Men Are From Mars

Tags

Biosphere 2, Carebot, Clangers, computer radiation, crystal lamp, David Cameron, Falcon Heavy, Mars, Mars Bar, Men Are From Mars, Michael Winner, Soup Dragon, The Red Planet

Mum! Dad!

Castor and Pollux rushed in from school and abandoned their

rucksacks on the hall floor, just where they were guaranteed to trip

up their father when he came in from the garden.

Cosmo entered on cue and narrowly missed the obstructions.

Is someone trying to make a re-run of Home Alone? he joked.

Sorry, dad, but guess what? enthused Castor.

What?  Brassica swivelled round from emptying the dishwasher.  It

had been a relaxing afternoon, as she hadn’t been on the school run.

Calm down, dears, said their father in his David Cameron/ Michael

Winner parody.  He knew that this irritated Brassie, who thought it a

politically incorrect exhortation.

Well, we have just heard that they’re looking for a middle-aged

couple to go to the Red Planet in 2018.  We’ll be grown–up by then, or

practically.  You and Mum could make space history. You’d only be

away for 500 days, gushed Pollux.

Or maybe 501, qualified Castor, ever the punctilious one. Anyway,

Aliona or Magda could keep an eye on us.  We’ll be driving by then,

so we could transport ourselves to Sixth Form College.

Steady on, old chaps, cautioned Cosmo.  Not so fast.  He looked

mildly interested, though.

Brassie appeared horrified.  She placed their mugs of hot chocolate down

on the kitchen table and refused to take all the sci-fi nonsense seriously.

She had heard this subject being discussed on the news and had

been instantly convinced that there was absolutely zero chance of any

couple being able to stand each other for that length of time.

Goodness only knew how she was relieved if Cosmo went up to his

astral shed, also known as the observatory, after 500 seconds of

interaction. She’d read about Biosphere 2, a sealed ecosystem where

people had been cooped up together for 2 years in 1991, in a kind of

self-styled New Age Paradise. And where there is an Eden,

there is always a Fall from Grace, she thought.

Cosmo held his hand up to stem the torrent of excitement.

Listen, guys, he said, we would be subjected to a massive degree of

radiation.  Your mother is frazzled enough.

Brassie added: I wouldn’t want to return, looking like a deep-fried

confectionery bar.

Very funny, Mum, they objected, picking up two mini-Mars bars and

scoffing them in a single bite.

You could imagine the lack of hygiene and weird toilet arrangements,

Brassie went on.

Oh, they provide you with 28kg of toilet paper, which should be

enough for 500 days, for two people, smirked Castor.

Too bad about Day 501! sniggered Pollux.

We had it all worked out, said Castor.  Dragon and Falcon Heavy

Systems of Space X could have provided us with a Carebot P 37 S65.

Carebot?  Brassie wondered if this was some sort of lavatorial

hygiene arrangement.

Cosmo said, Yes, I’ve heard of those.  They can be programmed to

look after people.  They can answer questions, do your prep and

even tell you a joke.  They provide meaningful interaction to

supplement human contact.

Good! Let’s get one then, said Brassie.  Living in a household of

uncommunicative males makes me a prime candidate for being in

need of one.

Castor leapt in:  We could get one for Ginevra and it could remind her

when her next gin and tonic is due. 

I don’t think that is necessary, replied their mother.

They recognise faces too, volunteered Pollux.

Which is more than I can, admitted Cosmo.  I saw that masseuse

woman in the street the other day and I didn’t recall having encountered

her.

She probably didn’t have her full maquillage on, bitched Brassie.

Nice idea anyway, boys, said Cosmo, ruffling their hair as he made his

exit to the garden pathway leading to his astral cave.

Yip, thought Brassie: Men are from Mars and Women are from

Venus, right enough.  By 2018 my two will probably wonder what

planet their parents live on anyway.

For now she would be Soup Dragon to her family of Clangers.  And if

she restricted their viewing time on the computer screen, it was only

to save them from too much radiation.  Or that was what she told

them, in any case.

If there was to be a future generation, she felt that she had to look

after their little gonads.  Thank goodness she sourced that salt crystal

lamp the other day!  It was supposed to protect the home office from all sorts

of nasties.  Now to dispose of the microwave…

 

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Citric Acid

Tags

Agrumes, Americano, Arborio, cashed up bogans, chamois, Citric acid, Dorothy Wordsworth, George Formby, Jane Austen, Kirstie Allsopp, Madeleine Morris, Mocha, quantitative easing, scurvy, Tesco Express, urban rednecks, Vitamin C

What on earth will I cook tonight? I thought, rushing up

the road to Tesco Express.  Let’s see, we have had lamb,

pork, fish, beef.. Oh, I know: prawns! A nice risotto with

Arborio rice. What ingredients do I need to buy?  Ah, a

lime. 

What! Thirty five pence for that tiny green agrume!

Well, I am not the only one to moan about the price of

citrus. Madeleine Morris, the BBC’s Australia correspondent

was griping that a lime in the Antipodes will set you back the

equivalent of £1.50.

No doubt, on paying for it, you would have a face that would look

as if you had sucked its larger yellow relation.

Morris said that Australians didn’t know that they had

it so good, as there has been no recession Down Under and

the drives of urban  rednecks, or cashed up bogans are often

full of boys’ toys which demonstrate this particular species’

spending power.

Unfortunately she felt that being able to afford garnishes for

their gin and tonics and Margaritas did not always go hand in

hand with a display of common sense. She considered that the

moneyed do not always have a wealth of education to match.

Note that she said that, not me!

Anyway, with no sunshine here, I have got to stump up, or

I will probably succumb to some kind of deficiency.  However,

I once read that a lemon has about 75% more Vitamin C than

a lime, so maybe I should just buy an unripe lemon, or a plastic

one and squirt the liquid into the risotto when no one is looking.

I was recounting my experience of rising prices with Carrie in

Costamuchamoulah café. We are not cutting back on caffeine yet.

She was moaning about the price of having her windows cleaned.

You could just clean them yourself with newspaper and vinegar, I

suggested.

She looked at me as if I was mad.  Vinegar smells, she said.

Well, use lemon, but don’t clean them in sunlight.

You’ve just told me the price of citrus, so how many would I need?

she asked.

Okay, I see your point. My chap has put up his prices too and

when he said that he couldn’t clean some of the panes at the rear

of the house as it was too slippery to put up the ladder, I deducted

a percentage of the cost.

That was bold of you, she remarked, but what did he say?

He said he wanted a cup of coffee then, with four sugars.

Scurvy knave!

They all are, I agreed. Different if you offer. Then I thought

that as coffee is expensive, I’d charge him £2.50 for every cup

that he wheedles out of me.

Good idea, she said.  That’s quite cheap compared to here. 

You could sprinkle some cocoa powder over it and call it a

Mocha and charge him one pound more. Or, –now she was

becoming excited – you could put a few mini-marshmallows

on top and have your windows done for free.  Unless we have

more quantitative easing, we will all be going back to barter. 

Imagine Kirstie Allsopp’s next programme. She is capable of

showcasing herself as a kind of expert on haggling: ‘If I give you

a crotcheted egg warmer, will you replace the tile on my

roof?’

There have already been quite a few programmes where

so-called celebrities try to hassle people to give away their

goods for next to nothing, I observed.

Yes, and apparently, when the shop owners and dealers see the

television cameras coming now, they lock their premises, or flee.

Hmm..I replied. I don’t think barter would work somehow. Even

for Kirstie. I think it would alienate my window cleaner.  He told me

he could get £40 per hour elsewhere if I didn’t want him to come any

more. I replied that qualified and experienced invigilators of public

exams with multiple degrees and years of teaching experience earn

less per hour than a Suttonford dog walker. I was trying to get him

to be reasonable.

So did it have an impact?

I don’t know, but I felt better when I only put three spoonfuls

of the old Demerara into his mug.

Do you think that you are becoming bitter? she asked, sipping

at her Americano.

No, I have just reached the age when I could teach my grandmother

to suck eggs and, if I look as if I have sucked a lime, well, it may be

the last opportunity I have had before I eschew the little blighters for

ever!

Well, be careful, Carrie advised.  Remember George Formby.  In his

song he made the point that window cleaners get to see a lot.  They

could blackmail people.  Here, for instance, neighbours would

love to know if you hadn’t made the beds by ten o’clock.

Do you make yours by then? I asked.

Don’t be silly, she said.  My cleaner makes ours.

Don’t you worry that she will gossip about all your business?

Of course not.  We pay her protection money.

So, maybe my coffee bribe is a good idea?

I’d say so.  And, if you want to be kept out of the town limelight,

a Christmas bonus would be a good idea too. Make a tangible

commemoration of the anniversary of his first visit and offer to

carry his buckets and chamois to the van.

Maybe I will just do them myself from now on.  Then I can afford

the odd spurt of acidic.  In fact, I feel a large G and T coming on

at the very thought.

Anyway, if you think about it, it rains so much nowadays, that

there’s little point in doing them at all, mused Carrie.

I’ll drink to that! I said.  After all, Jane Austen and Dorothy

Wordsworth weren’t known for their sparkling windows.

They weren’t known for wasting their time, writing silly

blogs either.

Touche.  Sourpuss!

 

 

Rattle Your Dags!

Tags

Berrima, callipyge, camelids, Deborah Robson, Edward III, Emmerdale, House of Lords, Lord Chancellor, New Zealand rugby team, riggwelter, Six Nations, The Fleece and Fiber Sourcebook, The Merchant of Venice, The Speaker, vicunas, Woolsack, World Alternative games

Off to lunch with Brassica and the two husbands.  Decided on The

Woolpack.  It is fairly local and therefore the males can free

themselves from their jesses, to adopt a falconry metaphor, and

can escape early in the afternoon, to watch both Six Nations rugby

games.

The Woolpack.  Hmmm.  Isn’t that the stuffed seat in The House of

Lords which the speaker sits on?  In the fourteenth century,

Edward III thought that if his Lord Chancellor sat on it in council,

then it would remind everyone of the importance of the wool

trade.

The joke is that, in 1938, it was found to be padded with

horsehair.  So, our present equine scam is not the first.

But, as Brassie informed me, we were not going to The Woolsack.

There is a difference between sacks and packs?  And padding/

stuffing?

Being a convert to the revived craft of knitting, she told me about

The Fleece and Fiber Sourcebook by Dorothy Robson, which

features more than 200 animals and their fibers.

(Don’t you just hate American spelling?  I mean over here.)

Fleece and Fiber -the title sounds a bit like that breakfast cereal

that I eat to prevent bowel cancer.  It’s quite edible with

supplementary prunes, but I digress.

All this spinning and toiling; it’s not Brassie’s usual

bent. Well, apparently fibres can be removed and spun from

camelids and vicunas, whatever they are.  She will probably knit

me a scratchy scarf for my birthday.  Lucky me.  I suppose I can tell

her that I’m allergic to lanolin.

We were going to have to rush back to the telly for the Wales/ Italy

Game, indigestion or not.

For this was serious. No, it wasn’t a competition to trial

individuals, to see them showcase their personal

fitness, by rushing up and down 1:4 gradients with a stuffed sack

on their backs, as is an annual tradition in Gemau Byd

Arallddewisol – World Alternative Games.

But, look you, the Italians might as well have been bulky bales, as

evidenced by their subsequent complete trouncing. Maybe the weird

Celtic training has come in handy.

You know, I said.  I always get mixed up between woolpacks and

woolsacks.  Wasn’t The Woolpack a fictional pub on Emmerdale?

Yes, replied a Husband, but I don’t think the one we are going to

today is run by anyone called Chastity.

Husband 2, emboldened by the sarcasm of Numero Uno, and slightly

edgy in case he missed the first few minutes of the match, added:

Yes, you wouldn’t want to patronise that particular hostelry, as in

 1993 there was a plane crash which destroyed its wine bar and

killed off trapped punters.

Warming to the theme of carnage, the other offered more dramatic

detail than was probably in the original series, which wasn’t too

hard:  

Yes, in 2003 it was struck by lightning and a chimney fell down and

killed Tricia Dingle.

(These chaps seem to have retained a lot of televisual, nay, soap

operatic facts.  Maybe it is because they have slouched around for

decades, watching everything and anything that pops up on the

screen.)

Should we be going to a pub with the same name? asked Brassie

nervously.

Don’t be superstitious, I interjected.  There are thousands of pubs

called The Woolsack -I mean Woolpack.

Brassie was worried that her GPS might be confused.  Her

navigational skills are somewhat challenged, revealing her lack

of an inner compass.

Cosmo, her husband, laughed. Well, even you can’t drive to The

Woolpack in the Berrima district of Australia.

Why are you mentioning that one? I asked.

Oh, the barmaid identified a serial axe murderer- a bushranger,

who drank there.

Cosmo! You are putting me off my lunch! implored Brassie, driving

a little erratically, even for her.

But it didn’t put me off mine.  Afterwards I kept thinking about

sheep terminology and Shakespearean quotations, such as wooly

breeders and eanlings and tainted wethers of the flock.  Good old

Merchant of Venice- maybe my favourite play.

When the guys were watching the matches-plural!-I looked up

some sheep terminology, just to have something useful to do.

I discovered and immediately liked the graphic New Zealand

expression, Rattle your dags! which basically is a rude way of

inviting someone to be less dilatory.

(Dags are the bits of unmentionable which attach themselves to

the fluffy hindquarters of sheep.)  Probably the New Zealand rugby

team are familiar with this exhortation.

Brassie was less enthusiastic.

And, having over-eaten at The Woolpack, I could imagine being

described as callipyge: apparently this refers to a natural genetic

mutation which produces over-developed hindquarters.

Alternatively, or additionally, maybe I was falling into the category

of a riggwelter.  This is a sheep that has fallen on its back with its

feet stuck in the air, demonstrating an inability to right itself

owing to its heavy fleece.

I knew that I shouldn’t have shared a muffin the other day and

now I have consumed a bowl of handcut chips.  So, if I don’t want

to resemble a bulging woolsack, perhaps I should desist from

stuffing myself any further.

 

 

 

 

 

Marginal Improvement

Tags

Alice Keppel, Balsamic Vinegar, Daphne Fowler, Eggheads, gene therapy, Howard Hughes Medical Institute, Judith Keppel, Kettle Chips, knockout gene, Mario Capecchi, Matt Parker, Slimfast, Team GB Cycling, Tim Harford, Wallis Simpson, Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?

A Wallis Simpson latte, please, said Brassica.  What’ll you have?

Well, I was going to say ‘I’ll have what she’s having’, but what is it

you’ve ordered?

Oh, it’s just something very skinny, said Brassie, picking up the

table number impaled on a cork and heading for our table in

the corner.

Okay, one of those.

Anything to eat, ladies?

No! we chorused.  Get thee behind me, etcetera. It’s Lent.

He didn’t catch the cultural references.

For me, weight gain isn’t about fizzy drinks, in spite of the

government’s assessment.  It is about Kettle Chips, Sea

Salt and Balsamic Vinegar.  Half a packet can disappear during

Eggheads while I am waiting for The Husband to return from

work.

With all those journalists on strike today, there have been

really interesting things on Radio 4, such as this morning’s

discussion- probably a repeat- from a pop-up undercover

economist, Tim Harford, who clarified the theory of Marginal

Improvement.

He explained that progress may result from short term strategies

which can appear to be giant leaps forward.  I suppose that is like

all the Slimfast Queens that shed kilos, but who pile it all back on

with hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top of their original

lardy BMI.

Then there are the long term bods, such as Mario Capecchi, who

shared The Nobel Prize for the delayed gratification of discovering

a fundamental of all gene therapy.

(Bear with me, folks.)

Do you want to be a knockout female?  Then have one of your

genes knocked out: the one that tells you to keep snaffling Kettle

Chips.

Capecchi’s discovery was a long time in the revelation, but,

according to Matt Parker, Head of Marginal Improvements, lots of

little steps add up to one massively successful leap forward.

You might look like a loser in the process, but you will come out

victorious in the end, big-time.

The FT analyst said that short term solutions look sexier, but we

should go with the long term plan of action.  Slowly, slowly

catchee monkey.

So, maybe if I stick to skinny lattes long term, I can continue to

scoff half a bag of crisps with Eggheads. Compromise.

Seventy year old plus, Good Egg, Daphne Fowler is a positive

advert for the long term. She has clearly been accreting facts for

decades. Judith is sexier.  I bet she doesn’t cram herself with

crisps-only non-calorific facts.  Though, after winning Who Wants

To be a Millionairess? she can stuff herself with anything she

fancies.

She probably doesn’t have that self-destruct gene, the one that

makes you lick salt like an elephant in an African cave.  I bet her

famous ancestor, Alice, had similar DNA, which included

an inbuilt- Higher Evolutionary code- that knocked out any

inclination to stick her nose in a bag of Keppel crisps!

Anyway, Team GB’s cycling coach assured its members that small

1% improvements can add up to overall success, and with 7 gold

medals to the rest of the world’s 3, who can argue?

And Cappecchi now works for the Howard Hughes Medical Institute. 

Well, its namesake was a bit of an obsessive compulsive, but he is

doing good now from beyond.  So, maybe I will have that excessive

focussing gene knocked out of me thanks to his sponsorship and then

I won’t gravitate towards the big blue bag prior to every tea-time.

Meanwhile, as marginal gains can make all the difference:

Brassie, do you want to share this muffin with me?  I couldn’t eat a

whole one.  (Lie)

Oh, go on then.  There aren’t many calories in half. (Lie)  Actually,

they aren’t all that big.

We can start in earnest next week.

Effect on muffin tops: marginal!  Definitely less than 1%.

 

 

 

 

 

Blood is Thicker than Water

Tags

blood thicker than water, Bradford on Avon, Caroline Miniscule, Henry vacuum

Henry, the vacuum cleaner, was summoned and its hose directed

above the crack in the floorboards.  Schtoom!

Outside, when they emptied the sack, the heart-shaped ring

appeared, nestling in a pile of fluff and crumbs.  Not terribly

romantic.  Snod quickly put it back into its plush-lined box and

pocketed it.

Diana was embarrassed and Drusilla felt that her father’s priorities

were not all that they should have been.  She retrieved the

envelope which contained mementoes of her life thus far and re-

appropriated it, announcing:

Well, father, you didn’t seem particularly elated to meet me on

familial terms and Mother doesn’t think much of your having

equated me with ‘the bitter end’. I think she would just like to

settle her share of the bill and then go home. 

Snod waved away the twenty pound notes, paid the bill and

thanked the proprietor for his help in finding the ring.

Women!

Drusilla and Diana climbed into their car: Men!

Oh well, thought Snod, at least I have the calligraphy course to

look forward to and I suppose I have encountered my own flesh

and blood.  They say it is thicker than water.  Perhaps an apt

comparative. Of course, Diana is not of my bloodline.  He revved

the engine and shot out of the car park. Now how do I get back to

Bradford-on-Avon?

Caroline Miniscule was calling him and it wasn’t a woman on his

mobile. Calligraphy was a lot more satisfying and a deal less

trouble.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Is the Pope A Catholic?

Tags

Archbishop of Canterbury, C S Lewis, Clark's Village, DNA test, Falstaff, Gloria Swanson, Mr Tumnus, Pope, Shepton Mallet, Speedo

Diana turned her head, like an owl swivelling its neck.  She had

prepared herself for the inevitable change that she must find in

Augustus, but she had to adjust her facial expression.  He wasn’t

the only one for whom the bell had taken its toll.

They hugged, embarrassed, not knowing how long to

maintain the embrace. Then Diana pulled away and walked

forward,  into the pub proper.  He followed her to the reserved

table in the window.

He couldn’t keep his eyes from her, but was trying not to stare.

Her figure was still firm after all those years of coaching lacrosse.

He could feel his own Falstaffian belly sagging against his thighs

like an oversized watermelon.

They ordered crab soup.  He kept reminding himself of the

quotation beneath his photo in the school magazine: a god

amongst mere mortals.  The trouble was that he had failed to

detect the irony, as it actually prefaced the quotation with: he

thinks he is.. It had also drivelled on about his formidable

reputation as a Classics scholar.  Who did they think he was –

C.S.Blinkin’ Lewis?  He more closely resembled Mr Tumnus, with

an emphasis on the Tum.

Still, he summoned the memory in times of feeling inadequate.  It

usually made him feel worse.

Diana finished her soup first and leant under the table to retrieve

a large envelope from her designer handbag- actually bought in

Shepton Mallet at a seconds store in the Clark’s Village, but it

gave the intended impression, she thought.  Small woman with

ridiculously over-sized bag. Wonder she doesn’t give herself

vertebrae injury, was what observers usually silently remarked

when they saw her struggling with it.  I bet it costs her a bomb in

physio.

People can be so unkind.  But Diana was there to atone for her

past omissions and commissions.

She passed the envelope across the table.  It was full of photos of

Drusilla’s prizegivings, gymkhana competitions, a record of her

Confirmation and driving test results-all four of them.  It had

copies of her swimming certificates (100 metres), a cloth badge

which she had won for diving from the side of the pool and which

Diana had never got round to attaching to her daughter’s Speedo

costume.  There was a  mounted page with her A-level results and

a Grade 5 Theory certificate.

Oh, she only got a merit, he observed to himself, fortunately.

Doesn’t take after me in that realm. He felt a little more confident.

There was one respect in which she clearly did take after her pa,

however.  The Snodbury jowls were very much in evidence, so

there was no question of a DNA test being necessary.

Yes, he said, looking at a photo of Drusilla when she had been a

bridesmaid at the age of fourteen, I suppose she is my daughter.

She is, isn’t she?

Diana, slightly ruffled at the very suggestion of any doubt,

snapped: Is the Pope a Catholic?

Well, he seems to have had enough of it all and has resigned,

hasn’t he?  So where does that place him? He seems to be copying

The Archbishop of Canterbury. They’re probably all C of E.

Diana’s expression was hardening.  She was beginning to recall

how much she had disliked his facetiousness.

But don’t worry, I will accept my responsibilities, to the bitter end.

Bitter end?  That’s good of you, she said caustically. No, I don’t

require a coffee.  She waved the waiter away rudely.

Father! exclaimed Drusilla.  She had been waiting outside for

some time in the car, until her mother gave her the signal from

the window. Augustus had wondered why she kept flicking her

hair all the time in the manner of a teenage Gloria Swanson– or

was it Swansong at this age?

Everyone looked at their table and overwhelmed by the enthusiastic

filial welcome characterised by the rumbustiousness of the daughter

of a once fearsome lax player, Augustus knocked the shagreen box

onto the floor and, to his chagrin, the ring fell out and

disappeared down a gap in the floorboards.  It would take

someone with very long arms to retrieve it.  Maybe it was a sign:

don’t do it, old boy!

 

 

 

 

The Transfiguration of the Ordinary

Tags

Antinomianism, Bradford on Avon, Cockney Rhyming slang, Lent, Quinquagesima, sat nav, South Wraxall, The Longs Arms, Windsor knot

Snod had felt unwell and listless since Quinquagesima, or the Sunday

before Lent.  He always felt depressed at the thought that someone-

God?-might expect him to deny himself in the edible line.

Most of the boys were at home, or in San, with streaming colds.  He

felt that all he could do was to recline on his battered sofa for a

couple of hours till some epiphany would dazzle him with a

personally delivered illuminated manuscript announcing what

he should do next to facilitate the Transfiguration of the Ordinary.

Meanwhile, he read and re-read the letter from Diana. No, that

wasn’t the divine set of instructions, but it was miraculous all the

same.

He placed the heart-shaped diamond ring in its plush-lined shagreen

box into his holdall and, notifying the Headmaster’s Secretary that he

was going to a relative in Bradford-on-Avon to recuperate, he

opened the door of his ancient vehicle and drove out of the school

grounds, telling himself that he wasn’t lying, since he really did have

a blood relation there: namely his newly-discovered daughter,

Drusilla.

How fortuitous that he had booked that advanced calligraphy course

in Bath for half term.  He could simply extend the number of nights

that he required accommodation and would create a longer break. It

was the perfect alibi.  Mind you, why should he need an alibi when

he wasn’t doing anything wrong?

This Catholic guilt is getting to me, he thought.  I prefer Low Church.

They don’t deny themselves so much.

He had texted Diana and they had arranged to have lunch at The

Longs Arms, South Wraxall, just outside Bradford-on-Avon.  Thank

goodness he wasn’t an abstainer in the Lenten tradition, for the

menu looked mouth-wateringly enticing.

That was the plan, if only he could find his way there.  Diana had said

that Drusilla would stay at home, in order to give them privacy to talk

about the intervening years since they had last met.

He loved the name and thought about the semantic fun he could

have had with the boys, teasing them as to whether Long should

have a final ‘s’ or not, or whether an apostrophe came into it.

He was suddenly aware that he had driven over the narrow bridge

in Bradford three times and had still not seen a sign for South Wraxall.

He might have to twist the long-longs-ha!arm of the law to direct him.

But there was never a constable around when you wanted him.

(It didn’t even occur to Snod that he restricted his thoughts to a generic

masculine.)

Or if you did see one, you had probably taught him in 1976 and

knew his intellectual limitations.

He was going to be late. What if she thought that he had stood her

up?  He had driven a very circuitous route and stumbled upon Lower

Wraxall.  Stopping and winding down his window, for there was no

electric system in his jalopy, he addressed a tractor driver politely

and asked if he was near his destination.

The farmer looked puzzled and said that he had never heard of it.

Snod was beginning to panic.  He had no satellite navigation system

either, usually trusting to a map, but, for some reason, there wasn’t

one in the driver’s door.  He must have removed it when he had the

car valeted at Christmas. He would never purchase anything so

vulgar as a sat nav.  It sounded like a Cockney Rhyming slang for

the abbreviation of a water closet.

Thanking the man nevertheless, he set off down a very

narrow lane, hoping against hope that he would arrive there

serendipitously, or would encounter a signed junction.

Yes, he was actually there in a few minutes.  How could the farmer

not have recognised the name of a village about a mile away? Surely

nowadays they go on package holidays all over the globe and get a

neighbour to cover the lambing or harvest, or whatever.  Mind you,

that particular example had looked a little, how could he say this and

remain PC?-  inbred.  He felt he should deny himself for such a sinful

thought but decided that the penalty should definitely not be related

to anything comestible.

He would wear that scratchy jumper later in the week- the one that

his great-aunt had knitted him for Christmas.  It could double as a

hair shirt.  Nothing too punishing- he wasn’t a Roman, after all.  He

preferred to adapt the Pauline concept to his own agenda: sin a little

bit more to avail himself of free grace!  And if that was

Antinomianism, well, it was a lot cheerier.

He parked behind the pub and, smoothing what was left of his once

wiry curls, he checked his Windsor knot and rubbed his sweaty palms

on his corduroys.  He licked his wrist and smelled his saliva and

entered by the rear door, as if he hadn’t the self-esteem to use

anything other than the tradesmen’s entrance.

She was standing in the narrow corridor, down from the Ladies’

Room, affecting to study the sepia photos of Wraxall in days gone by.

Diana!

She turned round.  He’d have known her anywhere.

Drat!  He’d left the roses in the flat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Staff Cover

Tags

Murrayfield, Norman MacCaig, The Telegraph

The sky filthily weeping.. He thought that was a very apt example of

personification which he could use with his English group later that

day.  Wasn’t it a Norman MacCaig poem?  Figurative language.

Always a good filler for times when preparation time had been

eroded by Life.

Snod had just had a rugbyfest over the weekend.  He had watched

Scotland win against Italy at Murrayfield and had then done his

ironing while taking in the French game against Wales.  Sheer

indulgence, but it was very satisfying.  But there’s no such thing as a

free weekend, not if you are in teaching, and Snod had been a

teacher for a very long time indeed.

Monday seemed flat.  But-hello!- what was that in the criss-cross

board?  A letter without a stamp. There was a perfunctory label

with notification that he should have had to pay the postman £1, but

he had got away with it.  Or they had.  Whoever they were.

He ambled into the staffroom, which was curiously empty.  In his

non PC youth the hub had been humming with staff asking each

other crossword clues, reading racing tips and laughing about

certain idiots in 2C, while smoking pipes in an Inkling manner

and burning holes in the upholstery.  Ah well, he was free, periods

1 and 2.  They called it preparation time now.  He used it as a kind

of Gird up your loins, old boy breathing space, before

the onslaught.  Now where was that Telegraph?

Milford-Haven burst in.  He noticed Snod had the letter in his hand.

Early Valentine, Snod?  he quipped.

Insolent puppy!  He waited till Nigel had grabbed his teacher’s

planner and left, slamming the door in that irritating manner of his.

Snodbury’s heart gave a lurch.  He recognised the handwriting- or

the green pen that Diana had invariably used.  He was always telling

the boys that the use of anything other than blue or black ink was a

sign of neuroticism.  Well, maybe he could qualify that judgement if

the ink was used by a woman.  Let’s face it, they were all neurotic

anyway.

He read the message and clutched at his chest and turned pale.

The Headmaster’s Secretary entered the staffroom with a pile of

publications which was destined for the pigeon-holes and shortly

afterwards for the re-cycling bins.  She was going to give him her

signature look which suggested that she was surprised that he hadn’t

anything better to do, but then she asked him if he was all right.  She

even used his abbreviated Christian name: Gus and suggested that

he go and lie down in his flat.

I’ll arrange cover for you.  Let’s see..who is free periods 3 and 4?

I’ll just write out a pink slip.

I might just go upstairs after all, said Snod, who had never had a

day’s absence since he commenced his career, even though many a

child had been praying for the occasion- and many a colleague.

Nigel rushed in at the end of period 2.  He had an hour to mark that

wretched prep before 5 and 6.  Coffee!  He knew that he had to pay

the price of watching the rugby, but thankfully most of the questions

had been multiple choice.  Hey!  He could get them to swap and

mark each other’s. But one still had to check the totals.  He stuck his

hand in his pigeon-hole to retrieve the work and-drat!  Double

drat!!  There was a pink slip which invited him to cover for Mr

Snodbury’s classes in 3 and 4.  That hadn’t been there earlier.  In fact

Snod had been in the staffroom and looked perfectly all right.  Oh

yes, but he had been holding a letter.  Something must have upset

him.  But not as much as Nigel was absolutely discomfited by the

shock of having to take John  Boothroyde-Smythe and Co at short

notice.

Gee thanks a lot, Snod! 

He almost wished that a pink slip had retained its original message.

He was past caring about career prospects.  He just wanted peace!

 

 

 

 

 

Shrove Tuesday

Tags

Bisto Kid, Bowdler, Bradford on Avon, Grand Marnier, Henry V, Pepys Diary, Pritt stick, Queen Katherine, Shrove Tuesday, Sprengidgur, Westminster Abbey

Shrove Tuesday- not just about pancakes, said Diana to herself.  I

need to be shriven.

Sounds painful, commented Drusilla, her daughter who was on sick

leave from St Vitus’ School for The Academically Gifted Girl.  Why don’t you

empty the ash from the woodburner over your head if you feel that guilty?

No, replied her mother. I won’t send Gus a Valentine card to restore our

relationship. That would be cheap.

They’re not that cheap, said Drusilla, who eschewed any

greetings cards over £1 and, in her principled manner, bought all her

commemoratives from Help The Ancient in Suttonford.

No, what I meant is that Shrove Tuesday is confession day and I

ought to contact him properly and make a clean breast of what

actually happened all those years ago.

In Iceland they call it Sprengidagur, her daughter supplied.

What?  Diana tried to allow for the fact that her daughter was off

work on a sick note.

Bursting Day- so don’t be too emotionally explosive, will you?

So, how are you going to go about things?

I’ve written a letter and we can post it when we go into Bradford on

Avon for coffee. He should get it before half term and then he can

mull things over.  Hopefully carnival comes after the ashes of

remembrance of past sins!

So long as it doesn’t resurrect a corpse, cautioned Drusilla.

Honestly, you’ve got that Richard III car park episode on the brain,

her mother remarked caustically.  What’s this you’ve been reading?

Only Samuel Pepys’ Diary.

Racy stuff as I remember..

Not consistently, but I grant you he exhumes some distasteful

subjects.

Such as?

Well, he writes about what he did on various Shrove Tuesdays over

the years.  He salivates over the fritours that he ate.

Fritours?

Yes, what we call pancakes now….

**********************************************************

Augustus Snodbury, like many a male, was consoling himself for past

regrets by imagining his evening meal.  The Staff was allowed to have

Grand Marnier on  Shrove Tuesday pancakes as a favour, instead of a salary

increase.

He had been reading Samuel Pepys’ Diary entry for the day, but from

the 1660s, and his mouth watered as he read of Pepys’ leg of veal

and bacon, double capons, sausage and fritters.  He doubted if the

school refectory would step up to the plate, as it were. How he

abhorred that particular Americanism.  Almost as much as I’m good,

thanks. However, he  anticipated something special in the culinary

line.  He could smell enticing odours from the kitchen and followed them

nasally like a Bisto Kid.

He settled back in his armchair with his chosen volume and  was

shocked to read of Pepys’ boast that he had-no, it couldn’t be true!

********************************************************

And, Drusilla enlightened her stunned parent, Pepys then went on to

say that in 1669, he violated the corpse of Queen Katherine- you

know, the wife of Henry V.  So, digging up the past is not always a

good thing.  It can leave some people very vulnerable indeed.  

Diana hadn’t remembered that part of the Diary.  Maybe she had

read the expurgated version; Bowdler had probably sanitised it, as he

had done with Shakespeare.

But how did Pepys get access to her?

Oh, her mummified remains were exhibited in Westminster Abbey

and he planted a kiss on her lips.

Yuck!  How did people react?

Well, there was a comment:

This has been seen as Pepys’ desire to communicate physically with

the past, a desire that roots itself in the ambivalent love of the dead.

Maybe I shouldn’t post the letter then?  Diana suddenly thought that

Snodbury’s lips might have become rather dessicated.  Some people

thought that love between those of retirement age, but not of a

matching retiring disposition was disgusting.

No, go for it, mother.

Diana put the letter into her handbag.  She hoped that the Pritt stick

had flattened the corners of the stamp that she had steamed off a

Christmas envelope and re-applied to this important missive.  After

all, think of the tragedy that had ensued previously when Gus’ card

had gone astray. Furthermore, she did wish that her daughter would

desist from using these vulgar colloquialisms.  Where did she dig

them up from?

She found her lip salve at the bottom of her handbag and applied it

vigorously. Come on, she urged impatiently.  Let’s go!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Digging Up The Past

Tags

Alex Salmond, dermo-abrasion, Dogtanian, Dundee University, hirsutism, Plymouth Brethren, Shakers

You can’t find a seat at certain times in Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe,

in spite of the recession.  As I waited to pounce on a spare seat, I observed

the lovely Citronella, proud owner of the newly-entitled Beauty and

the Beast, once named Pride Knows No Pain, gassing away with her bosomy

buddy and colleague, Melinda, the masseuse, or Mimi as she self-

styles.  Ella was unaware of the frothy moustache on her upper lip

until Mimi indicated it.  Strange, since the lemony one is known to

spot any hint of hirsutism at fifty paces.  She licked the tide mark off

with a tongue that was surprisingly not forked.

Do you know, she addressed her sidekick, they are going to create  

500 new-builds on brown sites in the town, and that small patch of

land behind us is the first to be excavated.  That’s where we put our

cars, so goodness knows how we are all going to survive, unless we

become Amish, or Shakers and Movers and return to horsepower,

like those zipless people in America that took in some UK

students for a steep learning curve in what was supposed to be

a boot camp.

Weren’t they Plymouth Brethren?

No, they’re our locals, but they don’t come into the shop.

You meant the people on that programme where the brats loved

discipline, chastity classes and hankered after rules? queried Mimi.

I quite liked their clothes, actually .

(I was somewhat surprised at this remark from one who

sheds outer garments like a disinhibited chrysalis.)

Yes, that’s the people I meant, Ella explained.  I sympathised with

their moral code, but their no make-up policy would be a killer for

our livelihoods….Getting back to the council, though, it definitely

shouldn’t be digging up car parks.  It’ll ruin everyone’s business.

 But digging up the past’s the latest craze now, Mimi elucidated. 

Councils all over the country are hoping to unearth some celebrity

skeletal remains, so they can attract tourists…

who would have nowhere to park when they arrived, Ella clarified.

I agree, Mimi hastened to positively stroke her employer, in the

metaphorical sense only. But- you know what? – I don’t see anyone

wanting to build on that little plot. 

Hmm, Ella interjected, but, supposing Sonia’s Phantom Cavalier’s bones

were to be unearthed, he could be laid to rest in sanctified ground and she

might get some peace from his paranormal activity in Royalist House.

Mimi looked thoughtful. I don’t suppose Sonia would agree to selling

that plot, though.  She has some rights over it, surely? Access over it is

the only way she can have her bins emptied.

What do you think of those facial reconstructions, Mimi?  Ella changed

the subject. I saw that someone from Dundee University made a model of

that Scottish poet’s face, but it just looked like Alex Salmond with a pony tail.

Mimi had never heard of Scotland’s First Minister and so she

affected an even greater confidence:

Facial reconstruction is what you do every day, Ella.  These people

are amateurs.  You know all there is about peels and dermo-abrasion. 

You didn’t need to go to university for those skills.

Well, it’s nice to have your vote of confidence, Mimi.  I suppose

that if we have hundreds of new-builds, we’ll have plenty of new

clients. And if the Council uncovers The Phantom Cavalier, there will

be plenty more tourists.  Unless Suttonford has a huge feud with

Suttonfield over who gets to keep the bones. It’ll be just like the

Battle of Suttonford all over again.

Oh, breathed Mimi.  All those Dogtanian-types will probably require

quite a bit of massage.  I know they’re tactile: they wore velvet,

didn’t they?

Ella couldn’t understand the non-sequitur but she humoured Mimi

nevertheless:

It’ll be all for one and one for all! laughed Ella.

And all out for themselves, I thought. They’d even hogged the spare chairs

by strewing their coats and carriers over them.

I wasn’t going to wait any longer.  I went next door to the opposition.

Their attitude to customers is less cavalier.