Seldom, if ever, do i take the slightest interest in domestic affairs or the household servants, until this morning, that is, when my gentle perusal of the morning paper and quiet breakfast were rudely interrupted by the appearance of our newly appointed young French maid.
She breezed into the room without the slightest self-consciousness or deference to her noble Lord, by which i mean myself, of course, and proceeded to butter my muffins in a manner which caused my limbs to tremble and my hands to shake.
How the blue blazes, i wondered, did such a devilish good-looking young filly aquire the perfect touch of buttering a much respected peer of the realm's muffins?
I could already sense the oozing and dripping of the melting butter...
Furthermore, my breath came in gasps and my heart quickened as she presented the morning kippers for my inspection, bending across the table and threatening to burst out of her uniform without further notice.
Her soft hands fondled my teapot so lovingly and with such expertise that i almost felt myself swooning away like an elderly maiden aunt, arousing tumultuous sensations within me that had virtually lain dormant since my boyhood days.
As any gentleman would, i fumbled quietly with my breakfast, pretendng not to notice the lascivious licking of her lips nor the suppressed giggles at my marmalade-and-crumb-ridden moustache and i can only be thankful that my newspaper concealed the true extent of my guilty shame. 
