By Nancy Mitford
In this pleasant comedy, Fanny—the quietly observant narrator of Nancy Mitford’s most famed novels—finally takes middle stage.
Fanny Wincham—last noticeable as a tender girl in The Pursuit of affection and Love in a chilly Climate—has lived contentedly for years as housewife to an absent-minded Oxford don, Alfred. yet her lifestyles adjustments in a single day whilst her loved Alfred is appointed English Ambassador to Paris. quickly she unearths herself blending with royalty and Rothschilds whereas combating her hysterical predecessor, girl Leone, who refuses to depart the premises. while Fanny’s tender-hearted secretary starts filling the embassy with rescued animals and her teenage sons run clear of Eton and appear with a rock celebrity in tow, issues get fullyyt out of hand. Gleefully sending up the antics of mid-century excessive society, Don’t inform Alfred is vintage Mitford.
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Additional resources for Don't Tell Alfred (Radlett and Montdore, Book 3)
How am I still here then? I couldn’t swim when I was five. ” His voiced droned as if in a trance, just another story told to a stranger at closing time. “God, I liked her. She was this tasty blonde-haired doll. Teeny, high voice. Swear if you stuck a finger in her, she’d squeak. Family had a cottage up the road. We were in her room, her parents out somewhere. I had my hand up her shirt. She was one of those pristine Catholic girls, so it was a big deal just getting to second base. ” He sighed with fond remembrance.
I don’t like being plugged in to someone’s beck and call. I didn’t own a computer. Rarely used the Internet for anything. Didn’t even have an email address. At least not one I ever checked. I didn’t have time to sit on my ass playing video games or ogling pictures of naked women. I was too busy busting my ass to keep my head above water. LAMENTATION 33 I could picture this business of his. A gang of pasty dope fiends gacking over circuit boards and Legend of Zelda, or whatever nerds played these days.
I kept a stash of candy in my glove compartment. His mother wouldn’t approve, but she wasn’t around, was she? And I wasn’t one of those fathers who bought into all that new-age parenting bullshit. No sugar. No TV. A forced regimen from the crib through college. My parents didn’t do that with us, and we turned out all right. Well, at least one of us did. The snow that had fallen was the wet, heavy kind—perfect for snowballs and stacking—and several snowmen, in various states of construction, dotted the knoll.