The Right Honourable Lord Percival Wensleydale, 12th Earl of Withering Fen
(born 14 November 1963 – still slightly bewildered by the world)
Lord Wensleydale was raised at Thistlebrook Manor in the misty corner of Northumberland, where, as a child, he spent his afternoons cataloguing his mother’s teaspoons and crafting tiny hats for the garden hens. He was educated at Eton (reluctantly), and later at a very exclusive but entirely ineffective fencing school in Florence.
He is known for his fondness for tightly tailored tweed, classic English poets, and his uncanny ability to fall asleep during opera without spilling his sherry. Wensleydale has authored two books: “The Art of Mild Disappointment” and “Quiet Triumphs in Unheated Rooms”—both largely unread but beautifully bound.
He has neither wife, children, nor a driving licence, but he possesses a rare serenity and a penchant for long walks in the rain with his loyal poodle, Barkley. His alleged motto: “If one must suffer, let it be in style.”
Chapter One: Of Rain, Rejection, and a Rather Complicated Sandwich
It was a Tuesday, which in itself ought to have been a warning.
I had awoken at precisely 7:03 — three minutes past the acceptable time for a gentleman of leisure and precisely twenty-seven minutes before my man, Tibbins, typically brings me The Times and something resembling breakfast (usually involving trout, whether invited or not).
Barkley, my poodle and spiritual advisor, had already claimed my slippers, one of which had been reclassified as his “afternoon nemesis.” I decided not to argue. The day was young, and I had hope — a mistake I wouldn’t repeat until April.
After a cold shower (entirely unintentional), I descended the grand staircase with my usual mix of gravitas and mild joint discomfort. It was then I recalled: today, I was expected at the Society for the Preservation of Sensibly-Coloured Foods. A dreadful title for a dreadful group with firm views on beige. I had submitted my resignation twice. Both times, it was returned with a note: “Lord Wensleydale, you remain our most colourful member.”
Lunch was taken alone in the solarium. I constructed a sandwich that began with promise but ended in confusion — a metaphor, I fear, for much of my romantic life. As I bit into it, a single olive rolled from the plate and disappeared under the sideboard. I’ve not seen it since, and to this day I wonder: did it escape, or was it taken?
The afternoon was spent not working, but thinking about it quite seriously — and isn’t that half the battle?
Chapter Two: The Tragic Hour of Tennis
It began — as most disasters do — with optimism and white clothing.
Lady Pilkington had insisted I take part in her annual summer tournament. She described it as “casual social tennis with a light lunch.” I should have known none of those words would apply.
My tennis racket was from 1974 and hadn’t seen action since Watergate. It still bore a faded sticker reading “Property of Charles – not for croquet!”, which is, in itself, a long story I shall never tell.
I arrived at the court dressed in white from head to toe, including a hat technically approved only for gardening. Claude, brought along for moral support, wore a matching scarf and was promptly removed from the premises for marking the umpire’s chair as his own.
My opponent: Admiral Frobisher. A man who, rumour has it, still sleeps with a compass and has spent the entire lockdown perfecting his backhand with a metronome.
I served first. The ball hit the net, popped up, and landed squarely in the Admiral’s gin and tonic. He regarded me as a tactical threat for fifteen seconds, then returned the ball with chilling precision — knocking my hat clean off my head.
After three minutes, seven points, and one minor emotional collapse, I declared myself temporarily withdrawn with dignity. Barkley, my poodle, nodded solemnly. The Admiral offered me an ice pack and a glass of sherry — both were accepted with mixed gratitude.
I have since maintained that tennis is “a splendid game for other people.” And I stand by it.