Lifestyle Choice

Tags

Ari Seth Cohen, Gin Blog, Gin Foundry, Ian Duncan-Smith, idioms, Jenny joseph: When I am an Old Woman, Karen Walker Eyewear, Madonna, silver fashionista, suspended coffee, Suttonford, Yarn bombing

Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe, l’enfant terrible of St Vitus’ School for the

Academically Gifted Girl, had tired of yarn bombing and so she decided

to concentrate on street photography for her art project.

Having been impressed by Ari Seth Cohen’s blog which celebrates silver

fashionistas, she saw her photo opportunity as Magda wheeled her

nonagenarian charge, Ginevra Brewer-Mead down High Street,

Suttonford.

You look amazing! Would you give me permission to include you in my

portfolio of Living National Sartorial Treasures? Juniper enquired.

Ginevra nodded vigorously, the egret feather on her hat swaying in

the breeze.  She pouted at the lens.

Where do you source your fantastic outfits? Juniper asked, getting her pencil

out.

‘Fantastic’ was a fairly just adjective, but Ginevra detected no ambiguity.

I always have a sneak preview of Help the Ancient’s biennial Designer Sales,

she confessed.  But don’t tell anyone else.  They would be jealous.

The interview continued.

What has inspired your signature style, would you say?

Well, I’ve always approved of that poem: When I am an old woman, I shall

wear purple, Ginevra stated confidently. She didn’t admit that it was the

only poem that she could remember.

Oh, we studied that one in our GCSE anthology, Juniper enthused, noting

down phrases such as ‘exophorically-referenced style statement.’

And what is your name, dear? asked Ginevra.  She was sure that she had

seen this girl before- perhaps in grand-daughter Tiger-Lily’s school

photograph.

It’s the same as yours, actually, Juniper smiled.  Juniper and Ginevra are

from the same root.

Really?  And do you have a passion for gin too? asked the bibulous one.

Well, I’m not supposed to drink alcohol at my age..

Neither am I! laughed Ginevra.  It doesn’t stop me, though.

It was at that precise moment that a meeting of two rebellious minds

took place.

I have read The Gin Blog, Juniper confessed.

Oh, they are replacing that with The Gin Foundry in June,

Ginevra informed her.

Magda was worrying that they were obstructing the pavement.

She parked Ginevra outside Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe.

Would you like a coffee while we finish the interview, Juniper?

asked Ginevra.

Juniper looked faintly abashed.  She hadn’t any cash on her.

Don’t worry- you can have a suspended coffee, Ginevra informed her.

Sorry?

It’s a scheme where people such as my neighbour, Sonia, pay for two

lattes and then only consume one.  You could have the freebie that the local

vagrant usually claims.

But the people who own the cafe don’t mind ?

Not if he drinks it outside, Ginevra stated firmly.

Magda returned with three beverages.

Question Three then, persisted Juniper: is it difficult to maintain your style

on a pension?

Ginevra placed her lipstick-crescented cup on the street table. It will be nigh

on impossible if that-pardon my French!- Ian Duncan Smith creature

persuades us all to return our winter fuel allowance, she exploded.

Persuades-hah!  At present, it just about keeps me in mascara…

..and gin, added Magda.  It was astounding how much progress she

had recently made in aural comprehension.

The sun came out briefly and Ginevra replaced her spectacles with a pair

of retro Karen Walker Eyewear sunglasses.

And what would you say is the colour of these cool shades? continued Juniper.

Well, they are on the same tone continuum as Prince Philip’s black eye,

I’d say, Ginevra reflected.

Damson, Juniper scribbled.

Yes, the over-fifties, living relics though they were, certainly knew how to

put things together, she considered.  All except Madonna, who should know

better than to dress in competition with her daughter, Lourdes, Juniper

mused.

She addressed Magda suddenly: Do you know the idiom about mutton and

lamb?

We do idioms next week, Magda said gravely.

Okay. Thanks, guys, Juniper said, preparing to put her camera back

into its case.

Suddenly the local mendicant appeared, no doubt seeking his fix of caffeine.

Juniper beat a hasty retreat.

There was no decrying it, though.  His flak jacket was really cool.  She took

a surreptitious shot of his back view as he entered the cafe.  He could really

carry off Grunge.  She supposed it was a lifestyle choice.

Poetry Makes Perfect

Tags

Border Collie, endorphins, Holly the Collie, I wandered lonely as a cloud, Orpheus, spinone, therapet, Wordsworth

Mum! Mum!

Castor and Pollux, the twins, burst into the kitchen where their mother,

Brassica, was arranging some after-school snacks.

Yes, darlings?

Can Andy be trained as our school’s therapet?

Therapet?

Yes, mum- you know, a pet that boys can stroke and pat before their

exams.  It helps with nerves, elucidated Castor.

How does it work? asked Brassie.

Well, Caligula– ( Brassie gave Pollux a warning look)- emmm,

Mr Milford-Haven, told us that if pupils talk to a therapet, it can calm

their nerves before an exam.

Yeah, you still have to revise, though, admitted Castor.

Pollux jumped in: It releases endolphins.

Do you mean endorphins, love? said Brassie.

Whatever, said Pollux, without thinking.  His mother had banned that

particular word.  Now he would have to pay a fine of ten pence.

Castor took up the thread: There is a dog called Audrey, up north, who

helps children with their reading. It is an Italian Spinone.

Yes, said Pollux, and there is one called Holly, the collie.  Sometimes they

set a good example to scruffy children and show them how nice it is to brush

their teeth, or to be groomed.

I thought grooming was a bad thing that strangers do to you, said Castor.

No, that kind is okay, isn’t it , Mum? Pollux looked to his mother for

confirmation.

The thing is, boys, Andy is rather excitable.  He is a bright and bouncy Border,

but I wouldn’t say that he was particularly calming.

Brassie thought about his, frankly delinquent behaviour.  She couldn’t see him

in a role as canine ambassador for deportment and emotional stability.

Anyway, boys, she added, some children are allergic to dogs, so they might

develop an asthma attack and then the school and the dog owner might be

sued.

Nowadays, litigation was an omnipresent threat.

Oh, faltered the twins. What about goldfish?  We could take Jaws in. 

They knew how much of a nuisance he was.  There was always an argument

about whose turn it was to clean out his bowl.

Hey, Jaws, listen to my poem- the one I have to recite in front of the class

next week. Castor placed the bowl on the kitchen worktop, but Jaws seemed

totally uninterested.

Andy jumped over the restrictive toddler stairgate and frantically licked both

boys.

Down, boy! Pollux commanded.  Andy ignored him.  He knocked over the

goldfish bowl.

Oh Andy! shouted Brassie, scooping Jaws up as best she could.  She did not

feel calm at all.

Castor began to recite his poem: I wandered lonely as a clod..

Cloud, corrected Pollux.

Oh, yeah, cloud..

Andy was sitting up, totally mesmerised and completely calm.

That floats on high.. Castor continued.

Well, look at that, said Brassie, amazed at the effect that Wordworth’s

emotion recollected in tranquillity was having on their anarchic pet.

She gave him a doggy treat and passed the boys a blueberry slice that

she had bought for them from Costamuchamoulah.

Good boy!

Orpheus had tamed brute beasts through music, so maybe metrical

regularity was having the same effect on her wild animal.

Never mind the children being tranquillised, there was something

in the art of poesie that might be a cheaper alternative to dog training

classes. If she patented the technique, she might make a fortune and

could subsidise the school fees.  Wait till she demonstrated the effect to

Cosmo!

But, where was Jaws?

Two Brains Are Better than One

Tags

amygdala, bliss point, blueberries, fight or flight, frontal cortex cells, frontal lobes, hippocampus, Jeremy Clarkson, Man Flu, Mocha, multi-task, showrooming, Stick Cricket, Superfood, tend and befriend, Tesco, walnut oil, Weetabix

Aaagh! sighed Carrie, dropping her shopping bag on the floor and settling

herself onto the awkward height of a Costamuchamoulah trendy bar stool.

What’s the matter? I asked.

Oh, they’ve just run out of blueberries in Tesco- again.

Not a major tragedy, I think.  This was unspoken.

Well, it’s all the mummies in Tiger-Lily’s class. They bulk buy just before

the exams, as blueberries are supposed to be super foods for the brain.

I know, sympathised Clammie.  Sherry wanted Weetabix and stocks are

running out because of the poor wheat harvest.  Brown cereals are so big

this year.

Quick! Look! nudged Brassie.

What?

It’s that woman whose daughter is in the accelerated set.  She’s

showrooming, breathed Carrie.

What’s that? we enquired, annoyed that we weren’t au fait with the latest

argot.

It means, explained Carrie, that she just zooms around Costamuchamoulah

and suchlike premises, noting what they stock and their prices.  She then

stores the information on her phone and orders, more cheaply, what she

fancies online.

How very enterprising! I ventured to remark.

No! I was contradicted.  How can shops and retail premises survive, if

customers don’t support them?  We like coming in here for over-priced

coffees, but management have to cover their council tax and cost of staff.

That’s why customer service and ambience is so important, reinforced

Brassie.

So where is that Mocha you ordered ages ago? I asked mischievously.

Apparently some stores are going to charge for entry, to combat such

behaviour from people who have no intention of purchasing, Clammie added.

Then, if you buy something, the entry fee would be deducted from the

purchase price.

Well, there she goes.  She’s just noted the price of that

virgin-pressed walnut oil.  What a brass neck!

complained Clammie, monitoring Mata Hari’s

modus operandi.

Some people are just wired differently from you and I,

soothed Carrie.

Yes, I agreed.  And most of them are men.

What do you mean, Candia? 

Oh, I was reading the BBC news online today, and there is research to show

just how differently the brain works in the two genders.

But are there only two genders? Brassie asked, provocatively.

I ignored her.

Oh yeah, interjected Carrie.  I read that a man’s amygdala

triggers a fight or flight response, like whenever I ask Gyles to

do something practical, such as taking out the bin.

Whereas, contributed Brassie, a woman’s response would be

to tend and befriend. That’s why we meet here, isn’t it? 

To support each other. I read the article too.

Yes, and all that talk about men not being able to multi-task is

apparently another male diversionary ploy, I confirmed.

Men multi-task 39 hours a week, but women have to do it for

48 hours per week. (Brassie substantiated my point, showing that

she had, indeed, studied the report in depth.)

That’s why guys have 9 hours more spare time than we do, so they can

play Stick Cricket online, or watch Jeremy Clarkson, I agreed, with

feeling.

Men are supposed to be decisive, owing to their strong frontal lobes,

added Clammie, but I seem to make all the important decisions in our

house.

In the report, I continued, it said that in evolutionary times, women

had to be alert at all times, as they had responsibility for looking

after the children.

So, we are not living in evolutionary times now? queried Brassie.

Well, nothing has significantly moved on, pointed out Clammie.

Oh, come on, girls: men do cook sometimes. Carrie defended her

spouse.

Yes, but do they ever clear up properly? I retorted.

Women can remember things better than men, observed Brassie.

That’s true, we all agreed.

It’s something to do with the hippocampus, she elucidated.

Well, you seem to have forgotten that you ordered a Mocha

some time ago, and so has the waitress, so where does that

leave our theory? I joked.  Everyone ignored me.

Gyles is always amazed that I remember everyone’s phone number and

I send out all the birthday cards- even to members of his family that I

have never met, Carrie elaborated.

Such as? I pressed.

Oh, I forget- his aunt so-and-so and uncle Thingy.

Brassie changed tack: And men always claim to feel pain more

intensely.

Man Flu!  We all laughed.

They’re really just little boys, Brassie pronounced.

Yes, that’s why they bite people on the football pitch when they

get over-excited, stated Carrie.

Yes, agreed Clammie.  But women have been shown to have superior

planning skills and with more frontal cortex cells they govern their

impulses better.

Oooh, look! They’ve got blueberry slices! Carrie couldn’t contain

herself. The waitress had just placed a plateful beside the till.

A Dutch study has shown that women need to eat more to achieve a

feeling of fullness, or satiety.  We crave sugar more than males and store

fat to support babies through gestation, I informed everyone.

I’ll have one now that my Mocha has arrived! enthused Brassie.

What? A baby? I teased.  She ignored me.

See! I told you the waitress hadn’t forgotten. And she selected one of

the biggest cakes on offer.

But, remind me- you are not pregnant, I cautioned.

No, but I recognise my bliss point, she tried to say, while stuffing the goo

down her throat.

Which is? asked Carrie.

Oh, I forget!  Something to do with the balance between food and joy..;

the precise level of sweetness that makes consumption enjoyable.

You mean when you transgress that feeling of guilt? I suggested.

Absolutely, she laughed.

Let’s all have one and another round of coffees, Carrie tempted us.

Sugar lights up the brain, so let’s fuel our grey matter and keep ahead

of our families, Clammie encouraged us.

There’s no harm in that, agreed Carrie.  And, let’s face it: we are only sinking

our teeth into a fruit slice; not into our fellow man.

Mmmm! Certainly more palatable, I agreed, forgetting the calories.

Must check these out online.  They must be cheaper elsewhere.

Maggie’s Final Journey

Tags

Amanda Thatcher, Bernard Ingham, Bishop of London, David Cameron, duck pate, Falklands, Iron Lady, John Major, Lech Walesa, Margaret Thatcher, Pippa Middleton, pussycay bows, Sam Cam, Simon Weston, St Clement Danes

Sonia and Ginevra had decided to watch Maggie’s funeral together, even

although they had been of opposing political stances.  However, both

agreed fervently on one fact: that she had had what some unsavoury

persons might have termed balls.

They settled into the chintz armchairs, put their feet up on the matching

footstools and prepared to toast the coffin as it came out of St Clement

Danes church.

In my younger days, I would have jolly well gone up there and routed anyone

who had the bad manners to express any opposition on such a day, avowed

Ginevra.  I would have clouted them with my handbag.

And got yourself arrested, sighed Sonia. But I agree that empty vessels make

the most sound and a lot of these malcontents have nothing constructive to

say.

Yes, the Queen wouldn’t stand back in deference to any of them, stated

Ginevra, prematurely sipping her gin and tonic.

Look! There’s Simon Weston!  He lost most of his face to the Falklands cause

and he is not eaten up with bitterness and pointless hatred, is he? remarked

Sonia.

They say it is about class, but she was a grocer’s daughter and she made her

own way, so I applaud her for that.  And she won three elections in a row..

Well, let’s not go into that, advised Sonia, who hadn’t voted Tory on one

of these occasions.

Did you see Prince Philip nod at the remark about bureaucracy never

achieving anything? observed Ginevra.  She thought that the old boy

would definitely be ready for a drink afterwards.

And so it continued.  They were concerned for the horses and for the

middle bearer who was becoming very sweaty and who looked as if he

might not make it.  They applauded Amanda Thatcher’s dignified

behaviour, her nice legs and expressed their disapproval of Pippa

Middleton, in contrast. I think that was the gin’s influence, as she did

not appear to be present.  A pity as she might have picked up some tips

on how to run a good event.

They wiped away tears with Sir Bernard Ingham and George Osborne

and commented on Sam Cam’s pussycat bow, prophesying a return to

the Thatcherite style.

Sonia dared to question the unfair political advantage that David

Cameron might have gained from the reading. I am the way, the truth

and the life was stated forcefully, but he may have been lent a nimbus

of authority.

Okay, ladies, said Magda, Ginevra’s carer, bringing in two television

trays with plates of toast and pate at one o’clock precisely.

What kind of pate is it? queried Ginevra.

Duck, darlings.

Oh no.  Take it away.  Bring us that salmon one instead.  Ginevra

could be bossy and demanding- possibly a little Iron Ladyish herself.

But what wrong with it?  You usually like it, responded Magda, who

could stand up for herself.

The Bishop of London said that he had been advised not to touch it;

it has too many calories, Ginevra elucidated. Anyway, I suddenly

remembered that we had some of the other kind at the back of the

fridge when I saw the Scottish First Minister.  The camera zoomed in on

him when they sang about ‘That Other Country..whose paths would be

peace- eventually.

Okay, I go to find it, Magda said, thinking that she would probably eat

the duck version, calorific content no problem.

She returned with the substitute in a few seconds.

It had better not be Sturgeon pate, laughed Sonia, who was fairly

politically astute.

Magda looked worried.

It’s another fish, explained Ginevra.  Not such a clever lady,

though.

So why did you give this Maggie lady such a lot of attention?  I never

heard of her, asked Magda.

Because she was a dreadnought amongst a fishing fleet, as somebody

quoted today, explained Ginevra.  You had Lech Walesa; we had

Maggie Thatcher, so put that into your salmon pate and smoke it!

No, corrected Sonia: we had John Major.

That reminds me, Ginevra changed the subject whenever she was

exposed as misinformed, there might be some curried eggs in the

fridge as well.

Sonia laughed, but Magda didn’t get the joke.  (She found the eggs,

though.)  Ginevra’s tangential thought processes were often puzzling.

Could these apparent non-sequiturs be an exhibition of confusion?

She would ask the lady at the agency.  Maybe the two old girls were

both -how do you say it?-Ah yes, bonkers!

Meantime, toast and duck pate: quite a nice little lunch.

Taking the Biscuit

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Christian Pilgrims Progress, Custard Cream, Garibaldi biscuit, Jammie Dodger, Pastoral Care

Can you imagine the comments Shakespeare might have made on his

pupils’ chapbooks, or whatever they wrote on? Nigel was warming to his

theme, but Snod was noting something down in his staff planner.

Do you know, he said, not apropos of the current subject, I have noticed

that for every packet of Custard Creams in this staffroom, there are two

packets of Bourbons?  It is simply not good enough and I intend to note

it in the comments box regarding the kitchen staff appraisal.

He ate the biscuit in one bite and, showing that he had been listening

in the way that teachers through the ages can monitor situations while

filling in their crossword, or scanning the latest hot racing tip, he added:

The Bard may not have used red ink, but he would have dipped his quill in

vitriol, no doubt.  He was the master of the put-down, after all.

‘You scullion!  You rampallion!  You fustilarian!  I’ll tickle your catastrophe’.  That

used to be one of my favourite quotations.  It used to quieten the Lower School

rather well. Another good one was : ‘Methinks’st thou art a general offence

and every man should beat thee.’

 He took a sip of stewed tea.  Just the way he liked it.

Nigel’s smile faded.  But we are not permitted to write such comments now,

or to make threats, he reminded himself, as much as his colleague.

More’s the pity-no! said Snodbury, reaching for a Jammie Dodger, which didn’t

feature highly in his list of favourites.  The goo tended to stick in his dentures.

The heart shape in the middle was unmanly, he thought.  Nevertheless..

On a scale of 1-5, Nigel might have to rate Snod as a 1 for Pastoral Care.

He could hardly vouch for him by writing on his appraisal form:

Every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks courage from his looks:

A largess universal like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one..

Maybe it would be more honest to pen:

a candle, the better burnt out.

But what if Snodbury were to write on his:

You botcher’s apprentice or You shallow vassal?

Maybe they could prop each other up and Snod could write

something like the following against his rugby coaching:

A sweeter and lovelier gentleman,

Framed in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal,

The spacious world cannot again afford.

Snod stood up first and, collecting his weary pile of paperwork, made

as if to leave the staffroom.

Next Friday, periods 2 and 3 all right for you, Milford-Haven?

Nigel couldn’t see the point in him being assessed by someone so old in

tooth and claw.  With a heavy heart he noted down his nemesis in his

planner.

As Snod opened the door, he turned on his heel and in an oracular voice

he addressed the empty (save for Nigel) staffroom:

They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,

But bear-like I must fight the course.

Amen, replied Nigel, deeply affected, and added, under his breath,

lest the staffroom be bugged, something which he felt was personally

applicable:

O limed soul, that struggling to be free

Art more engaged!

And taking the last Garibaldi, he took up his burden of marking, like Christian

before he had passed through the wicker gate and, through the staffroom,

he took his solitary way.

.

Staff Appraisals

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Custard Cream, G Wilson Knight, PC language, Shakespeare in Titchfield, staff appraisal, Suttonford, Swan Of Avon, Swan of Tuonela, value added

Augustus Snodbury, Master at St Birinus Middle School, sighed deeply at the

very thought of the next round of staff appraisals.

Unlucky in love? teased Nigel Milford-Haven, setting his huge pile of exercise

books onto an already overloaded table.  He was unaware of how near the

mark he had hit.  He sank into a saggy armchair which had several burns and

questionable stains in the sun-faded chintz.  For, aetiolated members of staff,

over the years, had hauled it near the bay window, in an attempt to derive

some vitamins from the sunshine which always seemed to radiate outside their

timetables.  Indeed, some of the old timers walked with a curious curvature,

like plants gravitating towards the light.

Did you read that stuff about Shakespeare being a schoolmaster in Hampshire?

Nigel began. They say that he only had about 12 pupils, so his report writing

wouldn’t have taken him as long as ours, lucky s-

Snod cut him short in that time-honoured way that old dogs of the staffroom

have perfected over the centuries.

They?  They?  And who pray are these experts?  It is alleged, Mr Milford-

Haven, merely alleged.  No doubt someone is trying to fill in the

missing years.  As if G Wilson Knight would not have uncovered some

such information. 

Or Dover Wilson, he added, showing his age.  He permitted himself a tight-

lipped smile, which he had perfected and which communicated his resistance

to the merest tincture of fantasy.

No, gullible was not an adjective to pin on Augustus Snodbury.

But Snod- I mean Gus, eh, Mr Snodbury, sir, stuttered Nigel, whose BA

paled against his better’s MA in the prospectus.  Actually, it annoyed

him when he deferred like this.  His results were 5% better than the old

crock’s, if you weighted certain subjects favourably and manipulated other

factors to do with value added and certain aptitude scores from prep

school projections, but he controlled his rambling thoughts and

continued, The exciting thing is that The Bard might have ridden through

Suttonford and may even have tutored the ancestors of some of our boys.

En cet cas, he didn’t transmit much in the way of genius to the descending

gene pool, remarked Snodbury, exhibiting his facility with Modern

Languages at the same time as expressing his cynicism which had been

fuelled by last week’s universally vapid responses to what he considered

a fairly straightforward prep.

Nigel privately concurred, but was somewhat stunned at Snod’s intemperate

and overt non-PC language.  Should he comment on this feature in next week’s

inter-departmental appraisal?  The old boy wasn’t long for the scholastic world,

when all was said and done, so maybe he should draw a veil over some issues.

However, enthused by the concept of The Swan of Tuonela (or was it The

Swan of Avon?) marking the aimless scribbles of a progenitor of -say-John

Boothroyd- Smythe, he picked up the querulous baton and ran with it.

Tea, gentlemen?  The trolley with the wonky wheel was being parked against

the pigeon holes.  They both eyed the same Custard Cream.  It was a matter

of hierarchy.  Nigel took the Bourbon instead.

As he crunched, his imagination soared with the sugar rush….

Multi-tasking

Tags

cephalopods, dumbo octopus, hemocyanin, J-cloth, Macquarie University, Michelle Warwicker, Mini-eggs, octopus, Octopussy

Looking around Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe, I observed quite a few

females reaching out in various biomechanical elongations of upper limbs, in

order to select the multifarious gastronomic goodies which are temptingly on

show.

Oddly enough, I had just been reading Michelle Warwicker‘s report for the

BBC on female octopuses who apparently go to extraordinary lengths in

their extensions to reach food.

The image of Nigella’s night-time fridge raids came to mind, for some

reason.

Clammie joined me within a few seconds and we were able to further monitor

the rapid placing of personal articles on spare chairs by grasping tentacles,

evidently adapted to reserving space for feeding and communicative activity.

The environment and lifestyle of cephalopods means that they have to be

capable of complex and flexible behaviour. A study from Macquarie University

revealed episodic personality, which seemed to suggest that the creatures

relied on visual signals when interacting.

Of course, there are Dumbo octopuses too and the Incirrate species favour

shallow habitats.  Maybe I belong to the hyponym group, who squirt ink when

annoyed.

There might even be a kind of class system going on, as hemocyanin means

that blood can be a bluish colour. Some of the species that I have seen

frequenting Suttonford’s aquarium of life, red in tooth and claw, certainly

create the impression that such a fluid is coursing through their forms.

All octopuses can squeeze through small spaces, so this is a useful adaptation

when tables are few and vacant chairs far between.  Being an invertebrate is a

useful quality when the pressure of increased population density squeezes

personal space. Of course many go on seasonal migrations when life gets too

crowded.

Males of the octopus vulgaris species are thought to reserve their extending

hectocotyli-don’t ask!- for mating purposes, while females utilise the stretch

for acquiring food. This would appear to contradict the hierarchy of need in

most males’ taxonomy, as far as I construe.

What’s for tea? is usually the first and perhaps sole utterance of the standard

male returning from forages on the sea bed.

Spag bol, the female tends to reply, if he is lucky.  She then extends an arm to

the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard in order to conceal her private cache of

Mini-eggs, simultaneously affecting a wiping gesture with a J-cloth over the

polished coral worktops, in order to give the impression that she has been busy

all day in domestic chores, rather than floating around, with the odd billowing

for effect.

Other tentacles are briskly shoving designer carriers under the spare bed.

But, at the end of the day, males are simple to please: give them Octopussy

any time and they will go off quietly to their own habitat and then females can

happily congregate in their designated reef areas for superior social activities.

Don’t be complacent about them, warned Clammie.  They look pretty,

but-remember- all octopuses are venomous!

Including us! I said, popping a marshmallow into my mouth.

Especially us! she agreed.

But we camouflage it, don’t we?

Not entirely, she said and I think there are those who would agree.

Celebrity Sightings

Tags

Boris Johnson, Caribbean, celebrity sighting, doppelganger, Edward Scissorhands, George Osborne, grog, hoop ear-rings, Jack Sparrow, Johnny Depp, Keira Knightley, Kirstie Allsopp, kohl, New Forest, Phil Spencer, Pilate, Pugwash, Somali pirate, True Cross, Ugg, walking plank

Scheherezade and Tiger-Lily were still on their Easter break from school.

They’d decided to go to their favourite coffee shop, Costamuchamoulah,

to be seen and to give autographs to any members of the Lower School

who might happen upon them.

But suddenly-Aaaaagh!!! Did you see who that was? shrieked Tiger.

Yeah, I think that was him, verified Sherry, hot-footing it down High Street

as fast as her Ugg boots would permit.

Johnny Depp had reputedly bought a house in The New Forest and several

local publications had printed “evidence” of his having graced local sylvan

hostelries in his quest to quench his thirst with some grog.

If all these sightings were to be summarised then they would far outnumber

the multiple venerations of the True Cross in Medieval Europe and would,

no doubt, be as authentic.  It was fantastical to think of any unities of time

or place in these much vaunted protestations of having witnessed a real

presence.

No, mum, I swear it was him, hyper-ventilated Tiger.

Maybe it was a doppelganger, teased Carrie.

What’s that?

A double, someone who looks like him, suggested Carrie, peeling some

potatoes. She wondered if Keira Knightley peeled vegetables and what

hand cream she would use if she did.

Sherry added: The Daily Mail reported that it might have been Johnny Depp’s

son who was with him, although the boy spoke perfect English.

And what would that sound like, man? laughed Carrie.  I thought that the

prescriptive idea of language was old hat. Everything in linguistics is organic,

like these potatoes!

I bet his son’ll go to a private school, said Tiger dreamily.

Anyway, interrupted Sherry, two reporters from The Suttonford Chronicle

cornered him- Johnny, I mean, but he made a getaway by going into Tesco

Express.  He came out carrying a 12 pack…

..of beer? asked Carrie.

No, Andrex. Actually it was a 14 pack, as there’s a special offer on at

the moment and you get 2 rolls free. 

I wonder what the reporters were asking that so annoyed him?

mused Carrie, making a mental note of the special offer, especially as

she had a double points coupon that needed to be cashed in by the end

of the month.

They had got a little confused, explained Tiger, taking the peelings to the bin,

in an uncharacteristically altruistic action which was completely for Sherry’s

benefit.  Sometimes Carrie felt that she was expected to be Edwina

Scissorhands with all the domestic chores with which she was

burdened when the cleaner was on holiday.

Johnny wasn’t the only skilled thespian on the planet. Tiger wanted

to look good in front of her friend, so she put on an Oscar-worthy

performance of a dutiful daughter.

They thought he was a Somali pirate and that they had some sort of Channel

4 scoop, she elucidated.

Carrie typed in “Depp” and “Suttonford Chronicle” and sourced the article on

her tablet.

Oh look, she commented, they can’t spell Caribbean! Ah…they say

that he also has a thirteen year old daughter called Lily-Rose.

I bet she’ll be coming to our school, breathed Sherry.  She’ll probably be in

the year below us.

Well, said Carrie astringently, he’d have to be a Somali pirate to afford the

increase in fees.  If George Osborne has anything to do with it we will all be

walking the financial plank over shark-infested seas. Let’s hope Captain

Sparrow has the vital pieces-of-eight.  Oh, it says that he is going to return

  to the role in 2015.

Wow! enthused Tiger that means…

Yeah, interjected Sherry, that kohl, bandannas and hoop ear-rings are

going to be mega!

Tiger regained the conversational floor: And everyone will want to go to

Somalia for his/her gap year.

It’s not in the Caribbean, lectured Carrie.  Honestly, what did they learn in

Geography now?  Pupils seemed to be out and about doing street surveys

on celebrity sightings, but most of the kids couldn’t distinguish one

international shopping mall from another and didn’t know if they were in

Dubai, or Doncaster. They seemed to know as little about location as

most of Kirstie Allsopp and Phil Spencer’s clients.

On second thoughts, she didn’t think the students she knew would be

familiar with Doncaster…

She had seen past articles in The Guardian and The Sunday Correspondent  on

Captain Pugwash, where journalists affected confusion over the names of

cartoon pirates and simply fabricated the facts- and were sued.  (Maybe

Boris Johnson had learned a trick or two from them about sexing up details.)

She sincerely hoped that the girls would be able to distinguish fact from fiction.

But, as Pilate said, What is Truth?  And he had had its prime example standing

right in front of him.  Still, veracity was an educational objective, surely?

Who could tell? Had it been Johnny Depp in Suttonford, or was it a case of

mass hysteria and mistaken identity?

Hogwash/Pugwash?  Nowadays it was increasingly difficult to distinguish

the two!

To A Nightingale

Tags

automata, Beijing, Chengde, Copenhagen, emperor, Jenny Lind, Keats, Longevity, mah jong, T'ai chi, Tivoli Gardens

Tiger-Lily was supposed to be revising for some English exams after the

Easter break.  She had been so taken with her school trip to China, however,

that she sat in her room, reminiscing and doodling on her writing pad

before committing some verse to her tablet.

She had always loved Hans Christian Andersen’s story about the Emperor

and the Nightingale and it had left such a lasting impression on her, so that

she had jumped at the chance to visit Beijing and Chengde with her school

and had paid the deposit and had her injections almost before anyone else

in her class could register an interest.

Of course Hans Christian Andersen himself had had to make do with the

chinoiserie of the Tivoli Gardens in Copenhagen.  His infatuation with a

nightingale was an expression of his attachment to Swedish soprano, Jenny

Lind.  He had been possessed of a fine soprano voice himself, when he was a

boy and had been termed The Nightingale of Odense.

The Emperor had preferred a mechanical, bejewelled bird to the real creature,

until the toy broke down through overuse and the real bird came to sing for him

when he was ill.

Tiger was not au fait with the biographical details behind the story, nor was

she appraised of its suggestions of sexually arrested development.  No, she

just felt the yearning and, being a bright adolescent, she tuned into the

emotions.

Her poem captured a little epiphany that she had experienced in a park in

Beijing and I am glad that I persuaded her to let me publish it for you to

consider, as I think her work deserves a platform, other than being relegated

to a piece of GCSE coursework.

Just wait till she studies Keats!

To A Nightingale

My heart aches at your sad captivity,

trilling bird, lanterned in the barren boughs

of bleak Beijing park, while Longevity

and ancient friends play mah jong.  You arouse

pity.  I know they once emptied the skies,

leaving a silenced world.  Now you may sing,

rara avis, with clipped wings- exercise

in infinite patience.  Once Ching and Ming

emperors tasted your tongues-feuilletees-

and some preferred the clockwork lifelessness

of a gilded toy.  Your rich song allays

grim reality’s round of weariness;

transports old men, ex-army dressed,

T’ai chi practitioners; seekers of calm.

Do creatures sing best with thorns in their breasts?

Or are such notions mere Romantic sham?