Off every tree you may freely eat – maids, serving wenches, cooks, typists, masseuses, even the lady who comes to clip the canary’s claws. But if you lay one hand on that precious fruit, then like the Belgians in the Congo, we’ll chop it off. And I don’t mean the hand.
House rules. No phones, no postcards to Devon dumplings. No messages in a bottle. The chief values privacy, as do we all. All the way down to the beach, as far as you can go, and it’s on the right. Alternatively, fill your pockets with stones, walk into the sea and keep going.