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Renaissance architecture

Here is the link to your edit: . I fail to see the "obscenity" that you removed. Gzkn 09:31, 11 December 2006 (UTC)

"I fail to see the "obscenity" that"! Do you? - Do you? I find that very odd indeed! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 17:18, 12 December 2006 (UTC)

Headline text

Renaissance architecture

Hi Catherine! Just so you know, edit warring on Misplaced Pages is strongly frowned upon. You might want to check out Misplaced Pages's Three Revert Rule before you continue your campaign against what you consider to be obscene. --*Kat* 10:40, 11 December 2006 (UTC)

Hi Catherine??? - what sort of a greeting is that? Good morning is the accepted parlance on this page - if you don't mind....and it's Lady Catherine to you! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 17:13, 12 December 2006 (UTC)

You have got to be kidding me. First, it was the middle of the night when I posted that (I don't live in Misplaced Pages's timezone). Second I'm an American, and therefore, I do not recognize your title.--*Kat* 19:53, 13 December 2006 (UTC)

Your country young lady, was a great deal more civilized and better mannered when King George III was able to give you the benefeit of his wisdom. If I was your mother I would demand a refund from your Finishing school! - Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 09:22, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

Be glad you're not my mother.--*Kat* 07:54, 17 December 2006 (UTC)

If I were your mother, young lady, you would be out finding yourself a suitable young man, not sitting pasty faced in front of a computer. All very well sitting there writing an encyclopedia - remember men don't like clever women! I have been married four times, and not one of my husbands wanted a clever woman. Remember when finding a young man, choose one who is wealthy, more stupid than you are, and in poor health. That way one has no problem with the "richer and for poorer" and does not add to the rising divorce rate. You clearly need a mother like me! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 10:26, 17 December 2006 (UTC)

Dear Lady Catherine,

I am in total sympathy! Some of the younger generation have no respect for natural decency! We never talked about toilet paper when we were young. And we certainly never purchased it!

--Amandajm 11:22, 11 December 2006 (UTC)

• At last a lady after my own heart, talking some sense. Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 17:14, 12 December 2006 (UTC)

Please do not remove content from Misplaced Pages, as you did to Renaissance architecture. It is considered vandalism. If you would like to experiment, please use the sandbox. Thank you. --ArmadilloFromHellGateBridge 15:10, 11 December 2006 (UTC)

• Please don't be rude to me, young man! A sandbox? - I have never played in a sandbox in my life, and have no intention of starting now, just to humour you! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 17:11, 12 December 2006 (UTC)

Thanks for your contribution, but we are trying to write an encyclopedia here, so please keep your edits factual and neutral. Some readers looking for a serious article might not find them amusing. Remember, millions of people read Misplaced Pages, so we have to take what we do a bit seriously here. If you'd like to experiment with editing, use the Sandbox to get started. I hope you can help us out! --ArmadilloFromHellGateBridge 18:08, 12 December 2006 (UTC)

Your advice on a small matter

I have visited the Misplaced Pages page of that certain talented gentleman closely associated with your Ladyship's country house. Although I know you are above dealing with tradesman, you may recall that his name was Vansomething. No, not that Vansomething, the other one.

What I would like your Ladyship to recall is this:- is his name pronounced like that which one does with a pot of tea? Or is it said in a similar way to a certain item of lady's undergarment which I will not be so indescrete as to mention. Or is it similar to that coarse slangish word that ignorant males use for a same-sex-sibling? Or is it perhaps pronounced like the sound a horse makes on a cold morning? Or perhaps the sound more resembles that part of the face which is immediately above the eyes?

Also, there seems a certain similarity between the names de Burgh and "Van-you-know-what". While I realise that the "de" clearly implies an association with the Norman Conquest and is a name of the highest distinction, while the other was plainly the name of a mere Dutch immigrant tradesman, I am a little concerned at the possibilities that are suggested by these similarities. Although it hardly bears consideration that your Ladyship may have had connections, "however remotely", with a man whose employment was in bricks and mortar.

--Amandajm 07:10, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

You are clearly mistaken! My own home built by my late and dearly departed husband was untouched by any architect as vulgar and theatrical as John Vanbrugh, which if I were ever so unfortunate as to wish to pronounce would be Van-bruuuuur. My own Burgh (that stupid girl Jane Austen couldn't spell) is derived from Burgher, Luca di Burgher my Norman ancestor being the inventor of a minced beef confection which he franchised to the Medici. Not that it's any business of yours! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 09:35, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

Your Ladship is referring to Burghley House of course! How mistaken of me! I thought for one moment that you meant West Wycombe Park which has the unmistakable style of a Colonial Military Hospital.

--Amandajm 12:53, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

If you, and those tiresome American film directors troubled yourselves to read that tedious Austen woman's ridiculously romanticised works you would know I couldn't possibly live at Burghley as it was built two huindred years too soon. One despairs of these people! Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 13:15, 14 December 2006 (UTC)

The thing that I despise about living in these very large houses is that the food is cold by the time it reaches the table, and the bathroom is in a different wing. --Amandajm 08:12, 15 December 2006 (UTC)

• It is perfectly obvious to anyone that is not a house but a lunatic asylum. I trust that is not your home. Cold food is an easy price to pay if it gives one distance from the servants. Bathrooms and ablutions of a personal nature are not subjects I care to discuss. I hope you are not going to start talking about what the middle classes (with their limited knowledge of French) refer to as "en-suites". Are you in Australia? Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 08:36, 15 December 2006 (UTC)

Lady Catherine,

I have been warned by a female person on this website that it does not do to give out personal information, but to satisfy your curiosity, Woop Woop is in New South Wales. You are certainly very well informed on the subject of lunatic asylums! I can assure you that I would not recognise one, if I walked in the front door! I can also assure you also that I do not have anything as middle-class as an "en-suite" in my home. We have a bath room with a bath in it. And we have a proper dunny, where a dunny should be! Out the back! No respectable family would keep anything that unseemly in the house! Would they? From my limited experience of these matters, I find it most unlikely!

--Amandajm 14:19, 15 December 2006 (UTC)

• What exactly is "whoop whoop" it sounds like a bad attack of flatulance. Very wise not to advertise yourself too strongly - but hinting at the continent is generally safe. I merely ask your location as it is interesting to know the location of one's correspondents in order not to commit a faux pas. As a rule I don't care for Australians or Australia - all those spiders, flies, snakes and other irritants. Of course the insanitation is a problem, must be very difficult for you struggling with the ants, cacti and hobbits etc. Your family - have they been in Australia long? My late husband as district magistrate often assisted many in their free passage to your shores, in this way he did his bit for the Empire - such a selfless man, sadly little thanked by those he helped so kindly. Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 17:33, 15 December 2006 (UTC)

• • Dear Lady Catherine,

The first of my family to arrive on these shores in 1788 did much to lay the foundations of the colony; in fact, he laid the foundations for the Governor's House, the Government Store and the lock up.

Woop Woop is located just this side of the Black Stump which is somewhere between Wallerwang and Dunedoo, roughly as the crow flies (although its location is disputed and has been put north as far as Coonabarabran, south as far as Gundagai, west as far as Menindi and east as far as Wooloomoolloo.). I met my late first husband at the Dunedoo Batchelor and Spinster's Ball. Those were the days! Holidaying at Woy Woy and going down for the Annual Bong Bong Picnic Races! Our daughter, as you may suppose, was educated at Wagga Wagga.

--Amandajm 07:43, 17 December 2006 (UTC)

1788? - I don't normally communicate with families of new money, but seeing as your ancestor obviously had a large construction company - did he sail to Australia in his own yacht? I see you have a late husband too, I have belated three of mine, they were all very long suffering, my present and current husband has developed a hearing problem, but seems quite happy in his world of silence. All these odd places, where exactly was your daughter presented? Catherine de Bourgh (Lady) 11:24, 17 December 2006 (UTC)

My daughter was presented breech at the King George the Fifth Hospital, Camperdown, if you must know.

And as for my ancestor, he did not arrive in this outpost of the Empire in a yacht; he arrived aboard a ship called the Alexander . And,no, you are mistaken. He was not in the construction industry in any large way. Prior to emigration he dealt mainly in jewelry and silverware. --Amandajm 03:23, 18 December 2006 (UTC)

Protocol

Madam,
I commend your ladyship's restraint in dealing with your antipodian correspondent above. Her blundering about with wayward forms of address for a person of your exhalted station makes Henry Root look like an erudite wit. References to 'your ladship' must surely cut deep, particularly now the scandal of your Great Aunt's gait and teeth has nearly faded beyond living memory. The purpose of my missive however, is to probe the particulars of another aspect of your ancestor's anatomy - namely the mother tongue of the Norman aristocracy. I am reliably informed William I issued order to the affect of 'avance - le roast beouf' whilst mid channel and I assume froggy was spoken at court for some time after. But how long - do you know? Gratefully, your obedient servant. --Joopercoopers 13:54, 3 August 2007 (UTC)

Deletion of the message

There was no need to be that aggressive. (And if you really were a friend of Jimmy "Jimbo" Wales, you would have known that a vast majority of editors, including the administrators, are volunteers and not employees of the Wikimedia Foundation, so referring to him as my boss is not really correct.) I have restored the page, but I have to remind you that Misplaced Pages is a public website, so if you want to make some kind of a transaction, a private e-mail would be a better choice. Regards, Mike Rosoft 14:11, 24 September 2007 (UTC)

• I see it now; the page was supposed to be a joke. Never mind ... - Mike Rosoft 14:25, 24 September 2007 (UTC)

• I can assure you young man - there is nothing laughable or jocular about my life. It gives me no pleasure to relate but is is my public duty to record it for posterity. Catherine de Burgh (Lady) 15:59, 24 September 2007 (UTC)

It is I

Greetings, dear Catherine. I amended your user page (as I believe it is called) to reflect more truly the Catherine you are; however, some officious minion considerably overstepped his station and 'reverted' me. How dare he! I had a good mind to inform the beadle, or even to take the horsewhip to him myself to instill some proper semblance of deference in the surly cur. But no matter. I have more important business afoot.

For it is I, your sister, Venetia. Ha! You did not expect that, did you? I have returned to right the wrongs done long ago. I have not forgotten how you ruined my coming out ball, how I fled from that august gathering and the taunts of the young men there present, the lurid tales of your latest cavortings with the lower orders ringing in my ears. For you have always had a taste, and a most carnal one at that, for the working man. Neither have I forgotten how you turned dear, dearest Papa against me, how you managed to poison his sensibilities so, how you wrought a most treacherous calumny against your own sister. Signor Machiavelli holds but a pale, stuttering candle to the phosphorous incandescence of your treachery! Delicacy prevents me from commenting on a relationship that was perhaps a little closer, a little more affectionate than it should have been, but I can only hope that dear Papa has found peace. I pray for him every night. And most of all, I have neither forgiven nor forgotten how you stole my childhood sweetheart, Reggie Ffoulkes-Baning Bt, my one true love, from me. Still seared into my memory are those terrible moments when I opened the door to the hothouse, hoping to check on the progress of my tender gardenias, and discovered you indulging in that unnatural passion so beloved of common strumpets and ne’er-do-well wastrels. How you corrupted such a pure youth! I have no doubt that Reggie truly preferred our flower-pressing excursions and my recitations, inspired as I was by the tutelage of my dear Mrs Jenkins.

I have been perusing your 'biography' with interest. A true work of fiction, if ever I read one. I have been excised from the annals of history, snuffed out by a most unreliable narrator. But I would not expect the truth from you, dearest Catherine. You always were one for self-aggrandisement, and with a carefully selective memory. Only eleven husbands? Pah! I see you have just sold off our dear home (details of the house merchant's vulgar particulars may be found here . Such a tawdry end to a noble house). How amusing that you could not bear to describe its true location, because Somersetshire is not nearly the desirable location presented by Dorsetshire, is it now? Always such a snob.

And so, dear Catherine, it is with a jaded eye I cast about in this place, to see what you have become. I grieve for the sister I once knew and loved, and for what I see before me now. Your sister, Princess Venetia di Cannoli (for aha! I have trumped you in the title stakes, have I not?) 86.140.131.232 22:24, 28 September 2007 (UTC) Pray, how do I make these bothersome red numbers go away? They follow me about like so many stray dogs.

I see Venetia dear that your memory is failing you, this does happen in extreme old age - you appear to have forgotten my second husband "HSH Prince Alexander of Serbo-Croatia" true Royalty rather than a minor Principe - have no fear there is no need to curtsey when we are alone.

It is true I have been forced to sell the cottage, and Scrotum Towers, so sweet of our dear brother to leave them to me, when he died so suddenly of convulsions at my dining table - who dealt with that terrible time so selflessly even having him cremated before telling the family to spare them the sight of his poor dear convulsed face and dear hands clutching his stomach frozen in death - I suffered all of that alone while you were strumpeting in Europe with you Principe - people are emailing me daily, moved to tears by my developing life story and my courage.

Your affectionate and forgiving sister Catherine de Burgh (Lady) 10:34, 29 September 2007 (UTC)

PS: I expect the red numbers are the ones given to you in Holloway when you were sharing a cell with that ghastly Mosely woman.

My time on the Continent with the late departed Principe (darling, darling Gaetano) was not spent ‘strumpeting about’, as you so inelegantly phrase it. I was not myself, that is all. We spent many months in Berlin, but it is not true that my friendship with Leni was ever anything other than most proper. We enjoyed each other’s company, the bracing mountain air and our naked swims in the high Alpine lakes. I polished her lenses for her most assiduously, for which minor act she was almost embarrassingly grateful. Then, to my distress, over time Gaetano became somehow distracted, more remote, and spent increasing amounts of time with Dr Hirschfeld at his Institute. I think he was helping him with his research. Abandoned by my husband (the shame!), this unsurprisingly wrought a change on my personality, causing me to find solace where I could. Dr Freud diagnosed me as a 'sexual hysteric' but I can assure you I was nothing of the kind. What did he know about it, anyway? My treatment was brief and successful. I suggest you seek similar help, Catherine dear. After Berlin and Vienna, Rome. Benito was most welcoming. I need not fill you in on my travails; suffice to say that Holloway was but a minor inconvenience. And as for those little red numbers - I forgot - how silly of me! Of course, they were the figure that Gaetano settled on me on our marriage. So as you can see, I am a woman of not inconsiderable means, although to brag about it of course would be most unseemly.

Did you get that operation in the end? I trust that you are now able to ride sidesaddle again.

Your sister

Princess Venetia di Cannoli 19:23, 29 September 2007 (UTC)

Darlingest Venetia,

It gives me no pleasure to see you so reduced. I do seem to remember your dearest Gaetano, how well he used to do Mamma's hair, I had no idea he was a prince, neither did the Home Secretary when he was deported following that very nasty misunderstanding with cousin "Rupy" (The Hon. Rupert Cleftcheak) and a guardsmen in the urinals in Hyde Park. I do remember when you ran off after him there was something I had meant to tell you - but then I always was one for practical jokes - do you remember the the exploding salmon at your coming out ball - oh how we all shrieked with mirth, I never did understand why you were so upset - that dress was a very difficult colour anyway.

I see you have been added to my Misplaced Pages biography after all - an unbiased and rather beautiful description I thought. I had no idea that you knew dearest Benito too, I can assure you that had nothing to do with why my patriotism forced me to give a full account of your activities to the authorities in 1940 - you were always so bitter about that time in Holloway with darling Diana - you cannot imagine the war was much fun for me either? - Holed up as I was in a 5th Avenue hotel with only Americans for company - Oh how I yearned to return to suffer the war-time hardships of the Blitz and food rationing with my compatriots but sadly my then husband Hiram G Rockerfeller Jnr would not permit me to be so endangered - I even attempted to knit a pair of socks for the troops but my fingers were so aching with pain when I had finished the first sock that my manicurist wrote me a letter of dispensation from finishing the second - the war was a time of deep anxiety, I had barely a finger nail left. How I envied you the healthy weight controlling diet of Holloway, and that cosy dear little cell where you must have felt so safe and sound unbothered by the hairdressers, manicurists, pedicurists, florists, and the bell boys whose attentions give me so little peace and solitude.

Are you sure the numbers are your bank balance - I had rather assumed from your appearance (as I remember it) they were your vital statistics. Do look after yourself, at your time of life one cannot to be too careful.

Your loving sister Catherine de Burgh (Lady) 19:58, 29 September 2007 (UTC)

Oh Catherine. You and new money: how infra dig. Need I say more?

I will reply at greater length at another time: my carriage awaits. I have a party to attend, only the very best types, you understand? Oh, I forget myself: you don't. I see you at home, snuffling pug on your knee, make-up badly applied and two bars on as you watch ITV. Have a wonderful evening.

Your devoted sister

Princess Venetia di Cannoli 20:40, 29 September 2007 (UTC)

A new title (much like my forthcoming one, of which more anon)

My darling Catherine,

It is a little while since I have had concourse with you. My thoughts naturally turned to you when I spied an advertisement for certain products in a magazine in the Harley Street waiting room, and I realised I must try to attempt some sort of rapprochement. Your mind has clearly started to wander; one wonders how many lucid moments we shall have from you.

I’m so glad you found that photograph of me. Let me remember, was that the role for which I won the Oscar or the Golden Globe? I quite forget - I have so many of the tawdry baubles cluttering up my rooms, they tend to merge in to one in the memory. I do remember that it was an extremely challenging part, and the make-up woman did sterling work, struggling to achieve the impossible task of transforming one of my exquisite beauty into someone depressingly plain and care-worn. As Mr de Mille was moved to comment in his charming Colonial vernacular: "Jeez, Venny, no-one does fug-ugly quite like you, babe."

And while I am on the subject of photographs: how I regret that awful picture snapped by a paparazzo at my palazzo in Terrazzo, a most unflattering angle. I maintain most strenuously that the photograph shows nothing more than Mr Flynn performing Mr Heimlich's life-saving procedure on me, after a morsel of coq au vin with plump prunes went down the wrong way. His actions were necessarily so vigorous that some of my clothes became a little disarranged and even detached during the event. Sadly, darling Gaetano did not view the photograph in the same way. No doubt spurred on by the disgusting rumours which surrounded the publication of the photograph (which were nothing but vile slurs on the good - nay, unimpeachable - names of both Mr Flynn and myself, and came from a source "close to home", I suspect), he divorced me. In truth I was not overly perturbed, as we had not lived as man and wife for many years, each pursuing their different interests: he his judging of various competitions, and I my in-depth anthropological studies of koteka which required long absences on my part whilst I conducted my field studies in New Guinea. My calipers became quite worn down by all the measurements taken.

I learned recently that engaging with a person about their youthful memories can be of some assistance when they are struggling with senility. Catherine, do you remember how much fun we used to have de-bagging Crunge, the wrinkled retainer? You entered into the activity with such gusto, such alacrity, it was quite startling. Papa was not so amused at having to make financial recompense for your over-vigorous attentions, I seem to remember, and the skin grafts for poor Crungey were rather expensive. Papa cut your allowance, did he not, so that you were unable to join us at Ravello that summer. Never mind, I made up for your absence in so many ways!

With tenderest love,

Princess Venetia di Cannoli 18:39, 9 October 2007 (UTC)

Hope you don't mind

I've borrowed your userpage for a while. If I'm going to be blamed for creating it, I figured I may as well get some mileage out of it. One Night In Hackney₃₀₃ 18:44, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

Go away, or I shall call the police. I have neither forgiven nor forgotten the attrocious way in which dear "Ballybog" (our beautiful Irish retreat) was vandalised by the ungrateful Irishmen. The two days we spent there each decade were often the happiest of our lives. Catherine de Burgh (Lady) (talk) 18:50, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

It's a good job I'm from God's Own County then.... One Night In Hackney₃₀₃ 18:52, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

I don't like Yorkshire people either, all that Kinder Scout business, I said to His poor Grace at the time: "No good will come of it", and just look, I was right, people traipsing about in cagoules and anoraks all over the place, clashing with the scenery, and frightening the grouse. Catherine de Burgh (Lady) (talk) 19:01, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

That's in Derbyshire..... One Night In Hackney₃₀₃ 19:07, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

Do you seriously imagine that anyone, is interested enough to demand their chauffeur stop the car to see where these places are. Derbyshire is just somewhere close to Chatsworth where one spends the night en route to Scotland, and as for Yorkshire - all that horrible tea, old Ma Peggaty and Hovis, I don't think anyone actually lives there. Catherine de Burgh (Lady) (talk) 19:10, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

If you and you chauffeur choose to stop the car in secluded places that's entirely your own business, or it might not be... One Night In Hackney₃₀₃ 19:33, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

Isn't it about time, you went awf and began to prepare to serve your master's diner. Catherine de Burgh (Lady) (talk) 19:46, 11 March 2008 (UTC)

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