Reign of Terror

Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear and slavery, my friend, will keep the dogs obedient to the whip, as long as this roof shuts out the sky.

Wise words from the Marquis St. Evrémonde.

Definitely a strict, uncompromising dictum that I am beginning to take to heart. Especially faced with the nightmarish reality of the inept and unindustrious sans culottes in this century. In spite of the fact that I hail from a shockingly liberal background, I'm really not all that democratic.

In fact, moving in to my new château has effectively turned me into quite the despotic tyrant. You can't possibly blame me. Surely after all my labours, I am deserving of my modest luxuries.

Or at least the simple creature comforts of piped water.

Is that really too much to ask?

The reasonable space of a month has been given to these unimaginative peasants to complete the task of refurbishing my château - and yet these slipshod workers lag behind! Incroyable! How else do you expect me to treat these foolish, procrastinating laggards who have been assigned to make my modest estate somewhat liveable!


Paul : Damn the buggers. I still have no running water!
Eve : Barbarous! Shall we order Madame Guillotine for them?
Obviously as the châtelain, I must needs crack the proverbial whip. As hospitable as they are, I simply cannot reside in the local hostelry forever!

Heeding the callous words of the Marquis, every morning I make my morning walkabout with the servants all ready for inspection in a row at parade stance. Of course I first dispossess them of their kitchen knives, gardening shears and pitchforks. Certainly wouldn't want an uprising from these mutinous serfs.

And then as they hurry away to attend to their various duties, I sit lazily on my rattan lawn chair handing out imperious edicts while snacking on sweet bon-bons and cupcakes. I need my little comforts.

Paul : I see a spot! Clean it up immediately!
Cleaner : Yes sir.
Paul : It should be perfectly clean, do you understand? Clean enough that you can eat off it.
Cleaner : Yes, sir.
Paul : And if I find a speck of dirt I shall expect you to lick it off with your tongue.
Cleaner : Yes, sir.
Paul : Do it now or I shall have your head!
Cleaner : Could I have my wages?
Paul : What wages! You're lucky I don't whip you to an inch of your life. Stop your endless boo-hooing! You are desecrating my marble tiles!

Yes. Obviously the cleaner's not quite as visually arresting as the youthful house painter. Otherwise he wouldn't receive the Turkish treatment.

Quite monstrous. Back in ye olde revolutionary days, no doubt I would have been beheaded with ma bébé Marie and the rest of her rightfully snotty aristos. Fortunately the Madama Guillotine has long been dismantled.

But what's the fuss! At least I let them have brioche.