Country Houses are a little bit of a minor obsession for me. After religiously watching the new series of Channel 4′s Country House Rescue and salivating over ever sweeping panaromic shot of the grand facades, the rambling parkland, the beautiful high ceilinged and enormous windowed rooms spread with commanding yet ornate furniture I can’t help but thinking that that is where I truly belong. I conviniently ignore the astronomic maintenance costs, the sheer undertaking of what even a quick dust would entail and the fact that I’d probably rattle around the old thing in winter wrapped in a thousand blankets trying to restore feeling to my extremities.

However, I think I may have found an almost perfect solution. I have come across this:

Rent-a-Castle

One can rent the entire castle to oneself to be enjoyed, as if it is one’s own, for as long as one wants.

It all sounds rather wonderful.

And then one can leave without lifting a single finger to dust a chandelier. I am imagining myself now been woken up from my sleep in that beautiful bed by the sun streaming through the high windows, ambling gracefully down the staircase to a hearty breakfast with the morning paper looking out through across my rolling green land sprinkled with majestic trees.

Now it is simply a matter of finding the £10,000 per night for the priveledge.

I think if I had that amount to spend for one night’s entertainment, I’d be well on my way to owning a castle myself. As it is, I shall just have to stick to my humble london flat. For Now.

After an hour’s lecture this morning on J.S.Mill and, in particular, his arguments against Paternalism I was feeling all political and as I strolled through Euston station to get the tube back home I decided to purchase my very first copy of the Economist. £4 it was – which is ironic… given the title.

Browsing it this afternoon I came to light upon a short article about Kraft’s takeover of Cadbury. “That’s it!” I exclaimed in disgust. “No more Cadbury for me!” Just then I noticed the two Creme Eggs rolling about sheepishly on my windowsill that I’d bought impulsively along with my copy of the Economist. “Except you.” I added politely.

Still, it seems strange that it generated such a reaction. British firms have been taken over before by foreign owners and probably will continue to do so. So why is it the takeover of Cadbury that strikes such fear in the heart of the British?

Perhaps it is because, alongside the glowing reputation that Cadbury has earned in terms of it’s ethical business practices and fair treatment of employees, it is because Cadbury itself is uniquely a British brand. The purple background and swirly white script are, I believe, just as iconic in terms of British identity as red postboxes and Marmite Jars. And whilst I don’t wish to get into discussions of National Identity and whether or not it is simply misdirected nostalgia for the most part it seems that losing Cadbury really is like losing a part of collective history for a lot of people. It must be like learning that your old school has been turned into a block of flats or that the hospital in which you were born has been razed and is now a carpark. There is no real damage done but you still feel a rather a vague and dull blow to some part of you that you can’t quite place.

Still, onwards and upwards. I shall just have to take it upon myself to become the new standout British manufacturer of chocolate, a task that I feel I am more than qualified for.

Anyway, I must be off now. I have Creme Eggs waiting.

A.E.

In the background, I have ITV’s Take Me Out on catch-up. I find it strangely fascinating. On the one hand it is feminism incarnate. A lone man parading himself in front of a gaggle of women in a position of power trying his hardest to impress them. On the other hand, the women involved and some of their comments probably do more to absolutely decimate the hard earned image of women as intelligent, articulate and capable beings than centuries of oppresion. Still, let’s dispose of my pseudo intellectual ramblings. Truth is, I am a trashy TV fiend as much as the next girl. I have even become accustomed to the shameful catchphrase: ‘No likey, No lighty.’ I barely cringe.

Anyway, I shall keep this first entry short and carry on in my enjoyment of my Sunday evening (secretly my favourite time of the week) but hopefully will return soon. Until then,

I remain,

Aurora East.