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In the Lap of Luxury (When There's Nowhere Else to Sit)
It recently occurred to me that living in a small, cheap apartment ought to afford one certain compensatory luxuries. It was this thought that prompted me to open the Yellow Pages to the M’s, seeking a maid, for whom I felt a sudden urgent requirement. What I found instead was a listing for mudjacking contractors. Not that I might not need one of those—if not several, heaven knows—somewhere down the road, but presently I was in search of a maid. The idea rolled over and over in my brain, in a British accent, no less.
Thwarted in the M’s, I turned to the B’s. If I am to be denied a maid, I’ll acquire a butler. They don’t sweep up and tidy up and clean up and plump up and spruce up, but they do cooler stuff. Butlers take your gentle guest’s topcoat and umbrella before escorting him to the library (or the closet, in the case of our apartment) for a warmed brandy. They then retire discreetly to the wainscoting, or whatever it is you call the servants’ quarters, after murmuring the gentle guest’s arrival to the lady of the manor. (That would be me, if the Yellow Pages could locate something closer than “Bus Charters.")
I understand that no butler worth his tails would tolerate a domicile that lacked a library, but this closet thing can work. I know it. And I’m committed to doing whatever it takes to provide my butler the highest level of civilization in these tiniest of circumstances.
There’s no time to lose, either. Just last weekend, I was trying to adorn a glass of iced tea by slicing a lemon into wedges. However, the pressure of the dull knife caused the waxed lemon to shoot out from under its attacker, tumble and roll across the floor, coming to a rest behind the toilet. (They don’t call it an efficiency apartment for nothing.)
That would have been a perfect opportunity to call out briskly yet absently, “Sir Foggy, be a dear and fetch that naughty lemon from behind the toilet, won’t you?” And Sir Foggy would promptly offer up the lemon in question with a baritone “There you are, Madame."
I foresee day after day softly punctuated with the discreet, almost furtive movements of my butler expertly “perceiving the need,” as a fellow butler-seeker once described her service requirements. Jars of forbidden pickles would open with ease, as would long-stuck doors.
Come nightfall, I would tinkle the silver bell three times and sidestep into the library closet so that Sir Foggy might deftly pluck the futon roll from the bulging broom closet and snap it smartly out onto the kitchen floor in one expert move. His white glove would flick a bit of muck, doubtless broom debris, off of one corner, and he would retire once more to the wainscoting.
Yessirree, I could get used to living in the lap of luxury—which is a good thing because there’s nowhere else to sit. |
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