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I'm Welcome to Borchesterfordshire, an ancient county in England, somewhere near the middle and to the left a bit, probably.

Picture, if you will, a large and imposing abbey of indeterminate age, nestling in a valley and surrounded by woods.

The air is full of the cooing of wood pigeons, the roar of chainsaws, and the snorting of feral pigs eating cream teas

foraged from the orangery. This is Downstairs Abbey, home of an eminent extended family,

and their community of servants, poachers and general hangers-on that serve their every wish and

whim. Let's peek inside now to Christmas at Downstairs Abbey, where servants are bustling, and the quality is, as always, bitching.

There is only one topic of conversation. Old Sir Brian is about to hang up his barber, something he's threatened to do on several occasions.

This time, though, he means business, as the new Lady Miranda is insisting on it,

she needs someone to push her trolley round the garden centre.

So, who will inherit?

Honestly, I really can't see why I shouldn't have a crack at the estate.

I'm not going to make more of a lash-up of it than Adam, surely. It is the 1900s after all. Kate, you don't know anything about stock, for one thing. I wouldn't have stock. It would be a vegan farm. I'd grown lavender and mix soap and oils and yubby things.

Hemp?

How'd you make a hemp, do you think?

Do they breed well in captivity?

...