Butler Fan Fic
You, frankly, deserve a leave-of-absence. We all do. Not from work, necessarily, but from responsibility. From whatever it is there’s too much of. Too much domestic drudgery. Too much change happening, maybe. Perhaps you’re reeling from or a breakup or grieving a loss or swamped with overdue appointments for thins that need to be fixed.
This was put into perspective for me recently because, well, I don’t mean to boast but I survived a meeting with the Most Terrifying Person On Earth (MTPOE) earlier this week. She’s my accountant, the MTPOE, and one look from her, I tell you - it’s a superpower - any pretence that I may be a successfully functioning adult explodes like a flock of panicked geese from deep inside my soul and begins a brave migration through unforgiving climes and across many months to the outer reaches of Siberia.
How shocking, then, that his put-together, functional adult who never forgets where her car is, or puts her wallet in the fridge by accident, turned to me at the conclusion of one of my stuttered excuses for why I hadn’t done something I should have, and said wistfully, ‘You know, personally, I’d really love a butler’. Even the MTPOE dreams of a butler!
Public Service Announcement: sometimes it’s all too much. For the remainder of this column, you have staff. Shoosh. Don’t question it. Don’t mention logistics. You deserve this fantasy. We all do.
I tell you what, first of all, your butler never forgets bin night. Never again will you be switching off the lights at midnight and suddenly remember the extremely full rubbish bin that needs to be crammed full of more things and hauled out into the street despite you being in your pyjamas with a head cold and early start. Nope! No longer! This time, midnight, about to switch the light off, ‘binnight!’ you whisper like it’s a German swearword, but when you look towards the bins, they’re gone. Lined up neatly in the street. When did the butler even do it? They’re back, though, the bins, cleaned and lined and emptied, when you get up in the morning for that early start. They’ve been rescued from the street before anybody else gets to them, safe from the half-dozen passing dog-walkers sneak-lobbing a foul potpourri of parachuted stench-grenades into the bin to ferment into a death-stank by Tuesday.
The butler makes (and remembers) appointments and waters plants and responds to emails. The butler isn’t AI. The butler chats to the chef about what you’re likely to want for dinner and goes to the shops without forgetting that the word GARLIC has been written on an envelope in the kitchen for weeks now. The beds are made, the shower is clean, the dishwasher is empty. What smells nice? The flowers in a low-lit corner of the lounge room next to the book you forgot you were reading? Probably. Quick. You’d better curl up and read it, lest the butler be offended.
The chef actually prefers making six different dinners despite there only being four of you in the family. The chef doesn’t mind feedback like ‘this is disgusting’. You know what the chef loves? The chef loves chopping. Cannot get enough of fiddly chopping. Maybe you live alone and haven’t had the will to make yourself a proper salad because ugh who can be bothered. Chef can be bothered! Chef does sneaky things, too, like slip pre-make snacks into your bag with your keys and your wallet that chef found in the fridge. Chef has a cold drink waiting for you when you get home. Nothing special, says chef, setting down a chilled glass of lemon-myrtle-infused mineral water with two cracking ice blocks dancing in the spritz. The butler is grateful to have one too because the roof is quite hot on a day like this but on the plus side it won’t leak again.
Also you know those personal trainers you see in parks shouting with their arms crossed at huffing normies tugging giant tyres along behind them like it’s boot camp? Your personal trainer consists of a rotating timetable of your favourite people in the world, turned up to your door and asking to go for a walk. Shooting hoops, maybe, with your funny mate from high school. Or you open the door and ’Tennis?’ asks George Clooney.
Public Service Announcement: when it all gets too much, put some ice cubes in a glass of water and butlerise your day just slightly. You deserve it.
This appeared in Ed 749 of The Big Issue. Please support your local vendor.