An awfully trying incident in the house this afternoon. Shirley arrived at the front door shortly before two, carrying a brown wicker basket which brimmed to the very lip with muffins and scones of all varieties; the woman then proceeded into my kitchen and began to expound on the details of each confection -- every currant and cranberry, each grain of flour and sugar leapt fleeting from the tip of her tongue, her pearls of bakery knowledge seemingly endless. While I found all this rather charming, as Shirley is a pleasant if not wholly likeable woman, her baker's bedside manner is not without flaw, and after nigh thirty minutes of olfactory assault I began to feel as though she meant to comment on my own skills in the kitchen.
I, who had a tray of beef and kidney pasties in the oven, at that very moment! I, who each year brings, under no compulsion, social or moral, three trays of fruit pies to the home for destitute children each Michelmas! The very nerve of this creature, to cast doubt upon my own womanly properties. Well, I have no remorse in telling you that I promptly cast her out, after another hour of idle chatter.
And those orange scones, I will have you know, are hard as granite. Well!