A Position in the Pantry

You may have seen that the British embassy is looking for an assistant butler to work in the ambassador's residence. The successful applicant "will be expected to carry out cleaning duties, act as valet, undertake some waiting and pantry duties and deputise for the butler."

It's an eight-hour shift, though flexibility will be needed. No experience is necessary, "but the asst. butler must own his or her own car."

The salary will depend on age and experience but will be no less than £12,000 p.a., which is a good £1,600 above the current minimum wage.

It is heartening to see that despite the painful demise of the British Empire, the dreary advance of technology, the erosion of old decencies and the headlong rush to a vulgar consumerist nirvana, some standards are being maintained.

A residence in this country which employs a butler is rare enough. One which also employs an assistant butler is to be cherished.

Refreshingly, the advertisement, which naturally appeared only in The Irish Times, contains no ludicrously upbeat hype, of the kind regularly seen in this newspaper's business appointments pages, enticing applicants with promises of fast-track advancement and energetic work practices.

There is no attempt to imply that candidates should be annoyingly confident young visionaries with boundless imagination and ingeniously creative responses to daily challenges. There is no "carrot" held out, no performance-related bonus or the like, to attract the greedy, or those unable to appreciate a job for its intrinsic value.

Perhaps a vague, almost invisible mist of promise hangs over this elegant employment notice; the merest hint that one day, in the far-off future, the current butler just might fade gently into retirement, and his (or is it her?) replacement might then move discreetly upwards in the establishment, without the slightest disturbance on the placid, serene surface of things.

I need hardly add that there is no nonsense about applying by email. You don't have to enclose anything so vulgar as an s.a.e. or a plan of how you intend to conquer the world. You can apply by fax or simply hand in your application to the British embassy out on the Merrion Road.

For those who do not know it, the embassy is that large and rather intimidating building on the right-hand side going out of town, a little way past that other nostalgic reminder of the great glory days of Empire, the Royal Dublin Society.

Do not be put off if the greeting at the gates is a little cool. That is the British way. The offhandedness is probably not intentional. And a security element does exist after all. There is no way the receptionist can possibly know you are not a Brit-hating bomb-toting terrorist intent on blowing the building to smithereens. It does not necessarily mean you will not be on a firstname basis with the same person within perhaps 30 years or so.

I should alert prospective candidates at this stage that I have every intention of applying for the post myself. Journalism is, of course, an increasingly vulgar profession, drawing to it the most loud, brash and flamboyant of our young people, and to older practitioners the prospect of a good position in a civilised setting becomes more and more attractive.

It is fortunate then that experience is not considered essential for the job. My considerable age and maturity will be in my favour, but my experience in the area is limited. In fact I have never buttled, even as an assistant. I have never acted as a valet. I did once act (on a foreign stage, thank God) the part of Foigard, a drunken Irish fake priest in Farquhar's The Beaux Stratagem, but I shall not mention that.

I am aware of what a pantry is, or was, but am unclear about "pantry duties". No doubt, if I secure the position, the butler will enlighten me. Waiting and cleaning duties are not beyond me. I fulfil the car ownership requirement, being in possession of a vehicle which is not so new as to imply I would spend my salary in extravagant ways, or so old as to raise the mortifying spectre of a breakdown in the driveway of the ambassador's residence.

If I am offered the job - and I may say I am quietly confident - my demeanour and general behaviour at work will be modelled on that of Stevens, the butler played by Anthony Hopkins in the film of Kazuo Ishiguro's story, The Remains Of The Day.

That is to say I shall carry out my duties meticulously. I shall defer to my betters. I shall know my place. I shall devote myself to a life of service and self-sacrifice. If any disappointments come my way, no one shall know it by my appearance, my conversation or my actions. And if any Emma Thompson-like figure crosses my path, she shall be made aware that I have repressed all emotion for all time. I think I am ready now.