery and spite, or do I mean spice?
You is Klass
Intergenerational communications are to be recommended, especially when brevity ensures that nothing is lost in translation
I didn’t even know the word ‘posset’ existed until you wrote it! I was a solitary hold-out in PFPT’s original post on babies in the workplace (I liked seeing them!) but this entry, like her’s, is still a marvellous post in an all-too rare appearance from the great Mrs. Cholmondeley-Warner. C’mon, get your own blog and shine some more! :0)
My dear, your unfettered enthusiasm is creditable, but I shall stay linked to PFPT. I have many calls on my time so I am obliged to her for allowing me to air an occasional thought with her chums. At my advanced age I have to eke out my ouevres like the boy did his manners, but with a bit of luck and a fair wind following I shall be with you all before too long. Toodle pip.
Taking babies to work is a form of biological warfare, as Mrs Cholmendeley Warner has so aptly demonstrated.
I suspect if one knows how to wring the necks of chickens and takes a baby to work colleagues won’t say anything. At least not to one’s face.
The timely effluvia of my darling first born prompted such admiration in my maternal breast that an ambition to propagate yet more discerning little people took hold, and three siblings duly made their appearance. Not one of these infants crossed the threshold of a work place until they could commandeer a remuneration worthy of their talents. They may not yet have demonstrated their mother’s neck wringing skills, but on occasions the looks in their eyes suggest that they could if they would.