Nice to see you; to see you- NICE!

Tags

Border Terrier, Brucie, Craig Revel Horwood, Dordrecht, Heat magazine, Jenny Packham, Johan Huibers, Lisa Riley, Louis Smith, Paxman, Strictly Come Dancing, Wembley

The whole St Swithun day prognostication thingy seems irrelevant as

it appears to rain incessantly whatever the season.  A Dutchman

named Johan Huibers built an ark in Dordrecht, complete with plastic

animals.  Well, I suppose they would float in any deluge.

Such meteorological topics did not interest Tiger-Lily, nor

Scheherezade, who were caught up with their £40 sweepstake

winnings from Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly party. They had

accurately predicted that Louis Smith would win the Strictly Come

Dancing finals and, being altruistic girls, they donated part of their

winnings to their favourite charity, Curs in Crisis.  This was in spite of

Andy, the destructive Border Terrier having chewed the Christmas

tree lights and having caused mayhem at the party by plunging everyone

into darkness at the opening of the show.

Tiger called in to see how her grandmother, Ginevra was, after

having been abandoned the previous evening, when everyone ran to

Sonia’s house, in order not to miss the opening group dance by the

professionals.  In actual fact, once Cosmo had woken the wheelchair-bound

guest, she had been refreshed and then no one could get her to stop partying

until 2am.

Tiger’s mum, Carrie had eventually put her mother-in-law to bed as

the carer was off duty.

As mum was busy helping Ginevra with her morning ablutions, Tiger

had been left relatively unsupervised and she had ‘Googled’ Louis

Smith.  Almost immediately a very saucy photograph of the said

Olympic gymnast had popped up and he was not wearing anything at

all. Tiger was intrigued.  She was frustrated by the strategically

placed champagne bottle.  Apparently it had been a feature from Heat

magazine -a publication that would never be afforded entry to

Nutwood Cottage.  She immediately printed it off and Blu-tacked it

to her wardrobe’s inner door.

Imagine Carrie’s volcanic eruption when she discovered the same

indecent image on hanging up her daughter’s beaded Jenny

Packham dress later that morning.  (Tiger kept on having to correct

her mother.  It was Packham and not Packman.  Carrie should have

realised that Jeremy was not into bugle beads and fringing.  At least,

she didn’t think so.  But Paxman was different again.  It was very

confusing.)

Whatever.  Carrie sustained a shock as sensational as that

experienced by Craig Revel Horwood– and indeed the rest of the

nation’s viewers- when Lisa Riley did the splits at Wembley.

It was painful to think that her sweet, innocent Tiger of tender years

had downloaded such an image.

Gyles!  she called and then thought better of involving him.

The bedroom door was open and she jumped as a voice asked: Did

you call, Mrs Brewer-Mead?

It was Mrs Hatch-Warren, her cleaner.  She had let herself in with the

key she had been given.  Carrie was so overwhelmed that she had

forgotten that she had asked her to come in early to do some

ironing and other chores.

Shall I start by vacuuming Tiger’s bedroom? she inquired.

No!  I mean yes. Eh…  Carrie turned red and it wasn’t a hot flush.

Are you all right, Mrs Brewer-Mead?  the kindly cleaner asked

solicitously.

Carrie gulped.  Mrs Hatch-Warren, I know that you are a

grandmother to a fifteen year old girl.  Well, do you mind me asking

if this is normal?

She opened the wardrobe door.

Ooooh!  I’d say it was more than normal.  I’d say it was b*****

fantastic!  Mrs Hatch-Warren was from Yorkshire where this rather

crude modifier was in constant use and was considered an intensifier,

rather than being tinged with any offence.

So you think I should ignore it?  Carrie was prepared to take the older

woman’s advice.

Ignore it!  No, not at all.  I should come in here every day and have a

good look myself.  Fab-u-lous!  It’s not just Len who would give him a

10!

Mrs Hatch-Warren seemed energised and did all the ironing in

record time, but kept finding excuses to do more dusting in Tiger’s

bedroom.

Carrie was so shocked that she forgot to give the cleaner her

Christmas tip.  But the Yorkshire gran-with-attitude didn’t seem to

notice.  She felt she had had a huge bonus and spent the rest of the

day repeating Brucie’s catch-phrase: Nice to see you- to see you

NICE!

 

Strictly Finals

Tags

Anton du Beke, Barrowland, Border Terrier, Bruce Forsyth, Craig Revel Horwood, Denise van Outen, Dennistoun Palais, Frank Sinatra, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Julien Macdonald, Kismet, Laocoon, Louis Smith, Mayan, Mother Shipton, Rita Hayworth, Tess Daly, Vincent Simone

The world didn’t end yesterday, so maybe the Mayans weren’t so

clever after all.  It was going to be curtains for some of the Strictly

contestants, however, in a few hours.

Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly Finals party was in full swing.  Brassie

had found a Frank Sinatra CD in Help the Ancient and was playing

Baubles, bangles, hear how they jing, jinga-linga to encourage

everyone to get into a sparkly mood. Certainly, tonight was

Kismet.

Most of the guests were downing bubbly and becoming increasingly

effervescent and aerated. Ginevra was ensconced in the prime

viewing position in front of the large plasma screen.  She was

cheerful and enjoying her favourite Dewlap gin, with very little tonic.

Everyone was wearing enough ruffles, fringing, Bermuda and bugle

beads to keep Julien Macdonald in ecstasies till actual Doomsday.

Their scintillation would have been sufficient to have illuminated the

Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

Sonia arranged a sweepstake for the guests to wager on the winner

of the coveted glitter ball.  Of course, she was not permitted to enter

since she would have had an unfair advantage as a professional

medium.  When the twins tried to elicit a clue from her, she merely

raised her eyebrow, in a Vincent Simone enigmatic expression.

Maybe she did know something and might have been more in touch

than the Mayans, but she had a greater affinity with Mother Shipton than any

South American soothsayer.  That could have been applicable to her Latin

moves too.  The twins turned away in embarrassment when she

tried to shimmy and they consequently tripped over Andy, the annoyingly

ubiquitous Border Terrier, so he was banished and gated in the

kitchen.

Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade supported Louis Smith and defended

their choice hotly when teased that they were merely responding to

his lack of a costume.

Ginevra, the eminence grise, favoured Anton and had to be told that

he was not a contender. But he dances like Fred Astaire, she

retorted.  When the girls explained which dancers were finalists, she

decided to bet on Kimberley, as she thought she looked a little like

Rita Hayworth.

Once she had her glass re-filled, she didn’t care which programme

she was about to watch.

Carrie supported Dani; this was more to do with the dark pony’s

Italian partner, however.

I decided to opt for Denise, as I felt sorry for her lack of support.  She

had been subject to some bad luck owing to costume malfunctions

and had covered her professional partner’s mental blank, mid-

performance.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da: everyone was riveted and crowded round the

screen.  Bruce grinned: Nice to see you; to see you…

Just as everyone shouted Nice in return, there was a fragmentation

of the picture.  Two words appeared: No Signal. Tess’ lovely face,

usually a mask of tolerance while Brucie lifted her leg, disappeared.

Oh no! everyone exclaimed. What’s wrong?

Cosmo was dispatched to the fuse box in the kitchen.  Carrying a

bowl of floating tea-lights, he nearly tripped on the threshold as he

tried to negotiate the child gate that had been attached to the door,

to deter the excitable Andy. A veritable Laocoon of tangled and

chewed cables was all that remained of the Christmas tree lights,

once they had been dragged from the hall.

Brassie! he shouted.

She managed to feel her way out of the sitting room and stumbled

into the scene of canine chaos.  So much for thoroughbreds and

champion breeding.

There was no fuse wire in the electrical box, so Cosmo was also in

the doghouse- a destination with which he was only too familiar.

Everyone decided to hot-foot it to Sonia’s place, which was the

nearest viewing possibility.  Difficult in crystal-encrusted stilettos.

It was only when the glitter ball had been awarded that someone

realised that Ginevra was missing.  There had been nothing

problematic with her electric wheelchair, but everyone had forgotten

her in their eagerness to hiss Craig Revel Horwood’s initial

pronouncements.

When Cosmo rushed into the sitting room with a borrowed torch, he

found her fast asleep and perfectly warm under her tartan blanket.

She had consumed the rest of the bottle of Dewlap– neat, by all

accounts.  She was alert instantly and wanted to know if she had

won the sweepstake.  Cosmo lied and presented her with an

uncorked bottle as a prize and she went back to sleep, happily

dreaming of Fred and Ginger and the days when she used to dance

at the Dennistoun Palais and Barrowland in Glasgow, with her first

love, Gianbattista Pomodoro, Carrie’s grandfather, before he

married Jean Waddell in 1946.

But who had really won?

Round Robin 2-Strictly Finals

Tags

Argentinian tango, bugle beads, Come Dine with Me, Dancing With the Stars, Fake or Fortune?, Flavia, Katherine Jenkins, Location Location Location, Louis Smith, monocles, Patrick Moore, Pineau, Pippa Middleton, Pizza Express, pleb, pommel horse, Salvatore Ferragamo, Santa Baby, Strictly Come Dancing, Swarovski, Vincent

Marzipan accomplished.  As I said, ‘to be continued’.

 

Well, Victoria, so many of our friends and neighbours have been

minor celebs this year- Tristram on Come Dine With Me; Sonia on

Fake or Fortune; Clammie and Tristram on Location, Location,

Location.  So, we feel very ordinary- almost pleb-like, I was going to

say, but that isn’t PC now.

Brassie’s party is on Saturday and there has been a trail of bugle

beads up the pavement from A La Mode, down to the Norman

bridge.  Everyone is getting glitzed up for the Strictly final.

Tiger and her friend, Sherry, spent some of their Xmas-in-advance

money on a ‘papp’ experience.  This is the latest craze for St Vitus’

girls, apparently.  They organised an agency to roll out a red carpet

for them when they left A La Mode and then a crowd of fake

papparazi flashed away-?- and a rent-a crowd of autograph

hunters besieged them as they were escorted into their stretch limo,

which took them to Pizza Express. (They could only afford the

economy package, not the platinum one.)

The only trouble was that then Pippa Middleton’s security posse

arrived and shunted the girls’ car off the double yellow lines and then

everyone started to snap Pip instead.  Gyles had said the package

was a complete waste of money and the girls just cheekily replied:

Whatever.  So, he is not speaking to Tiger at the moment.  In a way,

it is a blessing.  Tiger said that Pippa actually went into Mini Moghuls,

probably to buy a Swarovski-encrusted mini-onesie for the

forthcoming one- and I don’t mean the baby Jesus.  The ubiquitous

traffic warden was conspicuous by his absence on this occasion.

Have just managed to find a second-hand pommel horse for Rollo on

E-bay.  He adores Louis Smith and so he went and had his hair cut in

that ridiculous way on the last day of term.  Thank goodness it will

have grown a bit before January, or Mr Milford-Haven, his

pastoral mentor, will be having words with him.

Of course, all my family support the Italians- whether it be Flavia or

Vincent.  I have been trying the Argentinian Tango, but it does my

back in.

Cosmo said he would prefer if the programme were to be called

Dancing With the Stars, as its European equivalent.  At the weekend,

he was drooling over Katherine Jenkins singing Santa Baby, which

really upset Brassie.  And to think that it hadn’t been 24 hours since

he was so moved by the death of Patrick Moore. Brassie said that she

felt like returning the crystal-encrusted monocle she had ordered for

him, in memory of his astronomical hero.

I hope Brassie gates the peeing Border, Andy, on Saturday.  I don’t

want to slip on anything wet on the conservatory floor during our

Gangnam number.  It would ruin my new Salvatore Ferragamos!

Well, at least you don’t have to worry about excessive preparation,

do you?  The Charentaise are so laid back about their Bonnes Fetes

that they don’t even bother to remove their plastic, life-size Pere

Noels from their exterior chimneys, from one year to the next.  I

always think that they look like burglars in July or August!

Have a great time and see you in the New Year.

Thanks for the truffles and Pineau!

Gros Bisous!

Carrie & Gyles.

PS What’s French for Keep Dancing!

Austerity Round Robin

Tags

Artem, Danny Alexander, Duchess of Cambridge, Eminem, Grayson Perry, Harriet Harman, Kirstie Allsopp, Lynne Truss, meggings, nausea, onesie, Portsea Island, Strictly Come Dancing, Tiger, Tracey Emin

Dear Victoria,

Am slightly ‘put oot,’ as they say north of the border, by Lynne Truss, that

witty journalist, nicking my idea for a satirical response to the Round Robin

letter, especially as I was just about to write mine.

We wish you and Andre a healthy and prosperous New Year.  You’ll be glad to

know that Kirstie Allsopp has popularised the de-worming, not only of pets,

but of all kinds of old skip-rescued furniture, so you will be able to continue

shipping your trove of tat over here for some time to come.  Austerity is good

for business.  Or your line of same. Sounds like it should be a proverb.

It’s been a hectic year as usual, with it being Suttonford’s turn to host le

jumelage exchange visit with Bric-a-brac.  The exciting news is that Ola,

Ginevra’s erstwhile carer, –the one who went off for some deeper mutualite

with the widower who had been billeted with your mother- is in a state of

infanticipation and her EDD coincidentally matches that of The

Duchess of Cambridge.  Magda, the replacement carer from the agency,

has gone over to Normandy to visit her compatriot and to help see

her through the period of la nausee – (wasn’t that a book?  I must

look it up on Amazon.) She might just be doing some research on the

the availability of spare widowers.

Gyles is fine.  Working hard to pay all the school fees.  Of course,

Tiger being a scholarship girl helps a bit. (15%)  I hope he likes the meggings

I have purchased for his Xmas.  I also hope he agrees to wear the onesie I

bought him for Brassie’s Strictly party on Saturday Night.    It’s either that or a

bare-chested Artem glitter special for his samba number.  We all have to do a

dance, but he said that he wanted to cover up and wished everyone would.

Spoilsport.

Talking of Tiger: it was an amazing privilege for her to have been

asked to carry the Olympic torch in the summer.  Gyles and I were

annoyed that she refused to wear the uncool white tracksuit.   It

wasn’t so very different from her polar bear onesie, I thought, and she never

takes that off.  Grey onesie, really.

Rollo went on a Parisian parkour programme in the hols and Ming

went wingsuit skydiving.  We did not tell their grandparents, though.

They were very proud of Ferdy winning the Mini Scientist of the Year

Award, all because Mr Milford-Haven had the foresight and nous to send his

essay on recessive genes and hair colour to Danny Alexander and various

government nobs.  Spelling? After the Harriet Harman episode, the Treasury

was only too happy to provide a generous grant for the newly instituted

award.  They seem to have the finances for some things. Of course, Gyles

spent half a term helping Ferd with the wretched thing, bless.

Ming was singled out for his ceramic project and has been making

pots with Grayson Perry.  He has to wear an overall to protect his

school uniform from all the slip clay, but wonders how his mentor

manages in those baby dolls.  He tries to remember to call him Clare.

Of course, Tiger’s heroine is Tracey Emin, or Eminem, as the boys have

dubbed her.  I don’t think Tiger has made her bed for a year now and

she refuses the cleaner entry to her room in case she disturbs her

work-in-progress installation.  I still have to pay the woman the full amount,

though, so no Chrissie bonus for her, since she takes that attitude. She earns

more than Gyles’ PA, in any case.  Or Gyles?-can’t remember which.

Gyles and I fancied island hopping in the summer, but in these times

of austerity, we only managed Portsea Island, Hayling and the Isle of

Wight.  We skipped Lee-on-Solent after remembering Alan Bennet’s portrayal of

it in Talking Heads (First Series) – the one with Julie Walters and the film crew.

More anon,

Have to make my mincemeat!  No suet.

tbc

Existential Choice

Tags

Existentialist, Flaubert, Gauloise, Higher Criticism, Higher Maintenence, Kate Moss, mauvaise foi, Simone de Beauvoir, Sorbonne, The Colony, The Frog Prince

As I was saying yesterday, we were seated at a table in Costamuchamoulah, The Frog Prince and I, looking at the previous customers’ detritus, when a waitress took an order at the adjacent table and walked straight past our poubelle de la table, without using her brain cells to think about efficiently clearing our empties on the journey back to the kitchen. Sacre bleu!  Would Simone de Beauvoir have let this pass, or would she have whispered a smoke ring from her Gauloise and then blown a gasket? Would she have ordered pint-sized Sartre to take the debris over to the counter?  The illogicality of the behaviour would undoubtedly have annoyed such a bluestocking.  As an expression of mauvaise foi would she have placed the unwanted crockery on someone else’s table?

Sartre criticised waiters whose movements were too waiter-esque.  Goodness knows what he would have had to say about those who neither stand, nor wait, to quote a poet-philosopher that I admire more than the Existentialist. Maybe members of staff are asserting their choice of not working at all.  I wonder if Kate Moss worked harder when she waited on tables at The Colony?

So there we sat while my companion discussed the relative merits of the solitary fading beauties in the café.  The éclat was when I realised that I had a rapport with the authoress of The Woman Destroyed.  I realised that I was not a Woman in Love whose identity was submerged by a male object; neither was I a Narcissist who, according to de Beauvoir, would construe myself as a desirable object.  Obviously, I am The Mystic, who invests my freedom in an Absolute.

All too aware of the processes of growing older, my interests are more focussed on The Sorbonne than the sensuality of a sexually inviting sorbet.

The preface to Simone’s novel had proclaimed that she would deal with the growing indifference experienced by the older woman. With critical detachment, she would write a remarkably frank portrait, wreaking revenge on the female predator.   All her female characters voice the betrayals they have suffered from their husbands and children.

As Flaubert said:

The monologue is her form of revenge.

Mayhap I will take on her mantle.

She told us what it was like to lose one’s shadow, one’s identity and mourned the loss of that

straightforward, genuine authentic woman, without mean-mindedness, uncompromising, but at the same time understanding, indulgent, sensitive, deeply feeling, intensely aware of things and of people, passionately devoted to those she loved and creating happiness for them…

She went on:

I cannot see myself any more.  And what do others see?  Maybe something hideous?

Is this angst?

I know how she felt.  Why is the Frenchman not paying attention to me?  Am I now the safe, maternal escort?  I must check this with Brassie and Clammie, with the caution that when Simone asked Lucienne how she would have described her, she received the reply: idealistic.

Then Lucienne asked her: How do you see yourself?

As a marshland.  Everything is buried in the mud.

Do you know what?  I think I will not measure myself by others’ estimations.  The door will open once again and I will have that mince pie if I want it.  Brassie will just remind me that it is all about Higher Maintenance and not the Higher Criticism and Clammie will instruct me: Do not go gently into that good night.  My words will be of forked lightning and I will never trust in the fairy-tale transformation of the ordinary and the frog who turns into a Prince.  I will embrace the solid, faithful Heinrichs- the employes of the enchanted princes, who have served their more flamboyant masters for aeons, but who give you what you see in the most straightforward way.  Or then again; I may not!  At any rate I will throw an imaginary die and abide by my Existential choice : eat the mince pie now/ eat two mince pies later?  Mince pies or men?  Mince pies!

La Vie Boheme

Tags

Angelina's, beau monde, Bradley Wiggins, Brigitte Bardot, Cafe de Flore, Cocteau, Da Vinci Code, Gorden Kaye, Irma Kurtz, Jeanette Winterson, John Humphrys, La Boheme, La Vie Bohème, Les Deux Magots, madeleine, Mallarme, Manon, Maxim's, Mimi, Muriel Belcher, Musetta, Novello, Oscar Wilde, Perrault, Pippa Middleton, Proust, Rimbaud, Rodolfo, Rose Line, Rousseau, Shakespeare& Co, Something Understood, St Germain des Pres, St Sulpice, The Colony, Verlaine, Woody Allen

(Muriel Belcher by Francis Bacon)

Hi!  It’s Candia again.  I’ve been festively overwrought and last night I fell asleep listening to Irma Kurtz on Radio 4’s ‘Something Understood.’  She had constructed a compilation on La Vie Boheme, mentioning La Rive Gauche, Greenwich Village and The Colony in Soho, owned by Muriel Belcher, where Francis Bacon was paid to bring along interesting guests who were on an ‘odyssey of creativity’.

As a student, I had worn a cape and affected a feathered hat until my dad told me to tie my hair back and remove the offending headgear.

 Then I woke upto someone singing Have Yourself a Merry Little Xmas with a voiceover chiding John Humphrys with a reminder that there were more things on Heaven and Earth than had been permitted in his philosophy. Rather surreal to have the announcement of Bradley Wiggins as Sports Personality of the Year juxtaposed with cosmology and moral philosophy at 8am.

I had a somewhat unusual request yesterday, Dear Reader.  A visitor asked if he could have a guest appearance in my blog.  And who is this budding self-publicist? I hear you wonder aloud.  Eh bien, he was a rather elegant Frenchman that I introduced to Costamuchamoulah’s café society via une promenade round the aspirational, but pas trop authentique Francophile Sunday morning market in our beloved ville.  This event of global significance was ‘appening on the High Street.  (Why do I always think in terms of Gorden Kaye’s Franglais when I am narrating anything of Gallic content?)  Anyhow, it was with un soupcon of Rousseau’s irony that I directed said gentilhomme’s footsteps down the less than sunny side of the street to Suttonford’s burgeoning version of Maxim’s.

We did not recognise anything remotely familiar to this European voyageur in le marche and so I headed him off past the bookshop-alas, not Shakespeare & Co, with a resident Jeanette Winterson, but to the cosmopolitan hub of Suttonford’s Café Society.  On the way across the street my boulevardier remarked approvingly on various expensive vehicles, parked in bays, which screamed mid-life crisis.

He seemed more interested in the clientele, though the owners of Costamuchamoulah have not yet cottoned on to the device employed by Cornuche, the proprietor of Maxim’s, who remarked:

An empty room!  Never!  I always have a beauty sitting in the window, in view from the [pavement]

Here it is more like Novello’s version of the experience: And Her Mother Came Too!

(There are one or two widows, but not necessarily of the ‘merry’ variety.)  Woody Allen was distinctly absent, but there were no Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds,(sic) at least.

Ensconced in a corner, at an unwiped table and on hard chairs- not the sumptuous banquettes which might reveal hidden treasures lost down the cushions- we ordered our upwardly mobile beverages, while he showed me photographs of his international girlfriends on his Blackberry – ( is that Murier, I me demande?)  Monsieur was keen to exhibit pictures of himself in Les Deux Magots. Was this a kind of Parisian, urban, if not urbane, Crocodile Dundee equivalent of showing me that THAT was a café, in the same way as Paul Hogan had demonstrated the superiority of his jungle knife?  Whatever.  I was miffed that he had assumed that I would not have heard of such an establishment, so beloved by les philosophes, let alone having patronised it with my custom.

Les Deux Magots has thankfully nothing to do with maggots.  Un magoh was the slang term for a miser.  I don’t think misers would search out the pitchers of decadent hot chocolate found therein, nor would they pay their prices to see Oscar Wilde, Mallarme, Rimbaud etc.  In Costamuchamoulah, we pay the prices, but don’t see Apollinaire, Verlaine or Hemingway.  Apparently, Pippa Middleton might have breezed through, though I don’t know whether it was to check the sales of her book which is displayed beside the edible ladybirds and so froth.  Pun.  Formidable rear isn’t la meme chose as formidable intellect, in my book at any rate.

But to my tale- pas Perrault, but tant pis!  Ah yes, I remember it well.  The Husband and I slipped on the glacial trottoirs of St Germain- des- Pres, in the days when he went out, seeking the church of St Sulpice with its Rose Line and gnomen, but thankfully with no resident albino monk assassins.  The fountain was frozen and great slabs of sheet ice almost prevented us from venturing to the Café de Flore or Deux Magots, for it was the Advent season, as it is now.  Ah, those were the days and nights of Angelina’s and other beau monde haunts, where we expected to encounter  Mimi, Manon, Musetta and Rodolfo and perhaps, if we were very blessed, Proust himself.  Mimi had wanted to lose her senses and Musetta had forgotten the regulation of their economies and had asked the boys to order champagne.  We were a little less extravagant.

For that is the problem with such cafes of Enlightenment. Before you know it you are emptying your bank balance, merely to see and be seen.

My current companion looked around the room, panning the four corners for a barefoot Brigitte Bardot perhaps, but his eye fell upon a smart blonde woman in her fifties.  Quel surpris!  He confessed that young girls were not for him.  Like Cocteau, he was well aware that:

..to undress one of those women [would be] like an outing that calls for 3 weeks’ advance notice…it [would be] like moving house.

So, it was on my first sip of Mocha that I had the flashback, the Epiphany-and it came without the madeleine.   I will enlighten you further.

A demain..!

Hortus Conclusus

Tags

cellarium, Hortus conclusus, jargonelles, medlars, melon house, quatrefoil, Quincunx, topiary, toxophily

She barricaded her land with hurdles

after the yew tunnel was traumatised

by those encroaching nouveau riche neighbours

with their breeze blocks and concrete pool surround.

They didn’t appreciate her medlars

were medieval and her melon house

was the stairway to a cellarium.

Her quinces failed to impress them, or bless

them with rare quintessence of quietude.

Those meddlers called her eccentric, with her

quatrefoils and quirky quincunx planting.

Jibbering jackdaws in chimneys warned her

that someone was uprooting history;

that eight genus of lilac were being jinxed

and that her jargonelles were jeopardised.

Eight thousand snowdrop bulbs were under siege.

Her newly grafted damson came from roots

in an orchard she’d helped a parent plant

fifty years before.  Her jardinieres

nurtured joyous japonica bushes;

jeroboam-watered jonquils, jasmine,

but nothing was sacred to those next door.

In her tongue and groove conservatory,

she sat on the mouldering chaise longue

she had rescued from a suburban skip,

so wistful about her wisteria;

watchful of the adjacent “For Sale” sign.

Established yew can take a thousand years:

portions of it were folk her father knew.

But no one would abutt her butts again.

Toxophily was the sport for ladies

who set their sights and achieved a bull’s-eye

with every fleched missile they targetted.

“It’s strange thatch spontaneously combusts,”

the loss adjusters said in their report.

“My topiary skills are improving,”

she mused, as their pantechnicon arrived,

to cackles of derision from her cowls.

“Now I’ll think my green thoughts in a green shade,”

she sighed. “Pruning is so satisfying.”             

 

* hortus conclusus: a garden enclosed

Don’t eat the Figs!

Tags

Augustus, Caligula, Claudius, figgy pudding, Heston Blumenthal, Livia Drusilla, parable of fig tree, Pucine, Suetonius, The Sunday Times, Tiberius, Waitrose, We Wish You A Merry Xmas!

Livia Drusilla, standing marble sculpture as Ops, with wheat sheaf and cornucopia. Marble, Roman artwork, 1st century CE. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Clammie’s mother, Livia, was joining them a few days before Christmas- the same as usual.  She always insisted on helping in the kitchen, and Tristram disliked any interference in what he deemed to be his exclusive sphere.  He wanted to keep her out of his fast-receding hair.

She would arrive with The Right Way and The Only Way to do everything.  Her stuffing was superior and Tristram had to stifle phrases involving injunctions on that theme.  Her countdown was as regulated as NASA’s had been and her tinselled timetable was as efficiency conscious as Mussolini’s railways.

She was also excessively interested in the regulation of familial bowel habits and arrived with various packets of Fig Rolls.  Tristram preferred to remain slightly constipated than to partake of these suspicious little ridged sweetmeats.

He knew that he was being paranoid, but ever since he had been deeply impressed by a Classics lesson in Transitus, he had carried an aversion to, and a fear of, anyone called Livia.  Hadn’t the Empress thus called been responsible for the death of her husband, Augustus?  Hadn’t she cleverly smeared the ripe figs on the tree with a deadly poison?  He wasn’t taking any risks and even eschewed the boxes of Egyptian dates that she brought into the house.

He had remonstrated with Clammie when she had wanted to call Scheherezade ‘Julia Augusta’.  He felt that it had been a signal of impending terror.  Hadn’t that been Livia Drusilla’s adopted name when she was taken into the Julian family in AD 14?

Come to think of it, there was a master at the boys’ school nicknamed Caligula.  Could he conceivably be related?

Once, for their anniversary, she had sent a fig tree for their garden.  He tried to appear grateful, but inwardly vowed never to let its fruit pass his lips and he wouldn’t eat any of the conserves, or preserves, that Clammie made from its bounty.  Suetonius had recorded that Augustus might have snuffed it after kissing his wife, so Tristram indulged in a lot of mwah-mwah charades with his mother-in-law.

The original Livia had initiated herself as a priestess in a new cult and so, when Carrie’s mother announced that she had become a lay-reader, albeit in an Anglican diocese, he felt even more uneasy.  It was treasonous to speak against the Empress, and Tristram felt that he could not breathe a word to his wife regarding his discomfiture in her mother’s presence.

He went back to his school texts.  Tiberius, spawn of the Empress, used to resent being addressed as Son of Livia, or Son of Julia; Tristram hated being introduced as Livia’s son-in-law.

At five minutes past four, on the 20^th December, she telephoned from the station, and he felt as if he was being asked to pick her up on an elephant-drawn chariot.

Once he had her installed in the family sitting room with Clammie, he produced a bottle that he had bought from Pop My Cork! (a local wine merchant.)  He felt smug, as he had managed to find Pucine– a red wine labelled : grown on a hilly promontory between Aquilea and Tergeste, near the slopes of Mount Timavus, on the Adriatic.  This had been the daily tipple of the Empress herself.  It was what she had been drinking on the day she died, aged 86.  He knew that, like Tiberius, he would probably have to probate her will, but he would, like the aforementioned, veto her deification whenever he could.

The only way to survive her visit was to adopt the behaviour of Claudius: ie/ stammer and play the role of a half-wit.

So, there she was, in HIS kitchen, stirring some cranberry sauce which she had made from first principles, when she looked out of the French windows and suddenly came out with:

I don’t see that tree I bought you for your anniversary.

Ehhh, no…

What happened to it?

Tristram’s mind whirled around.  Suddenly recalling her lay-readership, he embellished a New Testament  story:

Oh, it wasn’t producing any fruit, so we took Jesus’ advice and dug it up.

Hmmm, well, it’s a pity you didn’t follow His advice on tares, she riposted, casting a critical eye on the weeds they hadn’t had time to address in the Autumn.

Livia: 1; Tristram: 0

What was the point in engagement?  She was a sheep; he was a goat.  They’d be separated on The Last Day.

Well, she continued, we don’t need any figs, as I was just going to make the pudding on Stir-Up Sunday, when I saw an article in The Sunday Times that said the must-have dessert this year is Heston’s Figgy Pudding, so I went out and bought one in Waitrose before they flew out of the stores.  She indicated the box lying on the granite worktop.

Tristram could feel his stomach beginning to knot.  He would have to check the seals.

Suddenly, at the back door, they could hear a clanging noise, which was evidently hand bells.  The some treble voices from St Birinus ‘Middle School, no doubt, trilled Sleeping in Heavenly Rest.

My favourite! smiled Livia, turning off the gas and exiting the kitchen to look for her purse.

The ensemble started up We Wish You A Merry Xmas with some gusto, aware that it was more of a money spinner and suddenly Tristram had an epiphany.  He opened the back door widely and thrust the Waitrose box into the gloved hand of the conductor, Mr Geoffrey Poskett, the red-nosed choirmaster, just as they reached the line:

We all like some figgy pudding, so bring some out here!

Oh, they’ve gone! said Livia, putting her pound coin back into her purse.

Don’t worry!  I gave them something from you, said Tristram, playing the part of the dutiful son-in-law.  Here!  Have another glass of Pucine.

The distraction worked.  He would pick up another box tomorrow on the school run and she’d never know the difference.  He’d lived another day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letters To Santa

Tags

Aloha shirt, Beach Boys, Chi Ro, Come Dine with Me, Harry Styles, Location, One Direction, Red Letter Day, Richard Dawkins, Rudolph, Schnautzer, taser, Tinkerbelle

Tristram, having appeared on two television programmes in recent months- ie/

Come Dine With Me and Location, Location, Location, was regarded as a minor

culinary celebrity and therefore was approached by the local town charities, to

see if he would accept the role of Father Christmas at the late night shopping

evening.  They had asked Harry Styles from One Direction to be compere, but

regrettably he was otherwise engaged.  Clammie had agreed to be Santa’s

fairy as she had an up-to-date DBS check and was one of the few mums

who could squeeze into the Tinkerbelle costume.

Some of his duties involved emptying the town Lapland post box and re-

directing the mail to the PO department that dealt with applications to

Greenland’s Fulfilment Centre.  He had to read them in order to decipher

the return addresses and he showed me some of the finest epistles:

1) Dear Father Xmas,

As one who is a member of the ‘kids from one to ninety two’ bracket, may I register

a little festive plea?

As a long term fan of The Beach Boys, I would very much like an Aloha shirt- Medium

size. Actually, the folks over there can be quite large, so maybe a Small would do?

In spite of my nickname- Caligula- I can assure you that J’etais sage pendant l’annee

2012. 

Many thanks and The Peace of the Lord be With You,

Nigel Milford-Haven

Form Teacher

St Birinus Middle School etc

PS- The use of X in Xmas in no way indicates any agnostic position.

(Chi Ro)

2) Dear Santa,

Please may I have a taser gun so that I can zap the next boy who calls me Ginger

Minger? I do hope that Rudolph has recovered from the mental trauma of being

called names and marginalised at games.  Bullying isn’t nice I can tell you.  I’m

glad that you picked him out to be special, even though his fur is a teeny bit

auburn.

Love,

Ferdy xx

Nutwood Cottage

Suttonford  etc

3) Dear Santa Claws (sic),

Please may we remind you that we would prefer not to have joint prezzies?

The tandem you left us last year is still in Dad’s observatory.

On the 24^th we will not set our buglar (sic) alarm, so don’t worry about coming

in.  The chimney has been swept, so you shouldn’t get too dirty.  If you are

sooty, please could you be careful of Mum’s cream carpet in the sitting room,

as she goes ballistic if anyone steps on it with outdoor shoes or boots.

We will leave a carrot out, but Mum doesn’t believe in suet, so mince pies

are off.

Have a good one!

Castor & Pollux.

The address wasn’t vital on this one as there was only one set of twins in

the town who answered to such stellar appellations.

4) Dear Father Christmas,

I can’t remember what it is that I really, really want, but zombie make-up

would do for my stocking.  You usually get it about right, but I think the

Memory Game last year didn’t do me much good, I’m afraid. Or did you give

that to Ming?  I can’t remember.

Anyway-cheers!

Bill.

(There was no address on this one, but Tristram remembered that Carrie’s

son had something like ADD.)

5)

Dear Santa,

I don’t really believe in you, but I might as well hedge my bets.

I have been reasonably well-behaved this term.  Well, it is all relative,

isn’t it?

I think I would like Richard Dawkins’ new book for children- Faith and Fairy

Tales.

I enjoyed my Apocalyptic experience on Salisbury Plain, but as I was done

out of a paint balling session, could Juniper- my sister- and I have vouchers

for a Red Letter Day involving anything violent with tanks and weapons?

Thank You – even if you are only my dad.

John etc

6) Dear Santa,

I don’t need anything this year.  Please just make a donation to Curs in Crisis.

Maybe the pugs could go on a driving course, like that giant Schnautzer cross

I saw online?  Their legs are a little short, though.  I’ll leave it up to you.  I

think they’d like it, though, as they often ride on my scooter.

Love,

Edward xx

(This brought tears to Tristram and Clammie’s eyes.)  She made Tristram a cup of

tea when they returned home with the correspondence and warmed up a mince

pie for him.  However, she eschewed one herself, as the fairy costume was a little

tight round the bust.  Tinkerbelle was obviously not a 36B.

My Little Pony Goes Viral

Tags

brony, Hasbro, iPhone, Kathleen Richter, Lauren Faust, List of My Little Pony characters, My Little Pony, My Little Pony Friendship is Magic, Rainbow Dash

Scheherezade’s little sister, Isolde, was in trouble.  Alyona, the au pair, had returned  home for Christmas and it had only just come to Clammie’s notice that she must have been allowing the technological tot to play Friendship’s Magic on her iPhone.  Isolde was permitted to spend up to fifty gems- the game’s currency.  This would have covered playing with Rainbow Dash, but her pony bill was five hundred gems.  This was not My Little Pony as she had known it.  She would have to have words with Alyona on her return.

No, you are not playing Friendship’s Magic today, said Clammie firmly.

Smurfs’ Village? pouted Isolde.

No.  Phone a real friend and not a virtual one.   This was only the start of the school holidays.

I’m bored, moaned Isolde.  What do you mean ‘real friend’?

Take your Twilight Sparkle unicorn and get Princess Celestia to tell her how to make real friends in Suttonford, rather than in Ponyville, said Clammie, in exasperation.

But Suttonford IS Ponyville, Isolde pointed out.

Privately, Clammie tended to agree.  She thought that Equestria wasn’t too far away either.  She thought that quite a herd stabled in the various cafes around the town, such as Divas’ Deli and Costamuchamoulah.

Don’t be ridiculous, Isolde.

But, mum, Sonia is like Pinkie Pie.  She has Pinkie Sense and can predict events.

Maybe, but she doesn’t have a toothless pet alligator, does she? Clammie hesitated slightly.  She wouldn’t put it past the old girl!

And Candia has The Stare which she uses to intimidate other animals. Her husband is like Big Macintosh who speaks softly and looks slightly bored but accepts his surroundings.

The kid had a point, but she was being too forward.

And Daddy and me think you are like Sweetie Belle.

Well, that’s nice, Clammie thought.

Yes, you always burn the toast and have disasters in the kitchen.

Right! That’s enough!  Go up to your room, young lady!

Clammie began to think that she had better put a stop to this unhealthy game.  She had read an article in a  magazine called Ms in the dentist’s waiting room –before the hygiene police had advised all such premises to be literature-free-in which a Kathleen Richter had accused Rainbow Dash of promoting the stereotype that all feminists were ‘angry, tomboyish lesbians’ and that the darker ponies were an underclass to the pale pony overlords.

On the other hand, a Lauren Faust had responded that Rainbow Dash’s sexual orientation had never been referenced in the show. She had asserted that the assumption that tomboys were lesbians indicated prejudice towards straight and gay tomboys.

And so it was that Clammie found herself in Costamuchamoulah, having a deep discussion with Mrs Boothroyd-Smythe as to whether Juniper’s gender-fluidity had been influenced by playing any Hasbro games.

She was heartened to discover that John, Juniper’s brother, had once reported that his form teacher, Mr Milford-Haven, also known as Caligula, had confessed to the scoffing class that he was a brony.  The boys had elicited that this meant that he was a fan and participant in Ponyville.  If a master of St Birinus Middle considered the activity educational and wholesome, then what had she to fear- other than the bill?!

While she was draining her Mocha, she couldn’t help but hear some excessively loud speech and observed its accompanying outdated mannerisms.  My goodness, she thought, that’s just the typical Canterlot voice of Princess Luna.  The two little mincing girls with her were dead ringers for Diamond Tiara and Silver Spoon– the snobbish ponies who went to the same school.  The other woman was Trixie– the pony who referred to herself in the third person and tormented the locals.  Was this Art imitating Life, or vice versa?

There were several mares in a corner discussing the perfect stallion and what constituted a stud.  Sitting on the high stools there was the human equivalent of Zebra Zecora, the herbal healer and she was nose to tail with Nightmare Moon, who complained in every shop.

Must dash! Such fun!  she said, using a deliberate exophoric reference . Thanks for the chat.  By the way, I thought you were very good on Come Dine With Me.

She upset the milk jug.  Oh dear!  Was she really Derpy Hooves, the goofy, clumsy one?  There was something deeply philosophical and quasi-religious about Friendship Magic after all.  She must have further discussions about it with Apple Bloom, aka Candia, the Voice of Reason.