Brandy and Burnt Sausages: Mrs Finnegan Uncovers a Heinous Crime and a Way of Controlling the Weather

I not only endeavour to make this chronicle useful, I also aspire to transform the tedium of your day-to-day world with a little of the fizz we authors (published) call DRAMATIC TENSION. Today I think I may have surpassed myself…

If you are planning a harvest supper or an autumn wedding you will NATURALLY wish the day to be both fair and dry.

The only sure AND certain way of guaranteeing the weather is to bury a burnt sausage in the garden the night before. I have this on excellent authority, namely from a Yorkshire woman of IMPECCABLE character who resides a few streets away.

She has NEVER known this measure to fail, although I understand that German readers favour an uncooked sausage. That may do for the continent, but in these islands burnt is BETTER.

A sennight ago I carried out an experiment with a sausage in Brunswick Square, (not having a proper garden in The Regency Town House, merely a yard which contains a well, a vegetable store and two disagreeable hens). I ADMITT there were difficulties.

First, I had to acquire said item from Mrs Pickles, our esteemed cook. Never having burnt anything in her long and illustrious career, she was shocked at the suggestion but once she understood the scientific nature of the task agreed to co-operate, although I suspect it COST her a sleepless night…

Second, I needed a small trowel for the job. None being available, I thought to BORROW a silver serving spoon of exactly the right size, but Mr Cubbage suggested I think again. Or words to that effect.
Butlers, as you know, are in charge of silver cutlery but M C takes an unnecessarily proprietorial attitude and is ignorant of the virtues of PUNCTIIOUS research. An old tin lid had to suffice.

Third, digging was not as easy as I imagined. Allow plenty of time when burying your own sausage.

Fourth, I had an unwelcome audience of small boys and bad-tempered gardeners. Both had to be placated, the first with a HANDFUL of sweets and the latter with a helping of sweet reason (plus sixpence as a tip) .

Fifth and finally, I underestimated the tenacity of dogs. I had to stand over my little plot until their owners called them in.

My efforts were rewarded, however, as the next day the sun SHONE and not a drop of rain fell, apart from a smattering of moisture that was of such little account it was more like the sky sweating than actual rain.
And anyway it was at dinner time when everyone was indoors.

So, burn your sausages and bury them. Party away!

ooOOoo

I MUST now turn to a grave matter and inform you with the bitterest of bitter regrets that there is a thief in The Regency Town House.

Let me explain. The master is not a great drinker, only taking a glass of brandy to aid mental concentration while READING in his study. Of course, he has another in the evening to assist with digestion and another at bedtime to ensure restful sleep. I believe he brushes his teeth with a light hock from Germany in the morning and partakes of port and claret at other times of the day. He is thus far from being a five-bottle-a-day man so it is with ALARM I discovered that brandy was disappearing at an alarming rate.

Who could be responsible? Let us examine the facts. Spirits are delivered to The House in small barrels called half ankers and contain four gallons and a bit. You may have seen a tubman in the streets carrying a pair tied together with rope and slung over his shoulders. They have flattened sides to make them easy for smugglers to carry. I mean gentlemen of the night. Or just…men. We get all ours from the village of Hove, it being a local centre for unofficial foreign trade.

The contents of the half anker is then watered down to make it drinkable. After that it is decanted and placed within easy reach of the Master.

All these tasks I used to perform with diligence before the Mistress went to the unnecessary extravagance of employing a butler. Since that time BRANDY consumption has gone UP three fold.

I wonder what that could mean? Dear reader, can you perhaps assist me…?

You INTENDED to buy a copy of my book, but perhaps the thought has slipped your mind like butter off a knife on a July afternoon.
You LONG to buy it, but are now worried by the rising cost of hay .
You DREAMED of owning a copy, but fear you are not worthy.

Whatever the reason, the time for hesitation is over. Think of it as an INVESTMENT in yourself. You deserve it.

What others have said:

“Mrs Finnegan is an absolute joy…”
“the redoubtable Mrs Finnegan…”
“bold, unapologetic and hilariously human”
“…it’s probably best to ignore most of Mrs. Finnegan’s home remedies”

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