rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Spring 1855
Winter 1865: Buckingham Palace
The diaries of Mrs Flora Porter, née Flossie Ramsbotham, were found beneath the floorboards at Hampton Court Palace, during recent building works. The little notebooks were tied with pink ribbon and wrapped in a pair of red tartan knickerbockers. Whilst the knickerbockers were graciously received on behalf of the nation by the Victoria and Albert Museum, the diaries themselves met with nothing but scorn. The eminent historian, Professor Dullas Ditchwater (author of dozens of long and extremely dusty volumes about Queen Victoria) dismissed Flora’s diaries as ‘worthless gossip’ and ‘scandalous tittle-tattle’.
When Professor Ditchwater lobbed Flora’s diaries out of his window, they fell into the hands of Alex Parsons, a not-so-eminent or expert historian. She immediately realised that important issues were revealed in the diaries, namely that even Kings and Queens wear underpants, and someone has to wash them. Now, thanks to Ms Parsons’ timely catch, you too can view Queen Victoria’s life and times from the unique perspective of the wash tub.
THIS DIARY BELONGS TO:
‘Do not forget, gentle reader; servants are also human beings,’ it says in this book of Household Management I dug out of Lady Snobby’s library. Oh yeah! That’ll come as news to Lady La-di-dah Bossy Boots. Since when do I have time to be a human being, I’d like to know? Sixteen hours a day up to my elbows in soap suds, and life not made easier with the wretched butler trying to kiss me. (I wouldn’t mind so much but he’s got a wart on the end of his nose with three wiry hairs sticking out of it, yeeuch!) Miserable wages, miserable household, and the Snobbies are unbearable. Flossie Ramsbotham, you were born for better things.
Since this is the day to make New Year’s resolutions here are mine:
That should do it, I reckon.
Made it! What can one say about my new boss, our esteemed monarch, William one-vee? Well, to put it kindly, our dear King looks about a hundred years old and his eyes stick out like a frog’s. He has zillions of children by an actress called Mrs Jordan and none at all by his wife, the rather dotty Queen Adelaide. Setting an example to the lower orders indeed!
The heir to the throne of England is his niece, Princess Victoria, who lives with her pushy mama in Kensington Palace. Princess Victoria is exactly the same age as me and she keeps a diary. I think this is an omen.
Meanwhile down at the palace laundry I get to wash the king’s drawers. They are not a pretty sight. He has three hundred pairs of fine linen underpants with holes in the front so he doesn’t have to take all his clothes off when he goes for a piddle. The Queen has the same number of roomy drawers, trimmed with pintucks and lace.
As everybody knows, ladies’ drawers are not stitched together, otherwise we’d have to rummage about in an unseemly way under layers of petticoats every time nature called.
The head laundry maid told me that pants were named after a Christian martyr called Saint Pantalone. I have to take an interest in these things or I’d go mad.