Bainwarble Settles In

          We are pleased with our new butler, Glassshard Bainwarble. We didn’t need help in our little cabin, but now that we’ve moved into this huge house, well, you understand. Not that it’s a mansion. There isn’t actually enough room for Bainwarble to stay in the house, so he lives in a camper out in the alley. I think he’s happy about the three-bucket outdoor shower we had installed beside the Sanitation Nation outhouse that we rent for him—he plays the trumpet out there.

           I didn’t want a butler until we moved in. One bright morning, I kissed my wife, Ducky Bumps, and embarked on a tour of the place, starting with the basement. Before I finished, I had to call her on the cell phone and tell her I’d be late for lunch. It was nearly tea when I stumbled back to my starting point. “Ducky Bumps,” I gasped, “this place is huge. I got lost twice. How about some pie?”

           “It’s 800 square feet! You got lost because you never pay attention. You get no pie because you never pay the cook!”

           “Seems reasonable,” I muttered, “Wait! You’re the cook! It isn’t me; I wouldn’t pay myself.” She just tapped her index finger on her temple and nodded.

           Bainwarble entered, crouching through the back door, natty as ever in a lint free tuxedo, black bow tie, and patent leather shoes, no sox. I’ll have to speak to him about that. “Tea!” he grunted, uttering his first English word.