Christmas At The Manor

For the first time in some years, my entire little family will be together. All four brats are now here, and happily playing hockey on the rink (we flood the tennis court in winter). As for the kids' genders, well, let us just say, one of each. More on them in future posts; for now, I am content to enjoy the afternoon from the conservatory window, taking occasional sips from a very serious martini.

From that vantage point, I can watch Consuela, my Mexican groundskeeper, enjoying plowing snow along the driveway to the front of the manor. She loves the big John Deere, and delights in making huge snowbanks at each side, then ramming even more snow into the banks. The girl was not always so happy, and had to be retrieved from a Ciudad Juarez drug cartel moments before she faced beheading. How that rescue occurred is still under official wraps, so to speak, but when I learn that that the cartel is no more, I will relate the story.

Ahmed, my driver, is quite smitten with Consuela, but the courtship is not going well. Ahmed is an observant Muslim, and has trouble with Consuela's attitude towards life. Oh, she is modest in her dress, and would never be caught dead in a tight sweater and mini-skirt. Well, she dressed this way once, but that was a special occasion where I had directed some undercover work in San Diego. For the most part, however, she dresses sensibly, yet adheres to the song lyric "I enjoy being a girl." She quite likes Ahmed, but when he suggested that she wear a hijab, that was a bridge too far. Consuela has glorious raven tresses, and wants then to be seen not just by Ahmed, but by anyone else. Religion making things difficult again. As when does it not?

I suppressed any further thought in this direction -- the moment was too peaceful for religious irritation -- and focused on the imminent arrival of my good friend and quondam lover, the Compte de Rienville. The roads being an icy mess, I had sent Ahmed in the Hummer to pick him up at the airport. The Compte would be bringing a case of exquisite burgundy from his estate, and with his connections to the French D.G.S.E., would have no trouble at customs. A shiver of anticipation ran through me, and I was, for the first time in years, looking forward to Christmas.

And no regrets at all for having to turn down Stephen Harper's kind offer of a Senate seat. Way too public, and given the number of contracts and fatwas out on me, well, the appointment was just not on. So I declined, but not without first urging Stephen to come to terms with the Russian, Ignatieff, and leave the Canadian electorate in peace for a while.

Now that would be a FINE Christmas present!

But I see that the Compte has arrived, and I must do something with my hair.