Calling all Jeeves

It could be too many hours of Downton Abbey, but I’ve had a revelation.

I need a lackey.

He (or she – I can be gender blind in my oppression) would:

Stand quietly in a corner of the gym holding my car keys and wallet, thus solving a universal paradox. We all need these objects to get there, but are supposed to be burden-free as we go from treadmill to stationary bike to rowing machine. 

Hover overnight in the garage and dash immediately out to carry off snow as it falls, thereby eliminating that morning surprise of a white driveway gumming up an early appointment.

Follow behind me on my walk, ready to tote my coat at the point when I inevitably switch from wishing I had a heavier one to not wanting one at all.

Appear magically at my car’s trunk when I arrive home with groceries. He would not only unload, but shelve each can of beans, every box of cereal, to include wrapping and labeling for the freezer all those fantastic buys on meat I’ve scored.

Carry my purse (which is getting heavier each year, due more to lack of editing than age.) I would need only to extend my hand and in it would be placed shopping glasses, tissues, or phone.

Develop a bunion in exactly the same place as mine and then break in all of my shoes.

Wear a homing device connected to my reading glasses, my computer glasses, and my TV glasses. (The payback for forty-five years of 20/20 vision.)

Now if I could just decide on the uniform.