In yet another disastrous yet hysterical attempt to maintain her perfect social image, Hyacinth Bucket (pronounced Bouquet, of course) found herself in a tangled mess—this time, with the telephone.
For a woman obsessed with status and elegance, maintaining a reputation among the upper class requires constant effort. Whether it’s orchestrating lavish candlelight suppers, parading her non-existent aristocratic connections, or ensuring that her neighbors think she leads the most sophisticated life imaginable, Hyacinth is always one step away from catastrophe. And this time, her downfall came in the form of a simple phone call.
It all began with Hyacinth preparing to receive an “important” phone call from none other than a mysterious high-society friend—someone who, in her mind, was undoubtedly a distinguished member of the aristocracy. To ensure everything was perfect, she set the scene with a lace tablecloth, a polished telephone, and an unnecessary but highly decorative vase of fresh flowers.
Richard, her long-suffering husband, watched in silence, knowing full well that any attempt to reason with her would be futile.
“I do not want interruptions, Richard!” she snapped, adjusting her posture to look more refined in case anyone (though unseen) might be watching her take the call.
With her delicate, gloved hand resting elegantly on the telephone, she rehearsed different ways to answer—each one sounding grander than the last.
“Mrs. BUCKET residence…”
“No, no. The Bouquet residence, how may I be of service?”
“Lady Hyacinth speaking—oh, too much, too much…”
Richard sighed, deciding it was best to retreat into the kitchen before he got roped into her latest delusions of grandeur.
At precisely 3 PM, the phone rang. With the grace of a woman accepting an award, Hyacinth lifted the receiver and answered in her most polished tone.
“Bouquet residence!”
Silence.
Then, an unmistakable voice on the other end—one that made Hyacinth’s entire body tense.
“Oi, Hyacinth! It’s Onslow!”
Hyacinth’s nightmare had come to life. Her slobbish brother-in-law, Onslow—the very embodiment of everything she desperately tried to distance herself from—had somehow infiltrated her pristine world through the telephone line.
She immediately switched to whisper mode, as if lowering her voice would somehow erase the disgrace of speaking to him.
“Onslow, I am expecting an important call! What do you want?”
“I was just wondering if you had any biscuits?” Onslow asked casually.
“Biscuits?! This is NOT a grocery store, Onslow!”
“But Daisy’s feeling peckish, and you always have those fancy ones.”
Hyacinth nearly combusted. The sheer audacity! This was a high-class residence, not a biscuit distribution center!
Just as she was about to hang up, a second call beeped through. This must be the important one!
In her flustered state, she fumbled with the buttons, trying to switch calls while Onslow continued rambling about digestive biscuits. Unfortunately, instead of smoothly transitioning, she managed to merge the calls together.
What happened next was a disaster of royal proportions.
“Bouquet residence!” Hyacinth announced again, hoping to salvage the situation.
A posh-sounding voice responded. “Ah, Mrs. Bouquet! Lovely to speak with you. It’s the Lady of the Manor calling regarding the charity gala—”
Before Hyacinth could bask in the glory of speaking to someone with actual status, Onslow interrupted.
“Hyacinth, if you’ve got any chocolate ones, don’t be stingy.”
Silence.
Complete, utter, horrifying silence.
Hyacinth’s face turned an alarming shade of red as she realized what had happened. The posh caller had definitely heard Onslow. And now, instead of imagining Hyacinth among lords and ladies, they were picturing her in a kitchen surrounded by biscuit-hoarding relatives.
Desperately, she tried to salvage the situation.
“Ah-ha! That’s just… just our butler! Yes, our butler Onslow—he’s a little rustic but terribly loyal.”
Richard, now peeking from the kitchen, nearly choked on his tea.
“Erm… right,” said the aristocrat on the other end, clearly unconvinced. “Well, we shall see you at the gala.”
Hyacinth, defeated but maintaining her forced dignity, replied, “Indeed! Looking forward to it!” before hanging up.
As she turned to Richard, her hands still gripping the phone, her expression was a mix of fury and sheer humiliation.
Richard, sensing imminent doom, quietly left the room before she could unleash her wrath.
Back at Onslow’s house, he sat comfortably in his recliner, munching on a biscuit that Daisy had miraculously found in the cupboard.
“Well, that went well,” he said to himself with a grin.
Daisy, ever the optimist, clapped her hands. “Oh, I do love our family keeping in touch!”
Little did they know, Hyacinth was already plotting her revenge—likely in the form of an “accidental” disconnection of their phone line.
Despite her never-ending attempts to polish her reputation, Hyacinth’s efforts always seem to backfire spectacularly. Whether it’s a boating disaster, a runaway dog, or an ill-fated phone call, fate (and Onslow) always seem to conspire against her.
Still, one thing is certain: no matter how many times she falls from grace, Hyacinth will always pick herself up, dust off her pearls, and insist that she is nothing short of royalty.
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