THE REVENGE OF MISS RHODA BUCKLESHOTT

This book humorously examines a mad upper class school mistress's fall from grace. Rhoda Buckleshott is sacked from her school for teaching her pupils to write prosaic antiquated English. The word "yes" is not permitted, only the words "I feel bound to reply in the affirmative". A sick basin is referred to as an "appropriate precautionary receptacle".

The book wittily describes Rhoda Buckleshott's escalating acts of revenge against the headmistress, some funny, others wickedly and chillingly unpleasant.

"This book is not a war of cannon and gun-fire. It is a war of the finest medium we can fight with - the English word."

"Words are Eleanor Berry's toys and her use of them is boundless."

- Mary Hickman, PhD, Freelance Journalist, Established Professional Historian and Writer.

RRP: £4.99 (UK)

ISBN: 0 7223 3214-9

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Excerpt from The Revenge of Miss Rhoda Buckleshott

"What in the world is this appalling noise, Routeledge? I have just been woken from the sleep I so urgently need after my prostate operation. Who the devil are these men? Are they canvassers from the Labour Party?"

"No, sir, they are Miss Rhoda's psychiatrists."

"Oh, someone had the cheek to send them over to me, did they? If that's the case, you can send them packing."

"It's not quite like that, sir," explained Routledge in a tremulous voice. "Miss Rhoda has been consulting them both over a long period. She has failed to pay them. Now, they require payment."

Mr Buckleshott took his cheque-book from the drawer of a small oak table in the hall. He did not want wither of the psychiatrists in his house, so he took up his pen, and came out into the drive.

"I don't want the pair of you screaming at each other. What are your names, starting with you?" said Mr Buckleshott, pointing irately at Dr Dart.

"Dr Dart. The quack with me is Dr Baddeley."

"I am adamant that you stand as far apart as possible, because I have had an operation on my prostate, and one thing that would set the pain off, would be two unstable doctors turning my residence into a battlefield.

"How much does my daughter owe you, Dr Dart?"

Dr Dart found the sum so outrageous that he whispered it in the other's ear. Mr Buckleshott looked as if he had swallowed a bee, and took a generous swig from the whisky flask he was carrying with him.

"This is your cheque, Dr Dart," he said. "Long may it last," adding, "Oh, Routledge?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where's Dr Baddeley gone?"

"He's gone to answer a call of nature, if you will pardon the commonness of the expression."

"Any idea how long he's going to be? I'm not well, as you know, and I want to go back to bed."

Suddenly, Dr Baddeley rushed from the lavatory by the door of the house, before stampeding through to the front door into the drive.

"You really are rude man, Dr Baddeley," said Mr Buckleshott. "I never told you you could run all over my house like that. I want this dastardly transaction completed at once. How much do I owe you?"

Baddeley had been discreet enough to write the colossal sum on a piece of toilet paper. Mr Buckleshott's trembling hands wrote out the second cheque he had written on that traumatic afternoon.

Neither of the psychiatrists said 'thank you'. They were both in such black moods of hatred towards each other, that they bumped into Routledge, without saying 'sorry'.

Within ten minutes, Dart and Baddeley had gone. Routeledge went into the house to make sure his employer was all right. Mr Buckleshott was sitting in an upright chair drinking Cognac.

"There's nothing to beat a couple of mad psychiatrists, descending on you, unexpectedly," ventured Routeledge.

Mr Buckleshott lost his temper with his terrified servant.

"Look here, Routeledge, you don't say 'wet' water. You just 'water'. You don't say 'frozen ice'. You just say 'ice'. He banged his fist on the table. "In exactly the same way, you don't say a 'mad' psychiatrist. You just say a psychiatrist!"