Downton Bloggy

(To be read in your most posh British accent unless you ARE a very posh Brit, in which case, carry on.)

I am at my wit's end. I must - I say, I simply MUST - put two rather important letters in the post as soon as possible. However, our printer has ceased working and so I am not able to print out said letters in order to put them into the post. It is astounding that, in our advanced society, such a thing might happen. It has never - I repeat, NEVER - happened before. If one could simply call upon a service person of some sort, and have a new printer delivered and installed, one would be very happy, indeed.

As if the lack of a working printer were not enough to send one into apoplexy, there does not appear to be a single postage stamp in our household. However shall I cope? I searched the postage stamp drawer thoroughly. I even asked my spouse if perhaps, he might have a stray stamp or two that he might give me. To my chagrin, he did not.

With incredible effort, I dressed myself warmly (for it is a very cold night, indeed) and drove myself to a public printing service establishment. My cheeks burning with shame, I swiped my credit card, logged onto the World Wide Web, and printed my documents. Pulling said documents from the printer with great haste, I ran to my car, where I sat, momentarily, to regain my composure, before driving on to the supermarket to purchase a book of stamps.

As it was embarrassing enough to be in such an establishment after dark without proper escort, and fearing that the management of said establishment might look with suspicion upon such as wretch as myself if I simply purchased a book of stamps, I also purchased a loaf of bread and a bit of good, aged cheddar.

To my horror, the only cash register which was open was at the self check-out. Glancing about to be sure that none of my peers might also be in the supermarket (ridiculous thought though that was) I checked out my own items. If my unfortunate situation could possibly worsen, then worsen it did. It worsened greatly, and with terrible, swift speed, for, when I asked the clerk for a book of stamps, she replied, "I don't have any and Customer Service is closed."

Closed! How utterly riduculous! Why would an establishment have a Service for Customers if they had not the proper staff to keep it open when a customer might need it the most? Livid, and yet humiliated, I fled the supermarket for the relative safety of my car, where, without even taking the time to compose myself, I drove home straitaway.

As I will obviously be haunted by these events, and will be unable to sleep for many minutes, I have set them down in this way, in order to purge them from my feverish mind. O! If only we had servants, I would ring for tea but, as one can imagine, after this dreadful past hour - an hour of my life which I will never regain - I fear I can do nothing whatsoever except to sit upon the sofa and sigh.