How Many Miles to Babylon?

Tags

Babylon translation, Bulgaria, Godalming, GPS, Guildford, Prince Alex of Battenberg, Sofia, stotinki

Imam nuzhda ot pomosh-or something that sounded like that.

What was going on?  I had just dropped by for a quick English

Breakfast and there was a dishevelled woman looking fairly

distressed sitting in the corner of Costamuchamoulah and counting

out what seemed to be some stotinki. She was muttering to herself.

Stotinki, Candia?

Yes, Dear Reader, the currency of a state which we will be

familiarising ourselves with more and more, unless Suttonford plans

to transmit anti-propaganda to deter legitimate Bulgarian

influx.  I mean, what could The Town Council say to make other EU

citizens think this market town is such a bad destination? Other

town spokespersons have denigrated the British climate, childcare

facilities, job expectations; have highlighted the plight of the homeless,

have criticised the general inebriation of the locals and so on,

but 380 Bulgarians still thought it an attractive option to come

over and see for themselves, between the end of the summer of

2012 and the beginning of 2013.  So, we can’t be that bad.

Frankly, most people in Suttonford would not care if Prince Alex of

Battenberg arrived – ( I can’t think of any other famous Bulgarians and

didn’t recognise any in the lengthy list that I Googled, so there’s no

point in citing them for you)- where was I? -Oh yes, folk here wouldn’t

mind who arrived, so long as the aforesaid immigrants worked and

paid their National Insurance so that supported Suttonfordians could

still afford to have the odd cuppa in Costamuchamoulah in their

dotage.

Anyway, Imam nuzhda ot pomosh.

Hooray for Babylonian Translation Services on your phone! It means:

I need your help!

So, I paid for the lady’s drink and explained about our currency being

different- or tried to.

Suddenly she said: Ah, how long have I been here?  I’m on a yellow

line!

So, she could speak English!  I was Confused of Suttonford.

Well, it turns out that she wasn’t Bulgarian.  She was a little

disorientated as she had been going to pick up her son from

Guildford Station five days before.

Five days ago!  What happened? I hear you say.

Well, she had left Godalming and her GPS had given her instructions

and she just kept following them until she came to Sofia.  Then she

had cashed in some Euros that she found in her glove compartment, was given

some shrapnel in change and followed the travel instructions in reverse.

But didn’t you notice the borders or the change in the language of

the street furniture? I asked her.

Not really, she replied.  I was too busy listening to what the woman

was telling me.

Az ne govorya balgarski.  (No, wait. It doesn’t matter that I don’t

speak Bulgarian!)  Where do you want to be now?

Well, actually, I thought Sofia was quite nice, so after I have

freshened up and got some more petrol, I thought I’d head back

there.

What about your son?

He’s probably worked out by now that I am not picking him up and he

can do his own stinky washing!  Now that you’ve shown me the

translation  service on your phone, there will be no stopping me. 

How Many Miles to Babylon- I mean Bulgaria?

A few more than three score and ten, I observed. And you might not

be there by candlelight, I said to myself.

Aloud, I advised: Varvete napravo!  Posle savivate na liavo!  Do po-kasno!

Which being translated means: Go straight, then turn left!  See you later!

Sofia so good!  That’s one more place for a Bulgarian in Godalming!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Flat White

Tags

Asda Mum, Camp coffee, Consumed, Daily Mail, Evan Davis, Farleigh Wallop, flat white, Guardian, Guinness Book Records, Harry Wallop, Hello Dolly, Hyphen- Leighs, Juicy Princess, Middle Wallop, Middleton classes, Nether Wallop, Portland Privateer, Rockabillie, social semiotics, Sun Skittles, Sunday Post, Today, Wood-Burning Stover

Hello Dolly!

Dolly?

Yes, it’s so nice to see you back where you belong! I remarked sincerely to

Carrie as we queued in Costamuchamoulah.  How did the funeral go?

Brilliantly, thanks.  It was lovely to catch up with the family.  I haven’t

been north for some time.

And did you go to a Burns Supper, as you said you might?

I certainly did!  It was good to flash the tartan and sing a few rude

songs from The Merry Muses of Caledonia.

Well, don’t sing any in here, will you?  I don’t think they’d appreciate

it.

We chose our usual spot in the corner after ordering two flat whites.

What on earth is that? asked Carrie.  It sounds like a base coat of

emulsion. Carrie, being half-Italian, is knowledgeable about coffee,

so I was surprised that she hadn’t cottoned on to this trendy option.

No, it’s something that Evan Davis was banging on about with Harry

Wallop yesterday, on the Today programme.  There is a new book

out: ‘Consumed: How Shopping Fed the Class System.’

Evan’s not in here, is he? she asked.  I don’t see any Spock ears

sticking out from behind an ‘FT’.

No, he was researching the different socio-economic groups and their

caffeine consumption correlations in London.

So, who is this other guy you mentioned? Does he hail from Nether,

 Middle, or Farleigh Wallop? 

Not as far as I know, I laughed. In my day, ‘wallop’ was something

that happened to children in my socio-economic group if we came home

after the street lights had gone on.  And, as for social semiotics, they

had scarcely got around to antibiotics back then.

Which is what this stuff tastes like, actually. So, what does a flat

white determine about your origins, then?

Apparently that you are a Wood-Burning Stover, I explained.

Well, I am-and proud of it!  What else could I be?

You could be an Asda Mum- not too many of them around, judging

by the absence of ‘Juicy Princess’ buggies. Or am I getting mixed up? 

Maybe they do affiliate to that brand.  Or, you could be a Portland

Privateer.

What’s that?

Oh, someone who books themselves into a private birthing clinic.

Well, that’s clearly not a category that I aspire to join, is it? she laughed.

Any other groups that I might belong to, without my knowing it?

Well, you don’t affixate your children’s names with a –leigh suffix, do

you?  Mind you, Tiger-Lily is hyphenated.  That could loosely connect

 you to the Hyphen-Leighs- ie/ those of the ‘Marillion’ generation..

She looked alarmed.

Oh look! There’s a Rockabilly.  Don’t turn round yet.

I’ve heard of Huckleberry, but what’s…?

Someone who sports red trousers and frequents the Cornish coast.

Any other categories, then?

Emm…Middleton classes- as in Carol, not Kate and Pippa.  And Sun-

Skittles..

Who are they?

Those who read ‘red-tops’ and play skittles.

Well, judging by the graphics on the BFLs round here, Bags For Life,

you know, I’d say we are a mixed breed.  We stuff our wood-burners

with fallen branches like babushkas and yet there isn’t a ‘Guardian’ in sight

in here.

No, it’s definitely ‘Daily Mail’ terrain.

And, I bet they’ve never heard of ‘The Sunday Post’, Carrie observed. 

Now that was a social leveller if ever there was one.  Here! Take a look! I

brought one down from Scotland.  It used to have the highest per capita

readership anywhere in the world and was in The Guinness Book of Records.

And what kind of coffee drinker would be associated with it?

Camp, I should imagine.  And not just because of the articles by

Francis Gay. Pure chicory! 

And better than this emulsion, we agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Quality of Mercy

Tags

Blue Badge, Curley, Dante's Inferno, Of Mice and Men, parking infringement, Penalty Charge Notice, Portia, Pythagoras, Richard Dawkins, Scapegoating, Vaseline, Volvo

Boris Bagham spotted a Volvo which had been parked in a one hour

bay since 9.20am. It was now 10.20 am, plus five seconds.  Atta-boy,

Bagham!  The notification of a parking infringement was plastered to

the windscreen in another five seconds.

Poor Gisela had not had the benefit of the Suttonford Grapevine.

From Benares Balti to Pop My Cork!; from India’s sunny shores to

Greenland’s icy mountains-no, that’s a Victorian hymn, isn’t it?…

Anyway, from The Running Sore to Help the Ancient, the buzz was

exchanged via texts and calls:  Traffic Warden!

Shop assistants, waiters, customers, patients from the surgery, still in their

underclothes, all flew out into the High Street like the proverbial bats exiting

Dante’s Inferno.  Much circling was done in the manner of vultures, but they

did not regard themselves as the predators.  They rode the thermals

metaphorically until the coast was clear and Boris strode into

Costamuchamoulah like Curley in Of Mice and Men, only his hand

was not softened by Vaseline. His stern fist remained in an iron

gauntlet.

This town ain’t big enough to support me in cappuccinos, he thought.

Boris was only doing his job and he had a quota to fulfil. He did not

know that his notice was often the last straw for some poor frazzled

human being.

He recalled one irate female who had stamped her foot and said: But

mercy is an attribute of God Himself/ And earthly power then doth

show likest God’s/ When mercy seasons justice.  He hadn’t known

what she was rabbiting on about.

Then her friend deposited her Coltsfoot and A La Mode carriers on

the pavement and added:

Thou almost makest me waver in my faith/To hold opinion with

Pythagoras, /That souls of animals infuse themselves/

Into the trunks of men..

Boris suddenly had a flashback and so continued writing the

Penalty Charge Notice while calmly replying:

Till thou canst tear the seal from off this fine/

Thou but offends’t thy lungs. I stand here for law.

Blonde 2 turned to her friend and intoned:

You may as well go stand before the beach/

And bid the main flood bate his usual height..

So he had won.  He knew all the tricks: the phoney police college

windscreen stickers, the forged Doctor on Call cards, the crude Blue badges.

Why should some tradesman who scribbled a note: Working at No 3

and who left it on their dashboard cut any mustard?  For all he knew,

they were visiting that Melinda woman with a luncheon voucher.

No, he was becoming cynical.

Why had he taken such an unpopular job?

Well, he had once been issued with a ticket himself, and he had had

to go to anger management classes for ages.  Then he developed a

syndrome called Scapegoating, where he did unto others the very

thing that had been done unto him, in a reversal of the Lord’s prayer

that was truly evil, but could be explained as a survival mechanism by

people such as Richard Dawkins.

But Gisela, though somewhat down-heartened at the present

moment, was no easy touch.  She removed the notice and took out

her phone.  She photographed the road under her tyres: completely

covered in snow and no lines marking the bay visible.  She would

appeal to a higher court than Boris’ conscience, and like Portia, she

would probably win her case!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monstera Deliciosa

Tags

Diazepam, prawn cocktail crisps, Promised land, Swiss Cheese Plant

Hello, Edward dear.  Did you have a nice day at school?

Candia, where’s Mummy?

Oh, she’s just gone to Scotland to say goodbye to Grandma Jean.

Why?  Where’s she going?

Emm, she’s going to see Grandad Gian.

She hasn’t seen him for ages.  Maybe he won’t remember her.

Oh, I think he will.

Candia…

Yes?

Why do Swiss Cheese plants have holes in their leaves?

Ah, it’s because the holes help them with their stress.

(I know how they must feel!)

What’s stress?

(You wait!) Just feeling you have too much on your plate.

Like Rollo, Ming and Ferdy.  They’re greedy.  Daddy says their eyes

are bigger than their bellies. Can I have some crisps when we get

home?

Yes, darling.

When is Mummy coming back?

Ah, Daddy will know.

Will Daddy know why Swiss Cheese plants have holes in their leaves,

Candia?

I expect so, Ed.  It was in the news yesterday.  They develop them so

they can trap more sunflecks in the dark underworld of the tropical

forest.

That’s what the teacher said yesterday, so I cut lots of holes in all the

plants in the conservatory.  I thought I would save the planet and

help everyone to be less stressed.

That was a kind thought. (Where am I going to get well-established

plants exactly like all the ones she had in her conservatory, before she

returns?)

Edward, maybe you shouldn’t be playing with scissors when Mummy

and Daddy aren’t around. Promise me you won’t do any more indoor

gardening.

Okay, Candia.  I can sort your plants, though, if you’d like me to help

them.

Thank you, but no, Edward. I like them just the way they are.

Stressed?

Yes, just like me-stressed!

Oh, prawn cocktail-my favourite!  Mummy doesn’t let me have the

flavoured ones.

Good for Mummy- oh, I mean that most sincerely.  What a kind

Mummy you have, Edward.

I know.  But Daddy is more kinder.

What do you mean?

He lets me have Baked Bean and Sausage and Ketchup flavours.

Well, let’s just keep that a secret then.  And, tell you what, let’s not

tell Mummy about the plants when she phones tonight.

Is she phoning from heaven?

No, from Scotland.  Some people call it the Promised Land.

Do the plants have holes in their leaves there?

Yes.  All of them.

Why?

Because the North wind blows a freezing gale straight through them.

But they’re not stressed?

No.

And all the people eat things that are bad for them?

Not all.  (I lied.)

Candia, thank you for picking up Edward.  I managed to get home

early.

Pleasure, Gyles.  He’s had some crisps.  I’ll talk to you about the

plants later.  I’ll pick him up tomorrow at the same time.

(After I’ve had a Diazepam sandwich!)

I hope he wasn’t any trouble.

No, he was a monstera deliciosa.  I’ll explain later!

 

 

 

Desperation and Depilation

Tags

Ally Bally Bees, Bikini Atoll, Boson Higgs, Burns Supper, Creamola Foam, cryogenic, Erskine Bridge, Flower o' Scotland, Francis Bacon, Krakatoa

Snow had fallen: snow on snow, but now it is dirty slush.  Clammie

met me as we were bored: well, no shopping over the freezing

weekend.

Still, not as bad for us as it was for Carrie.  She was supposed to have

winged? wung? her way to her grandmother’s funeral last Friday, but

the flight to Glasgow was cancelled and the cremmy postponed as

the Italian delegation couldn’t get off the runway for Cremona foam.

(Hey!  I’ve just remembered that effervescent stuff from my

childhood.  It was Creamola Foam and it was composed of dissolving

crystals.  They stopped making it, but now, apparently, it is

produced as something called Krakatoa, by Ally Bally Bees of Fife.

Maybe Costamuchamoulah could get some in at a price that would

have as much shattering till impact as a Boson Higgs particle meeting

itself on the way back to base.  Commercial fission accomplished!)

Anyway, the weather was the reason that Carrie was able to join us

on the walk last Friday, when she was supposed to be crossing the

Erskine Bridge in a hearse.  She did manage to travel today,

however.

The comment that poor old Jean was on ice was never truer and we

have all joined her in the cryogenic state, it seems.

Tristram told Clammie that Francis Bacon-the scientist and essayist,

not the painter- perished from pneumonia after experimenting with

the effects of stuffing a chicken with snow, to observe its

preservation on flesh. Tristram, the amateur chef, had been criticising

the length of time that his spouse had allowed for de-frosting the turkey

at Christmas.  He met with an icy reception, as I recall.  But I digress…

Anyway, we have given up frosted coffee and are enjoying hot

chocolate with marshmallows instead- blow the calories!

Now that Carrie has taken off, we think that she should stay up north

for a couple of Burns Suppers.  She remembered to take her

long, tartan skirt and sash.  Jean would have approved.

We are babysitting between us.  I am picking up young Edward later

this afternoon and Clammie is putting the pugs on a sledge for a

little progress through town, sans diamante.

Clammie says that she is annoyed with Tristram as he refuses to

return to his Monday evening Art class.  She spent a fortune on his

brushes and easel.  He was muttering something about an

analogy between the hazards of scientific, and those allied to artistic

exploration.

Francis Bacon seems to be the connection, but she can’t see what

links a Life Class with a trussed chicken. I pointed out that Melinda,

the Life model, might just have raised that particular mushroom

cloud.  Melinda and Bikini Atoll somehow go together like a horse

and carriage.  Desperation and depilation seem to collocate when I hear

her name.

Ginevra has reconciled herself to her absence at her friend’s funeral.

At the precise moment of committal she intends to raise a toast– not

the best term to associate with her long time companion’s method

of departure- but there you go! She will commemorate the

Flower O’ Scotland in a time-honoured way.

My goodness, is that the time?  I have to go and pick up Edward!

 

Chien En Psychanalyse

Tags

Calvados, chipolatas, Mont St Michel

No, Andy!  Down! I brushed him off before his muddy paws could

streak my new coat.

Look what we’ve found, said Bella.

Oh, brilliant, smiled Brassica.  I’ve been looking all over the field for

that.  It fell off Andy’s collar earlier this afternoon and it has our

details and all the information about his medication and allergies on

 it.  We love the Chien en Psychoanalyse range of canine jewellery

 and it was so kind of Ola to have it personally engraved and to send

 it to Andy for Xmas, via Magda. She promptly clipped it back onto

his collar.

Although somewhat stunned, Carrie said sincerely: It’s great that you

got him back.  She told me later that inwardly she had been trying to

resist the thought that Ola had only sent them a calendar from the

Mont St Michel and a small bottle of Calvados.   She supposed that

Ola thought the pugs tended to wear their diamante collars

routinely.

It isn’t gold then? I asked.

All that glisters isn’t, she laughed.

Shall we finish our walk and go and have a drink in The Cavalier

Arms? suggested Bella.

Pourquoi pas? we agreed.

And Andy wagged his tail and walked to heel because he

remembered that the landlady surreptitiously fed him little mustard-

coated chipolatas and at home he wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance

of even sniffing such treasures, owing to his alleged allergy.

And as for weight loss- well, the girls were going to have a little

nibble too, as they were ravenous and needed a reward after their

strenuous exercise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Covey of Partridge

Tags

Andy, Baldrick, covey, flintknapper, Gore-Tex, kilo, Kirstie and Phil, metrologist, OS Map, Parliamentarians, Phil Harding, Royalists, Time Team, Tony Robinson, Wet Ones

Even the kilo has put on weight, Carrie announced in

Costamuchamoulah yesterday, lamenting her spare tyre.

Yes, I read that too, I said. The world’s official unit of mass is not an

unvarying standard, apparently.

Did you see how they are going to strip it back to its original weight?

Who?  The metrologists?

Yes. They are going to give the surface a sun tan by exposing it to

ultraviolet light and ozone.

So, we all just need a holiday? laughed Belladonna, who had joined

us for a jasmine tea.

Actually, we could have a kind of holiday once a week and, when the

kids are in after-school clubs, on a Wednesday, we could go out for a

long walk, suggested Carrie.  They don’t need to be picked up till

about 5pm.

So, not enjoying our full-body profile, we decided to take some

exercise locally.

Carrie had bought an OS Adventurers’ Map 150 and a book of

suggested circular routes that ended and began in hostelries.  These

would provide parking, if you patronised their establishments- and I

don’t mean by saying how pathetic you found their premises and

menus.

The pugs were deemed too short-legged to benefit, so they were left

at home.

Bella had new Gore-tex boots and a couple of Nordic poles.  Carrie

had a new mobile, in case we had to contact rescue services:

Officer, hi!  We have forgotten where we parked.  

WALK 1

Walk round the site of The Battle of Suttonford, 1644.

Distance: 6.3 miles

Time: 3.5 hours (4 in Ugg boots)

Refreshments:  The Cavalier Arms; The Gauntlet at Sutton-le-Grange.

Norton Grainger suggested a perambulation which encompassed the

perimeter of the old battle site and which incorporated pleasing

views of the tiny hamlets of Sutton-le-Grange and Dean Sutton.

There was a cosy little pub not mentioned on the guide, at

Suttonfield, which was conveniently situated at about the half way

point, before you had to climb Suttonford Down, but Norton was

keeping that little jewel to himself. The Down was the location of

the mustering of the Parliamentarian troops, just before they swept

down like the Assyrians on the field and routed the Royalists.

As we trekked around the path, I collected a large broken branch,

which would almost fit nicely in my woodburner.

We went over two stiles, traversed a farmer’s fallow field and

crossed the A72B, before circumventing the old battle site.

Time Team should come here, said Bella.

No, said Carrie, as we entered a cathedral of beech.

(Nice collective noun that, I always think.)

No, she said.  They don’t broadcast that programme any more.

I never liked that Tony Robinson, I said.  He gave me the creeps.

What?  Even as Baldrick? said Belladonna.

Especially as Baldrick, I said.

Well that Phil Harding was a flintknapper par excellence,

remonstrated Carrie.

Okay.  Oil drink to that, I agreed.  Was that a Wiltshire accent he

had?

Oil say it was!  Mind you, added Carrie, even he said that the

programme had been dumbed down and they were all prattin’ about.

Like we are! laughed Bella.

Well, I don’t expect that there’s much left here after all those metal

detector types rotovated the field, I said.  You’d have as much chance of finding

anything significant as a Spitfire hunter in Burma. Look! There’s a covey of

partridge!

And an exaltation of larks, added Bella.

No Parliamentarian owls, though, quipped Carrie.

See that little cottage over there, I indicated by waving my branch, it

has had a For Sale sign on it for 7 years.

Probably a pre-credit crunch price, stated Carrie.

No.  It has a plaque above the porch with its name: River Rise

Cottage.  You’d have thought that they would have twigged by now

that anything that mentions water is a no-no.  Kirstie and Phil would

be the first to tell them.

By now the heavy clay had clogged the treads of our boots.  We

stopped to scrape some out with a stick.

What’s that on the ground? Bella asked.  She bent over and picked

something up- a mud-encrusted metal disc.

Let me see, urged Carrie.  Bella, I think you may have struck gold!

She took a handbag-sized pack of Wet Ones from her pocket and

wiped the find.  It looked for all the world like a muskateer’s button,

with a loop on the rear.

I said: I can see a C on it.  Maybe it stands for Carolus?  Bella, we

must show this to Sonia.  You know how she’s always going on about

the cavalier fugitive who fled the battle and is now haunting her attic

in Royalist House.  Maybe it came from his shirt.  It’s likely to be from

that period.

Don’t you think we should take it to the museum or to The Historical

Club?  said Carrie firmly.  It may be treasure trove.

Hmm..I considered.  It depends on the percentage of precious metal

in it, although it would be about 300 years old, I suppose..

I saw a programme where a silver button of Charles I’s reign made

about $600, Bella volunteered.

Oh well, here comes our glimpse of sun and sniff of ozone! I laughed.

Just then a partridge whirred up and flew off, pursued by an excitable

dog.

A slim woman wearing a Pipes of Pan multi-coloured woollen hat

with dangling fluorescent pompoms emerged from behind the

hedgerow.

Andy! she shouted. Leave!

I waved my branch.

It was Brassica.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Class

Tags

Come Dine with Me, dermoabrasion, Manet, Olympia, Titian, Venus of Urbino

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk, part-time Art teacher and housemistress

at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, likes to get out

and about in the community, so she offers a Monday evening

adults’ class in Suttonford, on her day off.  She rents a shop which

has been vacated by Aquanibble, whose piscatory dermo-abrasion

service never really took off.

Most of the potential customers preferred to retain their calloused

skins.  Indeed, some actively cultivated the equivalent of a

rhinoceros hide, whether metaphorically, or not.  The minority

delivered their dermis to Beauty and the Beast, once named Pride

Knows No Pain before Citronella took over the business and the

premises.

But to our tale…

The last straw had been when she went into the staff loo and was

confronted by a laminated instruction panel comprising of no less

than twelve boxes, illustrating the correct way to wash her hands.

I think I have survived *years without succumbing to bubonic plague,

she fumed. Then she said *****under her breath, I hate to inform

you.  You see, you just can’t get the same quality of staff any more.

On entering the cubicle she wondered if there would be any further

instructions on hygiene: ten steps to wiping… No, she didn’t wish to

think about it.  This excessive infantilisation of adults was driving her

to deliberately spit in the tea urn. She just fantasised: don’t worry!

(Well, they should pay them more and they’d get better types

applying for the posts.)

Anyway, it was this that drove her to seek mature company, save her

sanity and to have her talents fully recognised.

And so it was that on the first Monday of the month, Drusilla faced

her initial ten adults, who had turned up with their portable easels,

squirrel brushes, palettes of acrylics and boxes of pastels.

She spoke for the first three quarters of an hour on perspective, flat

surfaces, light sources and ways of seeing.  She showed them a

painting by Titian: The Venus of Urbino.  Then she sensed that they

were all itching to start drawing.

Melinda D’Oyly-Carter, the local masseuse and aromatherapist,

emerged from behind a decoupaged screen, wearing a pink chenille

bathrobe and fluffy mules.

Tristram flinched.  She had been a fellow contestant in Come Dine

 With Me and had, in fact, won the £1,000 prize.   He was feeling

discomfited as he was the only male in the class.

Drusilla turned on the fan heater.

The ladies arranged their easels around the chaise longue and one or

two sharpened their pencils; others snapped a stalk of charcoal and

yet another cleaned her putty eraser.

Tristram suddenly felt queasy.

Excuse me, ladies, I’ve suddenly remembered that I left some

meringues in the oven.

He fled.

Melinda, or Mimi, as she preferred to be addressed, disrobed in one

confident, burlesque gesture and lay in an Olympia position, which

would have gratified Manet.

Half an hour of making marks, instructed Drusilla, wondering where

Mimi had secreted all the business cards she was distributing. Next

week we will explore the symbolism of the cane in Le Dejeuner sur

L’Herbe.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are Crabs Comrades?

Tags

Bob Elwood, carcinus maenas, crab pate, decapod, Electric shock, Queen's University Belfast, Sencha Quince, Theresa May, Volvo

 

John and Juniper’s mother, Gisela Boothroyd-Smythe was sitting,

hermit-like, in a corner of Costamuchamoulah café early this

morning.  She looked fairly disconsolate and was stirring a latte

round and round.  She had dark circles under her eyes that would

have out-bagged Theresa May’s.

Mind if I join you? I asked.

No, not at all.  She looked up.  She looked desperate.

Is there anything the matter?

Well, I’ve just been reading about some research from Queen’s

University, Belfast, about the European shore crab…carcinus

maenas..

This was odd.

It’s a creature, she went on, that usually takes shelter under dark

rocks during the day, to avoid being spotted and eaten up by

predators.

(Is this a metaphor?  Is she talking littorally– stop punning, Candia! Does she

see Costamuchamoulah as a shelter?)

Well, in the EU, decapods are not classified as sentient species.

Yes, I thought to myself, and sometimes mothers are not accorded

that status either.

So, Prof Bob Elwood devised an experiment to see if they could feel

pain.  Ninety crabs were given electric shocks in Shelter A and,

surprisingly, even when they were offered an alternative Shelter B,

they returned to their original refuge.

Really? I replied.  I’d have thought that they would have avoided

doing that.

Well, the interesting thing is that they went back once, but having

been bitten, as it were once, they were shy on the second occasion.

You mean they gave them another shock in Shelter A?

Yes, and then the crabs switched shelters permanently.  They

displayed memory and employed avoidance behaviour.

She stirred her latte again.

Have you been back to A? I asked gently.

Yes, she said, but I’m not going there again.

Very wise, I agreed.

But it’s a difficult thing being a mother, with responsibilities, she

added.

Maybe you could make Shelter B really nice and then there wouldn’t

be any more shocks and you could invite pleasant shore crabs to join

you and create an alternative community.

Yes, she brightened up. I think that’s what I’ll do.  Thank you.  I’d

better go.  My Volvo’s in a one hour bay.

She left and I sat for a while, drinking my Sencha Quince.

I decided not to buy crab pate for lunch, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Man About A Dog

Tags

Border Terrier, flugelhorn, St Birinus

  MISSING!

REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO RETURN OF:

ANDY

Much beloved and sorely missed pet of the Willoughby family,

Willoughby House,

1 North Street,

Suttonford.

Tel: Suttonford 753799

starry-eyed@suttonworld.co.uk

A male, castrated Border terrier, micro-chipped.  Friendly, slight

bladder problem, requires expensive medication.

Last seen Sunday, 16^th January, 2013 in walled rear garden of above

address.

Brassie was just about to jump into her 4×4 to race down to St

Birinus Middle with her son’s flugelhorn, which he’d forgotten to

take with him that morning, when she noticed a puddle in the drive

and a rolled up piece of paper which was sticking out of her

letterbox.

She unrolled the scroll and read the following:

Hey, missus, have your dog back.  He just peed all over the van and

barked non-stop.  He’s a ***liability.

Look round the back garden.  He’s tied up to that funny metal thing

in the middle of the lawn.

Don’t try to fingerprint this as we always wear gloves.

Brassie was annoyed before the relief kicked in.  That metal thing

was a genuine Philippe Johnson sculpture that they had sourced from

his studio in Sussex!

But, Andy, darling!

There he was, looking none the worse for wear and licking her hands

continually while she struggled to unknot the hairy string which

bound him to the artwork.

She ran to the get the dog bowl at the back door which sported the

slogan:  Chien en Psychanalyse.  Clearly he was very thirsty.

Oh the relief!  She picked him up and placed him in the back of the

4×4 and put the dog guard in place.  She wasn’t about to let him out

of her sight.  The fatted calf would be slain this evening.  This dog of

theirs that was lost had now been found!

She would ask the school receptionist to put a note in Mr Milford-

Haven’s pigeon-hole, so that he could tell the boys the good news.

Then she would text Cosmo at work and would call in at the police

station on the way back home to report Andy’s return to the nice

constable.  She had better remove all those notices on High Street

and environs.  Thankfully they had saved on a reward.

Half way down to school, she remembered that she had left the

overdue Latin prep on the hall table.  Drat!  It had taken her an hour

last night.

Leaving the flugelhorn in Reception, where it took up an inordinate

amount of room and caused Mr Snodbury to trip over it when he

came in to snaffle a few too many red pens and a Prittstick for his

personal use-  (to secure an unfranked Xmas card stamp that he

had carefully steamed off, I believe, but no matter..)- Brassie left a

note for the twins’ form master which concluded with the following:

Sorry about the prep, sed Mihi ignosce, cum homine de cane debeo

congredi , which, I believe, could be translated thus:

Excuse me, but I’ve got to see a man about a dog.