Oh, to be in England.

Oh no,  I don’t mean now. Not this minute, or this day. Or even this year.

No, I want to go back, many, many years ago, and be known as Lady Sarah, Mistress of Cornwall, or some such thing.

I want to ring for breakfast, luncheon, dinner and, most especially, tea.

I want to summon my carriage whose heavy doors bear our family crest.

I want to ride to hounds. (I think.)

I want my clothes carefully laid out for the day, my corset strings pulled ever so gently to enhance my bosom and accentuate the small waist I would most certainly have.

I want visitors to be announced by my trusted butler, who is, of course, nearly a part of the family, having been in service for so many years.

I want to languish in my sitting room, or drawing room, or library, or garden, or solarium, or anywhere really as long as there’s a footman at the ready.

I want my lustrous tresses brushed twice daily to a fare-thee-well by my personal lady-in-waiting.

I want roaring fires in every room, set and tended by others, to keep the chill from settling in my gentle bones.

Should I have children, I’ll receive them, occasionally, bathed and in their night-clothes. Sweet-smelling and ready for bed.

Actually, I don’t really want anything of those things. Life’s good as it is. I’ve just been spending too many of these wicked-hot days reading British mysteries.

Although that bit about ringing for dinner does sound rather swell.

The image is courtesy of cvhomemag.com