Where:  The Butler’s Parlour

Who: The Butler Olbert Sturridge

I am Mr. Sturridge, the butler. I sing the song of Heap House, it is a song of order and correctness, it is the noise of right and dignity. It is the noise of these halls, these many stories, it is the sound of every chamber in this great palace which is, though undeserving, our home too, we live amongst these pillar roots, underground beneath them that move above us and are above us and that is how it should be. Heap House sticks into the ground like a mighty flag pole, and thus a part of it must be buried from sight, our part is forever in the deep and it’s light is only candle and gas lamp, we are the roots, the great roots of the plant that grows above. We dwell beneath the earth where we belong, and here we labour, each at his station. I am the keep, I am the keep-it-in-place, I am brush and dust pan, I am polish and bite.

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