Botanical Society Gala: How many times had we told this incorrigible halfwit that he would be seating none other than the very Duke of Northshire himself? And yet no more than a blink of a babe’s eye passes upon the duke’s arrival before the buffoon calls him “Baron,” a title most below his station! Ooh, what a spectacular imbecile our Wendell is! That dreadful bungler!
Reginald And Gladys Barrymore’s Harvest Ball: That accursed dolt failed to inform us that it was a masquerade ball—a piece of knowledge most vital—and we arrived unmasked, our naked face known to all!
Templeton’s 58th Birthday Party: Poor Templeton has certainly had a difficult enough time as it is, what with the palsy and all, and the last thing he needed was Wendell bringing out the fricassee a full quarter-hour late! The mule-headed dunce!
The Monthly Gathering Of The Suffolk Ladies Guild: The thoughtless simpleton filled several of the ladies’ glasses with such an excessive volume of chartreuse that several drops of the elixir spilled onto the Oriental rug. Only a jest by Madam Wright that she had been poured “an entire hand—rather than a finger—of drink” could disperse the mood.
The Gattiwicks’ Midsummer Ball: The festivities were brought to a most abrupt and utter halt after that ignoble lout accidentally shut the grand piano lid upon his own fingers. Wendell, you incompetent lummox!
The Abernathy Cotillion: We so looked forward to the privilege of Lord Covington’s dignified presence at this spring’s most exquisite fete! But oh, how crimson we went in shame upon arriving to what should have been an occasion most joyous, only to find that the witless mooncalf had polished the silverware with insufficient care! We dared not even be seen by Lord Covington in the company of silverware so sullied, and we fled into the handmaiden’s quarters at once, where we spent the rest of the eve!
Spring Garden Party: This was to be the event of the season, replete with the finest casks of aged port, the most inviting preserved fruits, and esteemed guests from as far away as Wiltshire. And so it was that Wendell, the lumbering clod, tripped over his own elephantine hooves while carrying out the roast suckling pig, spilling it onto the ambassador and his delegation and sending the whole lot careening into the fountain.
Surprise Birthday Celebration For Miss Agatha Pound: This was a twofold failure on that woodenheaded dullard’s part. First, he let slip to Miss Agatha when we chanced to happen upon her at Edward Kensington’s Name Day Feast that we would be seeing her Saturday next, causing her to question what the occasion was and nearly ruining the surprise. Second, that fool had not laid out the proper trousers on the night of the party, causing us to lose dear time when he had to fetch the correct pair, so when our carriage finally pulled into the entrance of the Pounds’ estate, who should be arriving concurrently but Miss Agatha herself, thus sabotaging the surprise absolutely! It makes us cross thinking about it to this moment!
The Governor’s Reception: During the annual festival for which those of a suitable standing within the community congregate to discuss matters political and literary, Wendell, bumbling as they come, lit his jacket ablaze while attending to a tabletop candelabra. What an unpleasant distraction it was to our discourse to have Wendell writhing about, squawking and aflame! The look of irritation on the count’s and countess’ faces was enough to make one’s blood curdle! Lucky for us, the conflagration burnt Wendell to considerable disfigurement, so much so that we do believe he may have learned his lesson about proper, respectful service once and for all.