Listen, Ive got this wild little story for youits about this museum out in the English countryside. Picture this: the staff are all gathered in the main hall, and the head curator, Margaret Whitmore, drops this bombshell:
“Right, team, Ive got two bits of news for you!” She pauses dramatically, scanning the room.
“Please tell us theyre good, Margaret?” squeaks Emily, one of the tour guides, from her seat.
“Well, I should think so! First offweve got a tour group arriving in three days.”
“Oh, brilliant,” mutters Gloria, the caretaker, rolling her eyes. “Another bunch of schoolkids tracking mud everywhere and leaving crisp packets in the exhibits.”
“Too right!” chimes in Bill, the museums security guard and Glorias other half.
“Not schoolkids this time,” Margaret corrects. “Its a delegation from a major car manufacturer. And its our job to make sure they leave here buzzing about the place. We want them raving about it to their mates back home!”
Bill scoffs.
“Oh, buzzingthats one way to put it. Remember that lot from the engine plant in March? They were buzzing before they even got off the coach! Took us half the day to round em up from the pub down the road. Theyre not here for cultureits just a day out of the office!”
“Bill, your cynicism is not helpful,” Margaret cuts in sharply. “Were custodians of the great writer Thaddeus Wentworths legacy. Our duty is to share his genius with the worldto honour his memory and preserve this place where he penned his masterpieces!”
“And who, exactly, has even heard of Thaddeus Wentworth outside this lot?” Bill fires back, clearly in one of his cheeky moods.
“I object!” pipes up Kenneth, the local historian and tour guide. “Wentworth is a literary treasure of this county!”
Emily, eager to move things along, interrupts. “Whats the second bit of news?”
Margaret lets the suspense hang before delivering the punchline:
“Were getting a new director!”
“Thank heavens!” exclaims Ethel, the cleaner, clasping her hands. “About time!”
The room erupts into chatter.
“Who is it? Wheres he from? Whats his background?”
The ladies, naturally, are keen to know if hes single. The few men on staff relax a bit at the thought of reinforcements.
“I dont know a thing!” Margaret admits, holding up a hand. “Got a call from HQ saying a Mr. Harringtons arriving soon. Could be a bloke, could be a womanthats all Ive got!”
As everyone disperses, buzzing about the change, Margarets secretly thrilled. Shes been juggling her accounting duties with running the place for ages, and no one wants to relocate to this backwaternot even for a fancy title. The councils been fobbing her off with empty promises for years.
“Look, Margaret,” theyd say, “its the location. People agree at first, then they hear about the isolation and back out.”
So, to stop this Harrington from turning tail on day one (shes praying its a man), they decide to spruce the place up.
Cue a frantic deep cleanscrubbing floors, dusting displays, even polishing the antique umbrella stand in the foyer (“Wentworth adored this stand, you know!”).
On the big day, a little ferry chugs into view, packed with car factory workers. Margarets giving last-minute orders:
“Kenneth, no taking them to the boggy end of the islandlast time someone lost a trainer in the muck. And Emily, dont let anyone sit on Wentworths bed!”
Kenneth chuckles. “Well, if Gloria wouldnt tell everyone he conceived all eight of his children in that bed, maybe fewer peopled try!”
The visitors pour off the boat, splitting into groupssome following Gloria into the writers house, others trailing Kenneth for a nature walk.
Margaret basks in the lively chaos untilshouting from inside.
“Stop, thief!”
She bolts down the hall to find a bloke in jeans and a smart jacket standing there, holding a replica of Wentworths notebook. Emilys flustered beside him, pleading, “Please put it back! You cant touch the exhibits!”
Gloria swoops in, furious.
“How dare you! Thats Wentworths personal notebookhis unfinished novel, *Soul Anchors*!”
“I just wanted a look!” the man stammers.
“Pull the other one! Hand over your IDnow!”
He sheepishly passes his passport. Gloria scrutinises it like a detective, then freezes.
Margaret snatches it, reads the name, and goes pale.
“Welcome *Director Harrington*.”
***
Glorias mortified as she leads him to his office. “Terribly sorry, Mr. Harringtonwe had no idea youd arrive with the tour group!”
The new director just laughs. “No harm done. At least I know security here is top-notch!”
