As Hopkins and I repose in our favourite morning hostelry close to the castle, munching on bacon and tomato rolls and imbibing refreshing breakfast tea and vanilla latte, our thoughts turn back to yesterday’s activities. Hopkins reflects upon the plethora of tasks which he undertook in the bowels of an inverted purple cow, while I muse upon yet another stage appearance, this time reciting the bard in the salubrious surroundings of one of Edinburgh’s premier hotels. Meanwhile, Thompson and Newsam are busy serving coffee and croissants to a young lady in the privacy of her exclusive accommodation, the Butlers’ first breakfast service this year. Commissions continue to stream in but the impending end of the week is hasting sad thoughts of imminent departure.
Fletcher the Butler
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