I am on a quest to create the smallest glass bottle of all time. I’ve seen some pretty tiny ones in my time, but I want to go smaller. There’s just something about holding the record that gets me going. I would revel in the glory of designing the most fiddly and difficult contraption of all time, and I would make it small enough that no one would ever be able to replicate it.
I’ve done so many hours of research that my brain is constantly filled with little glass figurines. I know the mechanics. I know which Melbourne glazier I’ll be getting in contact with to help bring my project to life. The glass bottle will be so small that a five cent piece won’t fit inside it. The only thing the bottle will fit will be a tiny piece of paper with a message of glory inscribed in it. The tiny note will read “You are holding the world’s smallest glass bottle” in very small writing. It will be epic.
The bottle will be so impressive that all glass bottle enthusiasts will be begging to purchase one. The time and skill that has gone into creating and designing the bottle will mean that it costs upwards of $10,000, but it will be worth it to have a stake in the tiniest glass bottle collection of all time.
For this endeavour to succeed, I will need a repair serviceman on hand. I’m sure there will be many occasions where the bottle is too fiddly and slips out of the talented glazier’s hand. I’m also sure that the lucky few who are able to purchase the tiny glass bottle will crack it at some point. They will need the number for a glass repair service that is capable of dealing with such a small object. It will be provided alongside each bottle purchased.
The importance of this project is off the charts. It will not only revolutionise the glass bottle industry, but make me famous in the process… I can’t wait to get started.
I’m signing off now. It’s time to walk up my newly glass balustrade stairs and go to bed. Big day of researching tomorrow.
No, I like the first thing. Although there must be a good hair salon located in the Melbourne CBD that I can go to without Mother having a fit at the commoners milling around. I need first-hand experience of a hair salon, once that uses quality products and where hair styling is a matter of course rather than a special service. It’s market research…whatever that means. I’ll have to research the term first.
It’s certainly been a long while since Mother and Father took the family on a cruise. They used to be yearly affairs, but with Father being so busy with work it’s been indefinitely postponed, so it would seem. Not that I mind. Work takes precedence over play, I say. It’s an attribute of mine that makes me far superior to my ten-year-old peers, who wish to spend all of their time in leisure. Quit unacceptable, really.
However…the state of the boat does cause me some concern. These things must be maintained, and this seems like the perfect little project to develop some business acumen. I’ll find the most efficient place for marine stainless steel welding and give the old thing a good seeing to, make it right as rain, good as new. That way, the next time we all go boating as a family, we shan’t have to go on a private boating cruise like a bunch of peasants. It’ll all be ship-shape from the get-go.
However…where to acquire something as industrial as stainless steel marine welding? I can’t simply ask Father. That would defeat the purpose of the entire exercise. None of my school chums will know a single thing about this enterprise…they are all of them dolts. I could search online, but Mother restricts my home internet time and I’m afraid I burned through all of it watching gaming streams online…I mean, um, I used it all to perform necessary research, on other things that required research.
Oh, and the other things? A boat requires more than simply marine welding. One must see to the bow rails and snapper racks, if we are to use it for fishing. Stainless steel snapper racks, not regular wooden ones, like peasants. I bet Timothy Cribbins uses wooden ones on his boat, but he is an asinine fool and I have no time for his trading card talk. He couldn’t busy himself with anything more important?
The Taylor-Vaknikovs have gone too far. There’s a certain amount of tact one must display in business and life, and they seem to display neither. I took Archibald along to the unveiling of their new, decorative window glass display, and I was expecting something crude and ill-thought-out. It was even worse than I expected: an entire room dedicated to the history of their family’s business acquisitions. Bear in mind that the people they invited to this event were their business partners and rivals, ostensibly in order to thank them and show that the Taylor-Vaknikovs could not have made it in the business world without their valued contacts.
Tripe. Tripe of the highest order, in fact. The one thing that was actually of benefit in the meeting was seeing the work done with decorative glass. I must make a note to buy out that entire industry, because the artisans had done a wonderful job. It certainly wasn’t their fault that they were forced to depict the Taylor-Vaknikovs and their acquisition of certain key sectors. The glass artists simply did their jobs, portraying this family in their efforts to rub their success in the noses of the people they’d gathered for ostensibly friendship reasons. I was particularly enamoured- that is, in the same way one would be when looking at a train crash- by a large piece of glass near the door that depicted Mikail Taylor-Vaknikov and his acquisition of the vacuum cleaner company that later went on to conquer most of Vietnam. I wanted that deal, and he knew it.
Still, there IS something to be learned. The Clancey family have achievements that go beyond that of simply business, such as the lengthy land disputes to acquire Whitehall Chapel, and the quelling of the great servant civil war of 1892. Once I own the commercial decorative window filmsector and have knocked the Taylor-Vaknikovs off their perch, I’ll convert one of our rooms into a history of our family, told in glass.
Sometime I wish I could be invisible. Now, sometimes in this house I DO feel invisible, but that’s not what I mean. It’s just that Mother and Father, despite their good intentions, are rather protective and want me to do certain things at certain times, and I simply cannot wait until I am grown and can make my own decisions. I’m allowed to explore the grounds, but as large as they are, I have traversed them all, and I find the prospect of being observed by security cameras dull and limiting.
Oh, just imagine the trouble I could get up to if I were invisible! I have a school chum who got in on a scholarship, and she tells all the most wonderful stories. For example, her father recently took the car into their local Ringwood mechanic for brake repair and replacement. I know OF Ringwood, but it’s not the type of place Mother and Father would allow me to visit. And even if we did go there for a ball, or a gala, or a grand opening, they wouldn’t let me near places that do car servicing. Imagine if I were invisible, so I could sneak out and find a mechanic, then go into the workshop and see exactly what they do to get by. And also, I would be a fly-on-the-wall for what mechanics talk about while they work! I have very little idea what that might be, but research has led me to indicate that it might be about parking spaces, water coolers and who ate the sandwich in the fridge that did not belong to them. That seems to be what a lot of people have talked about on the very rare occasions I’ve been into work with Father. Surely if there are car mechanics available in Ringwood, they talk about more or less the same types of things? I wouldn’t know. I will possibly never know. Father always flies in his personal mechanics from the Netherlands to service our cars, so we don’t even have the ‘mechanic-visiting’ experience.
Cecelia seems to terribly sad to see Miguel go. He was her favourite footman, after all, and she seems to think there’s going to be an unfillable gap in the household now that Miguel is going back to Guatemala to help with the flooding of his home village.
I keep saying that we need to hire more local help, if only because you avoid this sort of thing. Just last month we lost Jetta because she had to return to Albajeria for a ceremony involving her son being accepted into a monastery, and she hasn’t returned because the celebrations continue for 46 days. Jetta is the only kitchen servant we’ve ever had who’s ever managed to properly prepare my Consommé Turducken, so imagine how I felt!
I should do something to help raise Cecelia’s spirits. I have been meaning to contact some Melbourne professionals in timber window replacement to do something about that eyesore we have in the autumn bedroom. Quite what possessed us to sample aluminium window frames is quite beyond me, and Cecelia is always talking about how it doesn’t mesh with the Ukrainian silk she chose for the drapes. We may only employ that bedroom for part of the year, but that’s no excuse to let such a thing stand. Timber windows it is, and I’ll be sure to keep it a surprise so that she has no knowledge of it until it’s finished.
I have noticed from my business trips that timber windows are rather in right now. Why stop with the autumn bedroom? I’ll send Cecelia away on a day trip with one of her tea-and-scone chums, and when she comes back, Whitehall will be entirely timber window fitted. I’m thinking one company won’t be enough, however; we’re going to need every single well-rated timber window fitter available in Melbourne, for the greatest act of window frame fitting ever seen in this fair city.
And then perhaps I’ll feel better for having been robbed of the chance to taste a perfect turducken.
Dad has never been the type to get caught up in the details. This can be a good quality when it comes to certain things, like making stupendous pancakes, improvising a tune on the piano or figuring out what makes a Maltese terrier tick. But it can be a bit of a problem when it comes to other stuff – filing a tax return, for instance, or purchasing property.
Well, right now, dad is in the process of buying a house. At least, he’s gearing up to be, but he doesn’t seem to realise that there’s more to it than just handing over a wad of cash. I mean, maybe there isn’t when’t it comes to some of the more obscure off-market opportunities, but even then there’d have to be some paperwork. There’s no doubt that he has the money to snag the kind of thing he’s after; he just needs to get his act together on the technical front.
You’d think the man had some kind of allergy to title deeds, buyer agreements, architectural assessments and anything that even vaguely whiffs of the official. There’s no other explanation for his refusal to try and figure this stuff out; I mean, on the whole, he’s more than competent when he wants to be. How else could he have made such a successful career as a musical theatre critic?
I think I’m going to have to intervene and get to hiring him a buyers agent. Melbourne property isn’t exactly the easiest market to break into if you know what you’re doing, let alone if you believe you can just waltz in and grab whatever you want, when you want it. He needs a real estate professional to help him get real: draw up a brief of his buying parameters, identify appropriate sales scenarios, assess the properties architecturally and with regard to the brief, and negotiate with vendors on his behalf.
Maybe dad’s approach is something to do with his having been on the move for the past few years, rotating between short-term rental properties organised by his agent in London. Go figure.
I’ve grown terribly bored of our kitchen, and I’ve only been in there a couple of times. Of course, I’m talking about the prime kitchen that services the main dining hall. Kitchens two, three, four and…let’s say six are all on the list, although I don’t think we’ve ever had to use them so that’s quite far down said list.
But the prime kitchen? Oh, it’s just so outdated. I went in there the other day after dinner to pay my compliments to the chef- the lobster thermidor was especially excellent, thus causing me to break my usual mantra of not interacting with the help- and I noticed that the place just isn’t up to our standard. Whitehall Chapel is a place that deserves contemporary kitchen design, even if it’s a room that we never actually see. I just can’t stand the thought of it being there…existing…right next to the room where we dine! I know the lavender tiles were my idea, but ideas have moved on. I met up with Lena Pettiwell the other day for scones and a live violin concerto, and she said that she gets comprehensive kitchen renovations every six months.
Why haven’t I thought of that? Just because we never actually see the kitchen? That’s no reason to become slack. We have standards to uphold, for our good name. Oh, and we have some connections with companies that let you custom design your own kitchen. I’d been needing a personal project after the topiary was finished and the stables were just renovated. We don’t even have horses at the moment, but…well, you can’t live in a manor house and not have stables. A manor house without stables is like a manor house without custom designer kitchen renovations. It’s a horrible space that isn’t worth living in. And while we’re on the subject, the dining hall is so 18th century. Perhaps more chrome. More chrome everywhere!
As much as I do not envy our live-in psychologist, at least I still visit him on occasion to make sure he has SOMETHING to do. Psychologists always make for interesting enough conversations partners. And when Percy is off in the office, the children are at school or with their tutors and the servants and workmen have been properly directed to their tasks, sometimes I still have some time left.
Not so for our physician, consigned as she is to the medical wing in the easternmost corner of the mansion. The Clanceys are famously hale and hearty from years of excellent breeding and plenty of money to start every day, so we never fall ill. We just needed that insurance, and all the other rich families have them.
Still, I remain fascinated in this trend of people having hyperbaric chambers for hire in Melbourne, and I suppose beyond. I keep saying to Percy that we need to get some oxygen therapy chambers installed, just for the experience and perhaps for the continued health of the live-in staff. Elliaphelia from two mansions over just had them installed after her husband got a cold- imagine, something so common!- and he was having a bit of difficulty both breathing and smoking at the same time. Percy has never been interested in cigars like many of those in his various Gentlemen’s Clubs, although I’m sure he could down them with no real ill effects if he so desired.
Still, oxygen therapy just sounds so exciting, and quite good for you. Maybe after I’ve been on the cardio machines I can step inside and catch my breath, or…I don’t know. Just the thought of Melbourne’s best portable hyperbaric chambers being part of our medical repertoire just appeals to me, on a completionist level. We have all the other technology, such as the MRI machine, incubation chamber, x-ray machine and the physician to operate them. Oxygen therapy might just complete the set.
What a tale I’ll have to tell my school chums! ‘My Very First Environmentalist Protest-Slash-Hunger Strike’. Such fun! I only did so for about an hour, but it was thrilling nonetheless.
Mummy and Daddy are always telling us that we should use our great wealth, intelligence, good breeding and general superiority to help people who were not born with such marvellous talents and gifts. Then I heard that Daddy was building a new golf course over near the grove, which just so happens to be where I thought I fairy community lived until last year when I grew out of such things. It would involve bringing in all of these swift, efficient tree felling services to bulldoze the place and leave it fresh and flat.
We’d JUST been learning about the environment in our World Studies class, and how trees being cut down is just really quite horrid, sometimes. I wasn’t sure if this was one of those times, but I thought I had a duty to protect this defenseless bunch of trees, given that they weren’t born with any money at all, and could not even be asked politely to move.
Daddy said that the tree lopping men would be coming around twelve o’clock on Saturday, so I enacted my plan. I took a picnic basket to the grove, along with several large pieces of paper from the art room alongside a number of paintbrushes. I didn’t want to appear rude, so while I ate my salmon and cucumber sandwiches I put up signs on the trees with polite-yet-firm messages such as ‘Is This Tree Removal Strictly Necessary?’ and ‘Perhaps We Should Discuss This Over Tea’ and also ‘Perhaps There Are Trees That Need Removing Even More Than These Ones Elsewhere. Have You Checked? Just Wondering.’
The I climbed the one nearest to the house and waited. And waited. And golly, it was a bit breezy up there. The tree was rather uncomfortable to sit on, and I realised that the log I mistook for a fairy city was really just mouldy and full of spiders. Also, I’d accidentally fluffed the ‘hunger strike’ part by bringing and partaking of my picnic basket.
Ah, well. Who was to stand in the way of professional tree removal services in Melbourne? I still had a most exciting time protesting and being terribly counter-establishment. Of course, I put my signs in the recycling as well, because that’s just basic responsibility.