Category: House Notes

Sir Reginald Tuftington wishes to address the matter of pigeons upon the roof terrace. They arrive at dawn, in numbers exceeding one hundred, and conduct themselves with astonishing impertinence, strutting along the parapet as if they paid rent.

He wishes to say, firmly, that they do not. A strongly worded sign has been placed by the weathervane, reading: ‘Pigeons are respectfully requested to depart.’ The pigeons have read the sign, considered it, and left a small token of their opinion upon the letter P. Sir Reginald is thinking of employing a hawk. Miss Pounce has suggested an extra long nap instead.

In recent weeks the grand staircase has been the scene of several mishaps, most notably the descent of a large tabby on a tea tray, and the unfortunate collision of two aunts. The management wishes it to be known that the staircase is not a slide, a playground, or a theatre.

Patrons are requested to keep to the left, to hold the banister, and to refrain from racing one another to the landing. The brass rail has been waxed to a mirror finish, and we cannot be responsible for the consequences. A cat who falls upon the stairs will be assisted by Mr. Clank, who will carry them out gently and with an air of weary dignity.

Early next week, the cellars of Fur & Fortune will be subjected to the annual Great Stocktaking, an event of tremendous solemnity. Eleven clerks, armed with clipboards and tiny lanterns, will descend at dawn to count each crate, tin and tassel.

Last year the count returned a puzzling surplus of seventeen teapots, a missing barrel of cream, and one extremely healthy rat who wished to be considered an employee. He was granted a staff badge and a small desk. He is now Assistant Manager of Lanterns. The cellar will be closed to customers from Monday, and all enquiries will be answered with a long, tired look.

The Complaints Room, which has stood on the First Floor since 1905, wishes to announce that it has received 1,412 complaints this year, of which 1,409 concerned the temperature of the milk. The remaining three concerned a pigeon, a draught, and the shocking absence of a second chair.

The Complaints Officer, Mr. Hubert Grumbleton, wishes to thank each correspondent for their trouble and assure them that every letter has been read, sighed over, and filed. The milk will remain at its present temperature. The pigeon has been spoken to. The second chair is on order and will arrive when the first one is satisfied.

Madame Odette Violette, who presides over the Perfumery, reports with some distress that one of her bottles, labelled ‘Dawn Over Kippers’, has been mixed with a bottle of ‘Evening in the Cupboard’. The result, she says, is a scent that makes a cat think of fish in a cellar at midnight, and then regret everything.

The mixture has been named ‘Regrettable Harbour’ and is being sold at 9 treats a phial, because it is somehow selling out. Madame Violette says this is the first time a mistake has been profitable. She plans to make more by accident. Patrons are advised to sniff from a distance of two feet and to consult a doctor if their whiskers curl.

A notice from Sir Reginald Tuftington, Floorwalker. It has come to his attention that a customer, whom he shall not name but who is a large ginger, has fallen asleep upon the Chesterfield in the Furniture Hall for a period exceeding seven hours. He has not purchased the Chesterfield. He has merely lain upon it in a manner that suggests title.

Sir Reginald wishes to say that the store welcomes rest, but does not offer permanent tenancy. A small card has been placed upon the sleeper’s chest. It reads: ‘We trust you are comfortable. We require you to buy something.’ The ginger has not woken. Sir Reginald has gone for tea.

The Lost Property Office, a small room behind the Ladies’ Mantles, wishes to report a surprising harvest this quarter. We have recovered fourteen umbrellas, nine left gloves, one monocle, three false whiskers, a pocket watch that runs nineteen minutes slow, and a ball of wool that appears to have been in a fight.

Owners may claim their effects by presenting themselves at the Lost Property Counter with a description and a mildly guilty expression. The false whiskers have been claimed by none, and we respectfully suggest that anyone who wore them in July should come forward without shame. We have all been there. We have all been on the third floor in a rush.

A bulletin from the Sixth Floor Observatory, where our resident meteorologist, Captain Ambrose Whisp, has been watching the weather through a brass telescope. This afternoon the skies are clear, the pigeons are plentiful, and the sunbeam on the roof terrace is a generous two yards across.

Captain Whisp predicts a light shower at half past four, a stiff breeze at five, and a distinct possibility of crumbs by six. He recommends that any gentleman cat venturing onto the terrace should wear a hat, and that any lady cat should bring a parasol. Neither will be provided, but both may be admired at the Millinery Counter, on the Third Floor.

Miss Ottoline Pounce, our esteemed Lift Attendant these twenty three years, has asked that the following be published for the benefit of all patrons. First, one does not sniff the other passengers. Second, one does not paw at the buttons, which are brass and expensive. Third, one does not sit in the corner and refuse to alight at the intended floor.

She further wishes to remind customers that the lift ascends at a stately 1.2 feet per second, and that attempts to hurry her will be met with a dignified silence of up to eleven minutes. Miss Pounce reports that the lift is quite content, and that the hum is the sound of a tune only she can hear.