Laird of the Manor

I have dominion over my affairs.  I wear whatever I want, my shirt-tails dangling, my hair disheveled, the spectacles of my choice. I am beholden to no one. I have disengaged from the bonds of servitude, the yoke of drudgery. The promises, representations and covenants of my indenture are now those of my own doing and of my own concern.  I walk unbent by the burden of obligation.

My realm stretches before me across the hardwood floors, the six rooms of my castle in the sky, my paintings and my books, the corridor along which I tread to collect the morning mail, the underground vault where I store my black and shiny coach.  We are recluse. The view from the turret beyond is unobstructed and bucolic.  If I were so disposed I could stand upon the balcony and gaze into the distance for as long as I might wish, immersing myself in unrestrained absorption of fleeting sensibilities.  The sheers billow in the zephyr.

My industry is the management of our resources. The estate agent is our financial advisor.  When not planning the society of friends for a sail upon the River we content ourselves to lunch or dine.  I can sleep whenever I wish.  Or I might twirl my ring upon my finger and read Thomas Babington Macauley.

Occasionally a situation takes us to the City to visit the dowager mother or my sister.  On a whim we might institute an aimless ramble on the Ivy Lea Parkway or to Cedar Cove or White Lake or Burnstown for coffee and a sweet. We plot our hibernation from salt and snow and slush to free ourselves from the anticipated chalky residue and howling cold winds.  We needn’t live in dread of the coming darkness, enforced remission.  There isn’t a particle of apprehension upon the horizon.  I can bicycle everyday, any day.

Such a contented lot have I as laird of the manor!  I wonder if I mustn’t awaken from a dream.