Lady of the Manor speaking.
If it 'twere brave she was, she'd be going skiing.
She'd be donning skis early morn on the morrow and 'sheeing' down sheer cliffs, the wind blowing freely through her bonny cheeks. Listening to the steam hissing through her mouth in her efforts.
She'd be dressed most fashionably in the latest, warmest of ski-gear.
She'd seek them here and seek them there. Bumps, moguls and goat's tracks down mountains steep.
Instead she's staying at Coward's Castle, alone. The lofty halls of the manor shall ring only with her voice and those of the ancestral ghosts. Unless one of the dogs barks.
And the Lady of the Manor shall continue writing her manuscript. Page after page of artistic torture which she shall be throwing at a publisher one day and saying: