Miss Picksby is a peculiar type of person. At 5'3 and with a small round face that makes you think of Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth's mother from Jane Austen's classic "Pride & Prejudice" novel, she is as short and insignificant, as she is loud, nosy and impudent. If we're to carry on with the Austen comparisons, I'd say that she's a modern, but less moneyed version of Augusta Elton. Remember her? Mr. Elton's obnoxious, boasting, domineering and pretentious wife from "Emma". She strolls the neighbourhood streets as if she owns them, thinks it is her duty as a sister to commandeer Mr. Picksby around and to make sure he doesn't merry off to some "bimbo, chasing after the family heirlooms" (which is absurd as the Picksbies greatest "heirloom" is their dog Lucky, the controversy of who's name is not lost on anybody) and sees it appropriate to invite herself over to all the neighbours' homes for a little chat, gossip and an afternoon tea.
What does Miss Picksby do for a living?
The question's been asked time and time again, but there's none who could give you a precise answer. As far as I know, she's never been spotted going off to work and if she works from home, then she's either hiding her computer skills very well, or is sending off her materials in paper envelopes, sealed with wax. What can I say? She is old fashioned.
What does Miss Picksby do for a living?
The question's been asked time and time again, but there's none who could give you a precise answer. As far as I know, she's never been spotted going off to work and if she works from home, then she's either hiding her computer skills very well, or is sending off her materials in paper envelopes, sealed with wax. What can I say? She is old fashioned.
Yesterday, Miss Picksby spotted Michael on his way home from work and in record time managed to run out of her garden and ambush him in the middle of the street. Apparently, she had gotten it in her head that if her brother was to come to his senses (remember that Mr. Picksby is to be wed?) he needs to "loose some steam, like a kettle" and a "night on the town with his buddy" (Michael and Mr. Picksby have never said more then 10 words to each other) is just what the doctor prescribed. From what I could gather, in the 15 minutes it took for the conversation to end, she managed to call Michael a "tea-pot head" (we're still pondering if it's an insult or not), to describe her brother's fiancée as "spawn" and "Morticia", and to suggest that we hire domestic cleaning services, as my own "futile efforts of home cleaning are shady at best". Yes, to say that she is the neighbourhood's sweetheart would be a stretch.
Michael calls her "Margaret Thatcher on crack cocaine", but that stays between us. Explaining to Miss Picksby what "crack cocaine" is would be too hard a task. One I'm not willing to undertake myself.
Our little neighbourhood drama continued this morning, when Miss Picksby decided to pay us a visit at 7 in the morning, as she "spotted the lamps were on". Not that she likes to spy on the neighbours, o no, she just has a "keen eye for detail".
I didn't buy the explanation as well. But Miss Picksby wanted tea and what Miss Picksby wants...
You know how the saying goes.
She sat in the living room, her back to Michael who was trying hard to pretend she's not there, and drank her tea, devouring cookie after cookie and chatting about the walls' paint. Or the "lack of such" as she so gently put it. You have to give it to her, she has a knack for insulting people. She left me the number of an after builders cleaning company in London and suggested that I call them as soon as possible, before the house starts falling apart. She also hinted that Michael may not be so good in... you know, if he's such a lousy help around the house.
I thought that if Michel clenched his teeth any harder, he might break them.
When my sweetheart left for work, a bit earlier than usually, Miss Picksby finally decided to let me in on the real reason for her unannounced visit. She had fabricated a new plan to get rid of the poor soon-to-be Mrs. Picksby. She wanted me to invite her brother and his fiancée for dinner, and to use the opportunity to dig out some dirt about the unwanted intruder in their neatly arranged home. Apparently, she thought her brother's betrothed might be more open to me, then she is to her, as the two of them already were on "non-speaking" terms. Shocking, right? Why would anyone choose not to talk with Miss Picksby?
Let me think... O, here's an idea!
Bottom line is, the future Mr. and Mrs. Picksby are coming over for dinner next Thursday. Miss Picksby is already smelling a scandal.
I only smell trouble.
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