Grumping about the Neverending session

The music? Yes, that's that Neverending Session you're hearing. 'Neverending' Session! More like 'Everlasting' Session, if you asks me!

They're everywhere, those musicians are a plague all by themselves. I keep thinking we should get a man in with a ferret. Squawking and squeaking away on those things, you'll run into 'em on the landings, in the kitchen, in the nooks of the upstairs hallway, in the offices, even in the library; gods' little green apples, hasn't anyone told them a library is supposed to be quiet?

Mr. Mackenzie doesn't help much either, I think he likes it. Miss Liath has more sense, but she's hardly ever around these days, more's the pity, off gallivanting 'round time and space gathering up manuscripts and books.

But then, no one much dares to disturb Miss Liath from her work, I think including Mr. Mackenzie. She just gives a look at one with those gray eyes, and people simply creep away to let her get on with it.

Those musicians. Always leaving bottles and glasses and plates behind 'em, too, as if us staff have nothing better to do than clean up after 'em, like. And the smokers? Well, leastways the building and grounds are non-smoking in these modern days, or the rugs would be full of ash as well as crumbs and such, as they used to be in the old days. Though they grumble.

Did you know the other day Mr. Augustus had to chase 'em out of a tree? They were up one of the old apples in the orchard, sawing away; it was probably some kind of bet.

Mrs. Ware chased 'em out of the kitchen the other day, but that happens at least twice a week.

When Mrs. Ware was Housekeeper, they at least stayed out of the hallways, but Mrs. Thompson, who came after Mrs. Ware took over the kitchens when Mrs. Clarke left for Australia to take care of her daughter's baby, seems to like it as well, so we end up beating out the hall rugs at least twice a week.

Just the other day Mr. DeBeauvoir, our House Steward, turfed 'em out of the wine cellars. 'Agnes,' he says to me in that accent of his, 'the vibrations! what they could have been doing to the wine!' Poor innocent.

The ferrets, I'm telling you, it's the only way.

Oh, all right, I don't suppose that it's all that bad. Nothing wrong with a bit of music about the place, and they always seem to have a good time. But I've no truckle with this mystic mumbo-jumbo-ish stuff they spout sometimes about the 'Neverending Session,' like. What's so mystic about a banjo?