"English as tuppence, changing yet changeless as canal water, nestling in green nowhere, armoured and effete, bold flag-bearer, lotus-fed Miss Havishambling opsimath and eremite, feudal still, reactionary Rawlinson End.
"The story so far..."
A pale Sun poked impudent marmalade fingers through the grizzled lattice glass and sent the shadows scurrying, like convent girls menaced by a tramp.
Gorgeous beyond imagining were brassy hoars of winter-depression-fierce daffodils blaring yellow-white reveille and croci, gingering the lawns in tesselate Performing-Right-Society.
With a gaseous grunt he rolled away from the needle-cruel light acupuncuring his pickle-onion eyes, and with key-bending will slit-peered at the cold trench Florrie had left on her side of the bed. Tongue like yesterday's fried cod: "Mind over batter? Tongue sandwiches? Bleah! Eat what? But it's been in somebody else's mouth!" Black spot! The Blind Pews were now thrashing with their canes. "God's turban and tutu! Do I need a dare of the hog?"
He reached for the bellrope, yanked savagely to summon the housekeeper, and
discovered himself, nighty round his waist, turned tortoise on the rug.
Paralysis lasted... scarce a blink but with impotent rage he bellied his
unwilling hulk to the wardrobe. Cold comfort, as his palsied hand found the
shotgun. Good stock. "Roll over!" One action: commando stuff. "Cock over!"
Safety off, both barrels through the ceiling. Stunned shock and then Henry's
eruptive bellow "Mrs. E!". The plaster had not setted before the housekeeper stood
lurcher-backed at-your-servile-sir in the room.
"Yes?" she said.
"I don't know what I want but I want it now".
"Fried or fried?"
"Now"
"Fried?"
"Fired!"
"With or without, dear?"
"Within. Get out."
"Fried, without... Mmm... Off, dear."
However, for a different view, here's what the (anonymous) film reviewer of the Radio Times said of the film in the 22nd March 1997 edition. I think it says more about the reviewer than the film.