The Lower Strangling Chronicles
It may have been his 83rd birthday, and he may have resolved the paranormal situation at his house after his servants discovered some protestors tying some nylon strings to a Ming vase*, but Sir Hugo was still miserable.
Of course, it was not unusual for Sir Hugo to be miserable. In fact, it would have been more surprising if he wasn’t. But at the moment, it didn’t seem like there was anything for him to be miserable about.
“May I ask what is wrong, sir?” Hugo’s trusty butler Nestor said.
“Nothing is wrong. I simply have resting bitch face,” Sir Hugo said.
“Is this because of Rishi?” Nestor said, referring to Rishi Sunak, the man who replaced Sir Hugo’s preferred choice, Liz Truss at Prime Minister of Great Britain.
“Well, I am salty that the party stabbed its members in the back, but I really am just myself,” Sir Hugo said.
“If you say so, sir,” Nestor said. “I suppose you were never fond of your birthday.”
“Well, no,” Sir Hugo said. “All it serves now is a reminder that I am getting older and, therefore, closer to death.”
“Ok, sir,” Nestor said.
Just then, Dorris, the housekeeper, barged into the room.
“They’re back, sir, the protestors.” Dorris said.
Hugo sighed angrily.
“Tell them to bugger off.” Sir Hugo said. “Don’t they realise it’s my birthday?”
“Probably not, sir.” Dorris said. “I’ll try to get them to move on.”
“If you can’t, call the police,” Sir Hugo said. “They’ll sort this out.”
“I’m sure protests are illegal now, sir,” Nestor said.
“Indeed, they are,” Sir Hugo said. “If there’s one good thing about young Rishi getting into No. 10, it’s that these bastards are now considered terrorists.”
“I’ll tell the police that there are some terrorists gathered outside our house then, sir,” Dorris said, leaving the room.
Nestor then picked up a large parcel wrapped in navy blue wrapping paper.
“There is one last present here for you, sir.” Nestor said. “From an old friend.”
Hugo grumbled.
“I still don’t know how Scamander can get something 5,000 miles below the Earth’s surface**, but oh well. Give it here.” Hugo said.
“Very well, sir.” Nestor said, giving Hugo the present.
Hugo removed the card from the top of the present and looked at it. On the envelope was the distinctive, elegant handwriting of Dr Scamander Trout.
He opened the card and read it.
To Sir Hugo, my old friend, began the card. Hope you enjoy reminiscing about old times with the book. See you soon when I finally get out of this place, or when you finally come down here where you belong. Ha! Ha! Yours faithfully, Dr Scamander Trout.
Sir Hugo placed the card on top of the mantelpiece, then unwrapped the present.
It was a book. A hardback, large, 1000 page, coffee-table book. Bullingdon: 242 years of Oxford’s Infamous Boys Club, Retold By Some of its Members was essentially a book of anecdotes written by famous past and present members of the Bullingdon Club, including David Cameron, Boris Johnson, Dr Scamander Trout and, of course, Sir Hugo Townsend.
It was a book frowned upon by most people, and the only folk who wanted to read it were the ones who wrote it.
Sir Hugo chuckled to himself.
“The idiot bought this book, thinking I wouldn’t have gotten a copy as one author.”
He cackled for a moment, before frowning once more.
“And he was correct, so I look forward to reading that.”
Sir Hugo then placed the book down next to him.
“For a man who hates his birthday, you seem to rather enjoy receiving presents,” Nestor said.
“Well, of course,” Sir Hugo said. “If I am to be reminded of my age, I might as well get something out of it.”
Nestor laughed. “Fair point.”
Dorris once again entered the room. “I have alerted the police to the terrorist threat outside the house, sir.”
“Excellent,” Sir Hugo said. “I fancy a walk around the grounds. Make sure the terrorists don’t find me.”
“I’ll do my best,” Dorris said, before vacating the room.
“Come, Nestor,” Sir Hugo said. “You shall be my bodyguard.”
“Very well,” Nestor said.
And so Sir Hugo and Nestor vacated the grand Knightlow Hall and wandered through the extensive grounds, with Sir Hugo planning a visit to New Bedlam to see his dear friend Dr Scamander Trout.
*They were protestors angry about Knightlow Hall being in private ownership and not open to the public:
To find out how this played out read:
Sir Hugo Townsend and the Invisible Ghost
And
The Duke’s Spectral Predicament
**This being New Bedlam Hospital for the Criminally Insane, a lunatic asylum located 5,000 miles beneath the Tower of London, and not hell. Although if you were imprisoned there you wouldn’t tell the difference.
To find out how Dr Scamander Trout found himself down there read:
The Sectioning of Dr Scamander Trout
And to discover how he celebrated the one year anniversary of his incarceration read:
https://thelowerstranglingchronicles.com/2021/05/31/happy-anniversary-dr-trout/
The Robinsonverse 