I was not born the proud occupant of a corner
cubicle and window desk with a view across the dreaming money mountains of the
City. Oh no, indeed. My beginnings were much more humble.
My climb to this locational glory began as
a student, a student equipped with, my children entirely refuse to believe, all
the essential apparatus of 1970’s studenthood – a magnificent Zappa moustache
paid due homage to a great man, fourteen inch flared jeans sat elegantly on my
30" waist, my long golden tresses were habitually tied back in a long wavy
ponytail. Well…. A small ponytail. And the colour was perhaps a
little more mouse than golden. And maybe the waist was 32”. Or 34”. Not 36”,
absolutely not. And, looking at the
photographs, the moustache seems perchance more Niven than Zappa.
This essay at hippydom was a rather short
period of my life, as it turned out. For
my second long vacation I had been expecting to go back to the farm where I had
worked in the first long summer and which seemed very appreciative of fashionable
dress and hairstyling. To my surprise, my letter seeking renewal of my post
garnered an instant response. From this it was very obvious that the incident
involving the ditch, the tractor, and the three ton trailer of barley had not
been forgotten, or forgiven.
So I applied to the local stately home to
work as a guide, escorting the steaming masses round the treasures and trinkets
of one hundred and fifty years of throwing nothing away. A colonel’s wife
commanded the regiment of guides and my charm went nowhere with her. She
perused me over the top of her half-focals, a technique learned no doubt from
her husband as perfected at El Alamein
“It would be nice to have a man among the
team” she boomed – with a look and in a tone that indicated that yours truly
was not helping achieve this objective.
She looked again, eyes narrowed against the
desert sun, sighed, and said “Start on Tuesday.
No doubt you can get a proper hair cut and shave by then. Oh, and buy
some clothes. Good afternoon”
So the pony tail was cropped, the flares
replaced with best country cords and the Zappa zapped, with a razor..But, this
sartorial vandalism apart, I took to life at Lowesdale Hall rather well. It was
warm and dry, an easy bike ride from home, the guides’ tea was generously
provisioned (though one did have to watch the sharp elbows when trying to get
at the scones and jam); and the gawping masses generally not too trying.
The most trying thing was trying to
remember the history and provenance of all the clutter which was laid about to
amuse the hordes. Lord Lowesdale was a
bit coy about this, and did not care to hear his staff admit that most of it
had been bought off dealers in the late nineteenth century, the ancient family
and fortune of Lowe going only as far back as a cotton mill in Accrington in
about 1856.
After a couple of weeks I was given the
heavy responsibility, but more generous tipping potential, of the evening
parties. These were not jolly cocktail parties, but groups of, mostly, Americans
who were prepared to pay very generously for a tour of the tat by candlelight
(much better that way actually, it looked more distinguished and less
distressed) and then dinner with Lord L himself – who also by candlelight looked
more distinguished and less distressed.
He normally avoided the tours part,
presumably to avoid awkward questions as to the presence of a lot other people’s
ancestors on his walls, but graciously received the punters in the Green
Drawing Room, for a quick glass of something reviving before dinner.
My last evening tour, before I was demoted
to the dizzy depths of supervising the correct placement of cars in the car
park, was of a party of very Californian Californians, all in jeans and tie
dyed T shirts, and indeed probably all relatives or mates of F Zappa. I was
very taken by all this laid back coolness, which is probably why I forgot to
mention to his lordship that they all had to a man, and to a rock chick, opted
for the vegetarian choice for dinner (three courses, each mostly of cheese).
Into the Green Drawing Room we shuffled,
with his lordship lolling heavily in front of a large Munnings of the 4th Lord Lowesdale
with the hounds of the Lowesdale Hunt, in front of Lowesdale Castle. His son gave them the ritual three minutes of
the charm of the English cotton spinning aristocracy, ending with “Do feel free
to ask any questions, though I doubt I’ll know the answers…hohoho”.
The sun-kissed ones were regarding the
hunting picture with what a lesser noble might have noticed to be considerable distaste.
Silence. Then one blond rock chick spoke up, speaking, one could not help but feel,
for them all:
“Gee Sir Lord Lowe, is that you in the
hunting gear?”
“Hahaha, my dear, certainly not. Not at
all” The Californians suddenly looked
happier, and at the back a short haired clean shaven guide breathed out.
“No no, dear lady, the hunt is banned
from Lowesdale Hall and all its lands”
The group began to look as they might raise three cheers for this
splendid example of a modern aristocrat.
“I banned them twenty years ago, my dear,
absolutely inappropriate. Created havoc with my shooting, can’t run a decent
pheasant shoot with my woods full of hounds. Eh? Eh? What? Where are you all
going? Mr B, where are they all going?”
