On my website, The Athertonian, I am writing an English Country House Murder Mystery thing. It is kind of a play and kind of a novel. It is called Murder At Atherton Manor, and is one of the many current writing projects that I seem to dart between like a bee pollinating flowers.
In this Novel/Play, there is a butler named Sneakfork. He is employed by Lady Atherton at Atherton Manor. Here is an actual conversation, more or less verbatim, that Alec (my boyfriend) and I had about Sneakfork last night (except that it totally wasn’t about Sneakfork, because Alec accidentally-on-purpose got his name wrong and the conversation veered sharply into the surreal):
Alec: you mean old Sneezefire, the butler?
Me: Yes. Sneezefire is a good, majestic butler, but he has one fatal flaw- he sneezes frigging fire. This is a problem for a butler. Of course, a good butler never sneezes in front of the Gentry, so, for years, he has been pretending to Lady Atherton that he is a pipe-smoker, and thus explained the scorched drapes etc. in this manner; however, his secret has recently come out-
Alec intoned solemnly: The Day the Second Underfootman Dropped the Cruet.
…as if this event was indeed a day that would Live On in Infamy.