Explore "Memoirs of a Foxhunting Man" by Siegfried Sassoon on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
After breakfast there was no time to be wasted. First of all I had to rummage about for the tin of Blanco, which was nowhere to be found. Probably the parlourmaid had bagged it; why on earth couldn't they leave things alone? I knew exactly where I'd left the tin at the end of last holidays -- on the shelf in the schoolroom, standing on an old case of beetles (of which, for a short time, I had been a collector). And now, unless I could find the tin quickly, there'd never be time for me to Blanco my pads, for they took ever so long to dry in the sun, even on a blazing hot day like this one.
"Really, it's a bit thick, Aunt Evelyn; someone's taken my tin of Blanco," I grumbled. But she was already rather fussed, and was at that moment preoccupied in a serious discussion with Mabb, the gardener, about the transportation of the crockery which she was lending for the Cricket Tea.