Minding Manors

Thurlby Manor hangs back from the main road, ensconced in black that headlights set upon like murky dishwater. It's a huge place, with acres of adjacent land leased about to farmers (not serfs, I asked), the place itself a massive house of three living rooms, innumerable bedrooms, 1720s construction and caramel-bricked Victorian additions. Ann and Tom welcome us in the old milking parlor / kitchen and introduce us to the whole wing of the house in which we will be staying and all the ghosts therein.

Miriam, holding the best cup of coffee in the Isles confronts me, her Northern Irish accent popping like green firewood: "I organize your whole life," she says, all the hymnals and DVDs we've borrowed peering back at me with glow-in-the-dark dog eyes. "I cut your hair, too. Why aren't I in your blog?" I start to say something, but then Jim stands up beside her, long and thin, "What about when we watched Burn After Reading and George Clooney..." But Jim falls asleep during movies! "But you fall asleep during movies, Jim," "Yes," he says, "but when George Clooney finally shows the audience the type of chair he's making and you all screamed in shock and laughter and I jumped off of the couch as if there were a fire and I was ready to run outside--that didn't make it into your blog?"

I'm kind of left stuttering, the long, perfect-for-pacing-while-writing halls beginning to fill with ghosts.

"It's about time you put me in your blog," Carol says impatiently. "You've borrowed my Barack Obama and Bill Bryson books!" Her husband, Brian, standing over her shoulder, "And she got you started on having peanut butter with your porridge, which everyone seems to think is so American and strange." I tell them I have no time, to which Carol replies with a curt "Quite right, quite right," and then bursts into laughter for about two seconds, her whole face lighting up. Then it's serious. "What about," she asks, "when I told Ryan, you know, 'You're not short, but you're not tall for an American, are you?' That was one of the first things I said to you. And that doesn't get into the blog?"

"Carol, you're getting out of character, and where did Miriam go?"

Crap, the zombies about which I am writing a philosophical screenplay are totally taking up my pacing space, and walking in front of the TV on which we are watching television ambrosia: the Winter Olympics. The former pastor, William, and his sons are throwing snowballs at me too, and one of them nails me in the eye just as my eyelid closes--a move which commands respect. They're totally blocking my view of doubles luge, but such is the case with unwritten-about zombies, Olympians, pastors-sons-who-love-art-and-metal, and don't even get me started on all of the annoyed literary devices that hang around demanding inclusion. Allusion is giving me a look that's almost as awkward as the prospect of donning spandex and laying flat back on my teammate at 85 miles per hour, that is to say, doubles luge.