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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!

 

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