Consider the Lilies

Tags

Badger Farm, pyramid orchid, Red Admirals, Sainsbury's, Shawford church, St Catherine's Hill, Waitrose, white campion

You know, Carrie, it is great living in Suttonford as you can get everything

you need without having to drive to supermarkets.  You might pay more in

the Express store, but you save on fuel, I commented to my friend, as we sat

outside Costamuchamoulah cafe in some sun.

What about when you lived in Wintoncester?  Did you go to Sainsbury’s

before Waitrose arrived?

I did go to Sainsbury’s, but as a walk from a friend’s house.  I’ll describe it

to you by letting you read this poem that I re-discovered in my cellar when

I was clearing out this week.

COMPTON DOWN

There is a way to go to Sainsbury’s

at Badger Farm. I must not take my car;

should study pyramid orchids, flurries

of paired Red Admirals; look afar

to St. Catherine’s Hill and ignore the gash

in the chalk. Shawford Church spire and village

stand like decoupage. I am not to dash,

but idly tramp under green foliaged

tunnels of gnarled branches, whose russet floors

will mute motorway hum. The sharp wheet

of nightingales and sweet skylark song pours

from the dense trees and herding bullocks greet

me with nonchalance, while a pink dog rose

profusely spreads its blooms against a sky

of madonna blue. The barley crop grows

silken tassels below thyme slopes which try

to outpurple hollyhocks. I choose jars

of such herbs from the supermarket shelf.

Normally, I’d buy in bulk; load my car

and not have time to walk and still myself.

Today white campion has more import

than stockpiling stuff I don’t really need.

I turn my back on the tarmac forecourt,

enjoy my walk and mortify my greed.

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Home Thoughts From Abroad

Tags

Charente, Costamuchamoulah, Ginevra, hip flask, Home Thoughts from Abroad, Kingcups, Magnolia Grandiflora, Magnolia Stellata, mobility scooter, Old Man's Beard, orphan lambs, quince

Carrie met me in Costamuchamoulah, award-winning cafe, to regain her

emotional equilibrium, so sorely tried after a Bank Holiday with the

family.

How is your mother-in-law getting on with her mobility scooter? I asked,

mentally focussing on the noun: balance.

Oh, she’s had a couple of parking tickets, but she said that an average driver

will lose over a hundred days in his or her life, looking for a parking space, so

she hasn’t got that kind of time left to waste.

Carpe diem, I nodded.

Carrie picked up on the Latin, but subverted it by commenting:

Oh, yes, she still takes her fish oil every day.  It should give her at least

another hundred days to obstruct the highways. Last week she was

reprimanded for trying to corrupt a warden by offering her a swig from

her hip replacement flask. She claimed that she had just been trying

to cheer her up.

Ah, Ginevra.., I sighed.  What’s a hip replacement flask?

Oh, it’s the aluminium one she bought online when we confiscated the old

pewter and horn one.

(Ginevra in her glory days.  Prohibition not a problem.)

Oh, right. But have you heard from Gyles’ sister, Victoria, recently?

Oddly enough, now you come to mention it- yes.  Only this morning. She says

that the weather in the Charente has been awful recently.  I think she must

be homesick as she included this poem in the letter.

Carrie rummaged in her designer handbag and took out a folded piece of paper.

Read it, she said.

HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

By the eight species of forget-me-nots

remember England now that May is here:

doleful importunity of ringed doves;

primrose coronets shade coy violets.

Deep blue skies with scudding clouds;

pink candyfloss of cherry blossom;

hedgerows cobwebbed by fluffy Old Man’s Beard;

daffodils trumpeting Spring’s arrival-

their nodding heads encourage shyer buds.

Coral quince and resplendent redcurrant,

fronds of forsythia, magnolia

grandiflora and stellata’s waxed flash.

Lambs in aspic slither onto dry straw.

(Orphaned siblings tugging at rubber teats,

held teasingly by triumphant children.)

Brides step out in their soft satin slippers.

Kingcups clustering by water meadows

where cygnets float and moorhen chicks zigzag.

Bluebells burgeon in butterfly-rich haunts.

Cricketers clean and linseed oil their bats.

Not to be in England now May is here

is to forego the birthday of the year.

Robert Browning, only not, Carrie muttered.

The Silkstead Road

Tags

Aga, flints, peacock butterfly, Silkstead, stitchwort, William Rufus, wood anemones

The Great Seal of Rufus.

(His body was dragged on a cart to

Winchester along the route discussed below.)

“Hi, it’s me!”

This is one of my least favourite greetings as, usually, out of context,

I cannot, with certainty, identify even some of my closest friends’

voices.

Then the disembodied one will say, “It’s Sue.”

I reply,” Oh-yes, sorry.  Of course..” While they rattle on, I am frantically

searching for some clue, some orientation.  Eventually, the penny will

drop, but it is so stressful.  I know about twenty or thirty Sues, Susans,

Susies, with all their orthographical variations.

Anyway, it was Brassie again.  She was talking from her tiled kitchen, so

her voice was resonating differently. She doesn’t usually spend much time

in her kitchen.  In fact, Cosmo, her husband wondered why she had to

have one.  Apparently, it was so that she could have an Aga, or she would

have lost face with half of Suttonford.

I read your poem, she said.  You should publish that other one you showed

me about that walk we took on The Silkstead Road all those years ago.  I

remembered it when I read the one about Stockbridge Down.

Okay- for all you Sues, Susies, Suzies and Susans and for anyone else who

likes nature poems, here is:

THE SILKSTEAD ROAD

Tramping Yew Hill, thick bluebelled Silkstead Road,

I thought: did monks eye peacock butterflies?

Did they appreciate what Nature showed-

stitchwort, ground ivy, wood anemones?

We took equivocal arrowheads, prised

from the chalk path.  I wanted to believe

each blue white flint was pottery disguised;

ancient shards.  I so desired to receive

visions of men canopied under trees,

cathedral-vaulted, in tunnelled walkway.

And then thin voices floated on the breeze,

chanting plainsong.  Perhaps it was the day,

so clear, that put such notions in my head,

its wild flower profusion resurrection

in itself.  For all we know, the long dead

haunt such paths, offering benediction.

The Long Day Closes

Tags

Bank Holiday, Hill fort, Metaphysical poets, Stockbridge Down, Violets

Another Bank Holiday over, Candia, Brassie sighed on the telephone.

She was always tired at half term, as the twins wore her out with

their irrepressible energy.  She had to find low budget activities

that involved a lot of physical expenditure, but were not too demanding

of financial outlay.  These kinds of activity meant that the hyperactive

Andy, the manic Border Terrier, could be included.

Running up and down hill forts and challenging Castor and Pollux to see

how fast they could do a circuit on the ancient rims was a good ploy.

She actually enjoyed climbing Stockbridge Down on her own, or with

Candia, once school had resumed.  The elevation gave them a

perspective on their lives and the banks of violets produced Metaphysical

thoughts, similar to those expressed by the poets themselves.  Those

steep walks took on an entirely different character.

So, did you write your poem, Candia?  Brassica asked.

Yes.  Would you like to hear it?

You know I always want to hear your poems, Candia, Brassie replied.

Oh well then…

SUNSET OVER STOCKBRIDGE DOWN

The sky is nacreous over Stockbridge Down.

Damp, grass-scented air carries the trilling

liquefaction of a nightingale’s song.

A Somborne field is bloodstained with poppies.

The dry brown earth is cracked under our feet.

Green spindleberries and sloe haven’t reached

their apotheosis.  The violet bank

is invaded by rose bay willow herb.

We sit on a ridge and watch that huge disc

eighty four million miles away, setting

over Danebury Hill Fort, where others,

cradled in that ring, did the selfsame thing

a millennium ago.  Down below

the detail of little houses is lost.

The wild oat sorters that look like black crows

moving diagonally across fields

have finished their task.  The light is fading.

Rabbit colonies are in their warrens.

A busy family day’s activities

have ceased.  Fatigue sets in and soon we’ll sleep

in the same landscape as Iron Age Man,

nightingales, seeds, grasses and the old sun.

Someone sitting here in years to come

will tap into collective consciousness;

will feel consensus, a consecration

and a universal empowerment

to carry on the eternal struggle.

Waiting for the Wistaria

Tags

Cana, Priors Gate, Winchester, wistaria

Hi!  It’s Candia again.  No, I’ve not been in hibernation, but could

have been excused for refusing to emerge from the duvet, with all

the recent rotten weather.

Went down to Wintonchester today, to soak up some sun and I came

across my old friend: the wistaria growing over the entrance to The

Cathedral Close.  It reminded me of the poem that I wrote nearly

twenty years ago, when I first moved into the area.  I had seen an

engraving of Prior’s Gate in an old book in a charity shop more than

three hundred miles away from the city and the ancient shrub was

featured .  I immediately bought the book and determined that I

would live in the vicinity of such an impressive portal.

That first winter I waited for the gnarled creeper to blossom.  When it

did, I felt that I had come home.

WAITING FOR THE WISTARIA

Waiting weeks for wistaria’s welter

of tendrils, titivating Prior’s Gate,

to flourish its purple helter-skelter

ear-rings.  For Winchester, it seems quite late;

elsewhere trailers blossomed against bright brick

facades, yet soon their petals will be spent.

But this one saves its special party trick

till last-like choice Cana wine, heaven scent.

Chelsea Flower Show (Not)

Tags

Alan Titchmarsh, Bank Holiday, Ben Weatherstaff, Chelsea Flower Show, Cromwell, Dadaism, Diarmuid Gavin, dogulator, Existential, FT, geometrie vegetale, Hans Arp, How To Spend It, leaf spreader, leprechaun, mauvaise foi, NGS Garden scheme, Nihilism, pension forecast, pikestaff, Poundcafe, Roundhead, Secret Garden

Depressing news.  Depressing weather for the Bank Holiday.  Diarmuid Gavin

even pronounced the hundredth Chelsea Flower Show unimaginative and

somewhat disappointing.

Chlamydia looked out at the rain-soaked patio of Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.  Leaves swirled around and became mulch on the

flagstones.

She picked up an NGS brochure which was advertising various local gardens

which were to open in Suttonford to support the Anacondas In Adversity!

charity: a cause which she and her daughter, Scheherezade, fervently

espoused.

She prayed for a meteorological change while stirring her Mocha, thus

destroying its award-winning fern imprint in choco-powder.

How much had she paid for this caffeine indulgence?  As much as could have

bought her three houses in Stoke-on-Trent. Really, social and even solitary

caffeine was becoming a luxury she could ill afford.  If her pension forecast

was anything to go by, she would be better supporting a Poundcafe

expansion from Kirby.

She flicked through last week’s FT supplement, How To Spend It.  Maybe

someone could publish a spoof version and add a final ironic Not to the title.

She picked up a less pretentious publication and started to read an article on

dogulators.  This had nothing to do with the abominable practice of dogging,

but was concerned with the various means and strategies for calculating

one’s canine friend’s true age.

Clammie thought that the formula was fairly simple: multiply by seven.

Apparently, like pension forecasts, it was a lot more complicated and involved

the recognition that some breeds age at different rates and that there are

periods when the pace accelerates and then slows.  No wonder she was so

confused about how her age of receipt of pension contributions kept varying

and she found it hard to focus on the ever-receding pot of gilt as it miraged

out of sight under the insubstantial rainbow of her transient life.

She would have to do some work to increase her contributions.  Maybe she

could create a garden design and take it to next year’s Chelsea show?  It

couldn’t be so hard to gain a gold medal.  There seemed to be a plethora of

them.

She had heard Alan Titchmarsh, no doubt irritated by Gavin’s criticisms, use the

terminological inexactitude: iconoclastic, in reference to some of the designs.

She had conjured up the image of a Cromwellian regiment of out-of-control

Roundheads smashing up garden gnomes with their pikestaffs.

Hey! What if she created a moving installation using such a – she hesitated to

adopt the over-exposed abstract noun that had broken out all over Chelsea-

using such an innovative concept?  She was sure that Diarmuid would be up for

a bit of Celtic licence as long as no one smashed a fibreglass leprechaun.  An

art garden would be the answer to her spiritual stagnation.  No- wait!- an Arp

garden.  Now she was really feeling her creative sap rise!

Yes, Hans Arp had made woodcuts of leaves and forms and had just thrown

them together at random.  She could imagine sitting on that elevated bench

with Alan T, discussing her concept.  She would refer to Dadaism and

geometrie vegetale and might even call the plot an Existential Garden for an

Age of Nihilism.

It would be a space where she had lost the plot!  She would have at its centre

two huge sculpted dice which would turn on an axis, like swivel-headed loons.

People might have to return a six to enter; or not.

She would impress Titchmarsh by echoing Arp: My garden represents a

secret, primal meaning slumbering beneath the world of appearances.

Chance points to an unknown but active principle of order and meaning

that manifests itself in the garden’s secret soul.  Alan would be blown away

as if by a giant leaf vacuum.  And the non-existence of any supporting

rationale would contain the ambivalence of the aforesaid appliance, as it

would contribute to a kind of chaos theory that, just like the leaf blower,

moved concepts around rather than forming them into a neat structure

and creating something useful, such as a compost heap.  The leaf vacuum-

a metaphor for our time.

Secret Garden?  She could place a rusting metal outline of a Ben

Weatherstaff figure leaning on a spade at its centre and a robin

could buzz around on elastic over an empty wheelchair.  That might

suggest hope.  On alternative days she would replace the wheelchair

with a vandalised shopping trolley, representing mauvaise foi.  Brilliant!

Next year Diarmuid would not be bored, she could assure him.

‘Ale n’ ‘Arty

Tags

anacondas, Duchess of Cornwall, Duchy biscuits, Farage, Morris Dancers, Oaten biscuits, quantitative easing, real ale, Stem Ginger and Dark Chocolate biscuits, The UK Vineyards Association, UKIP

It was Suttonford’s Big Day on the calendar: the annual ‘Ale n’ ‘Arty Festival.

Shopkeepers in the town had been checking the weather forecast for over a

week and potential stall-holders had been trying to determine if they could

recoup the fees for their stands, by studying past records of footfall and

meteorological patterns.

A celebrity chef had been booked to demonstrate some recipes for recession

and Suttonford Morris Men had been bleaching their hankies and checking the

clappers on their bells.  Their wives were keeping their fingers crossed, as well

as their ankles, and were hoping for fine weekend weather.  They were always

pleased to have their domestic space to themselves.

Gary, the modern equivalent of a Town Crier, had remembered his lesson from

the previous year and had set the volume of his megaphone to a kinder level.

He would be commenting on the relative merits of real ales, such as Crushed

Badger and Roadkill and Hop It!  Hopefully, he would have the chance to sink a

few samples.  He firkin well hoped so.

There was even going to be a stall featuring wine from a local vineyard.  The

grapes which were pressed were a variety based on Rot ‘Em Pinot, a vine

whose leaves sported white hairs, making it entirely in keeping with the more

mature population of Suttonford and environs.  Wine historians had linked its

introduction to the South of England to Roman deserters who had planted

stock on the sunnier slopes of Wintoncester, before rolling down them.

The Duchess of Cornwall, in her capacity as President of the UK Vineyards

Association, had declined an offer to open the festival, but she had sent a

hamper of Duchy products as a donation towards the town’s adopted local

charity: Anacondas in Adversity! 

Gary peeked through the wicker.  He didn’t think that anacondas would

particularly appreciate oaten biscuits.  But what was he to know, compared to

globally itinerant Royals?  Frankly, if he were to be transformed into a

reptile-and many people, including his spouse, thought that he was well on

his way in the metamorphic process-he was certain that he would opt for the

Stem Ginger and Dark Chocolate variety.  Oaten hadn’t done so well in this

region recently.

At least the anacondas wouldn’t be expected to pay in excess of £7 a box for

the luxury.  He wasn’t sure how their currency compared to the euro. He hoped

it was holding up and that they hadn’t had to resort to quantitative easing.

They were  evidently suffering enough.  He surmised that they must be in crisis

if they were the focus of the town’s support.

Gary raised a finger to check the wind direction and he thought that he could

detect a spot of rain.  The Morris Dancers were supposed to welcome Spring,

but they seemed to have missed the boat somewhere along the line.

He noticed a stall which seemed to be selling nothing but umbrellas with the

UKIP logo.  They seemed to have been discounted by the proprietor, who told

Gary that he thought they would have sold well a few days ago, when he was

at a fair just south of Edinburgh.  There had been a constant deluge, but it had

not been of a precipitation nature, but had rather been characterised as being

a torrent of anti-Farage abuse and now he was left with the entire batch,

which he was hoping to shift.  Gary was somewhat dubious about his optimism.

He was pretty certain that even an anaconda wouldn’t be seen dead under

that umbrella.

Countdown

Tags

Arne Dahl, Augustus Snodbury, Carol Vorderman, Countdown, easyJet, Jenny Hultin, Jorge Chavez, Smirnoff, Viggo Norlander

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk, Housemistress at St Vitus’ School for the

Academically-Gifted Girl, yawned repeatedly.  She did cover her mouth,

however, as it was one of the social skills which she tried to impart to

her creme-de-la-creme and she attempted to lead by example.

It was the second week of public exams, and, after a hectic term, she felt

utterly drained.  She should not have stayed up so late, catching up on

Arne Dahl’s Swedish cop drama.

She did admit to herself that some of her fatigue was probably

attributable to the emotional mangle that she had been put through

when she discovered her true parentage.  However, ‘Drusilla

Fotheringay-Snodbury’ would not fit onto staff templates for end-of-term

reports, so she decided to stick with the status quo and retain the surname

suffix which had turned out to be her step-father’s appellation.

It was very difficult to remain alert and not to nod off in the  hall. Mind

you, it was all very different from when she had sat her examinations.

No one then was allowed out for comfort breaks- unless a certificate of

incontinence had been drafted by a GP.  Now she was up and down like a

yo- yo, calling for assistance to take girls out when they had simply not

‘gone‘ at the appropriate time.  She had tried persuading them to avail

themselves of the lavatorial facilities at lunch break, whether they needed

to or not, but, knowing that exits and re-entries would be permitted,

the blighters simply refused to comply.

It wasn’t as if enlightenment had dawned on staff conditions of service.

Oh no! Knitting was not allowed for the relief of the boredom of

vigilance and one was not supposed to pace up and down the aisles,

to ward off leg cramp.  Squeaky shoes were outlawed.

As she was reading out the list of prohibited objects, she felt like an

EasyJet air hostess whose recital and mimicry of safety procedures

everyone completely blanked out.

The moment when the instructions had been read and the clock

hand ticked inexorably towards the number twelve increased any

invigilator’s adrenalin.

For it was at that precise moment that, board pen in hand, one had to

calculate in front of allegedly numerate candidates, the finishing time

of (say) an examination lasting one and a quarter hours which began at

1.39pm. Once the pen marks had been committed to the board, it was

humiliating to have to make an alteration.

Drusilla had been sharp at mental arithmetic in her youth, but under the

scrutiny of seventy pairs of teenage eyes, she blanched a little.  She also

had to process what the time would be for those who had 25% extra time.

She felt like Carol Vorderman, only not.

Hmm… she had read that the latter had turned up at her daughter’s 21st

birthday party in a tight red dress and killer scarlet heels.  She could

imagine how members of the present audience spread before her would

have reacted if their mothers had tried to outshine them at any such an

event.

She thought of her own mother.  Granted, Diana could probably still carry

off a spray on dress and stilettos, given that she had been a lax-or lacrosse

to you and I- mistress.  Her mother still maintained her figure, chiefly by

running keep-fit classes for geriatrics.  She could probably have won that

beauty contest for the over sixties in Sao Paolo, which had been in the

press only that week.

So what was she to do for the next 1 hour, 33 minutes and 45 seconds?

Her gaze alighted on a non-regulation bottle on Juniper Boothroyd-

Smythe’s desk. Surely that clear liquid couldn’t be other than H2O?  Did

she dare to sniff the contents?  Would she be sued for disturbing the child,

or congratulated by the exam office for spotting contraband Smirnoff,

probably supplied by Olga Robinovitch from behind the Dramatic Arts

Centre?

She thought of Carol Vorderman again.  Allegedly, the presenter had

only achieved a third class degree, in spite of having an IQ of 150

something.

But she did have other assets, apparently.

Actually, she and Drusilla had a lot more in common than was

immediately evident.  Carol had not met her father until she was 42.

And Drusilla had not known that Augustus Snodbury was her father

until very recently.

However, as she turned round from revising the date on the whiteboard,

she was conscious that her own derriere was not quite in the same league

as Carol’s and that was down to the genes she had inherited from the

Viggo Norlander look-a- like she would have to learn to call Daddy.  In

fact, the way things were heading, she would soon be gaining more

than a passing resemblance to Jenny Hultin

and could kiss goodbye to any fantasies of pulling a cheeky Chavez stand-in.

You have five minutes left…..Okay. Stop writing!  Put your pens down now. 

And that includes, you, Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe.

She could tell that they thought her bum looked big in her outfit, even as

she collected the final script.  She knew that she could hardly be described

as a Loose Woman.

She affected an air of authority and dismissed them, out of the hall and

out of her life.  Tonight she would watch the rest of the recorded

Scandinavian drama and would thank her lucky stars that the marking

would be done by someone else for a change..

Tiger Tutors

Tags

Augustus Snodbury, Beacon College, Caligula, Dim sum, FT, Lamborghini Murcielago, Morris Traveller, Mrs Moneypenny, Nigel Milford-Haven, Robert Shrimsley, Taylors port, Terms of Employment, tiger tutors

It was the end of a long day of nine lessons (and no carols) on the trot

and Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was attempting to unwind by flicking through last month’s How To

Spend It FT supplement, which only served to underscore his deep-seated

financial insecurities and general lack of self-esteem.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to drive into the staff car park in a

Lamborghini Murcielago and spray some gravel onto John

Boothroyde-Smythe and Co., accidentally on purpose?

Maybe he should get a tattoo like David Beckham, only with

correct spelling, of course.

He adjusted his frayed M&S tie and wondered why he couldn’t strike

a sartorial pose like the youthful- looking millionaire ‘Tiger Tutor’

of Hong Kong’s Beacon College.

There were just as many tiger mothers in Suttonford and environs, he

mused, as in Hong Kong.  They were just as ambitious for their-what

Robert Shrimsley of the FT termed ‘spawn’- as their oriental

counterparts.

Actually, ‘spawn‘ sounded similar to the contents of dim sum.  He felt

he was well acquainted with the term in human form, as he had to deal

with those wretched twins, often in detention.

Castor or Pollux, translate the following: Dim sum.

I am stupid, sir?

No, judging by the parental modes of transport, there was no

shortage of dollars, banked in Hong Kong, or otherwise.

Why couldn’t Snodbury and himself set up a tutorial agency and gain

significantly higher rewards from legions of costcentres?  Surely the

gratuities would be greater than a fusty and corked bottle of Taylors

Port that had been round the carousel of many a local raffle?  That was

the type of recognition of services rendered that they were wont to

receive at the end of the Autumn term.  He didn’t even drink and had to

pass it on to his mother for her Christmas drinks cabinet.

He opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet which had to be

stationed in the staffroom as there was no space in his classroom,

now that several rest stations for the junior fatigued had been installed.

He fished out the Terms of Employment that he had foolishly signed.

Drat!  He was not permitted to coach any of the pupils that he had

been contracted to intravenously feed at St Birinus.  He would have to

solicit external students and that would entail hiring premises, paying

insurance and installing photocopiers etc.  He would even need to apply

for a separate child protection thingy.

If he avoided rental on premises, he would have to visit the needy in

their own homes and then he would have to drive through their

ornamental gates with CCTV, thus recording his arrival in a shabby

Morris Traveller whose wing mirror was fixed to the rusting bodywork

with duct tape.

The sniggering student watching his progress up the lime avenue would

have lost any respect for him before he had even crossed the drawbridge.

They’d be texting snaps of his vehicle with captions such as WTF and

LOL. Even Nigel knew these acronyms did not stand for, Well, that’s

fabulous! or Lots of Love!

As for Snodbury, The Senior Master did not believe in extra tuition, come

to think of it.

Other masters may invite indigestion by bolting their lunch so as to

make a silk purse out of some kid’s ear- a kid who had probably pranked

around and not paid attention when the lesson had been originally

delivered.  Snod had been heard to mutter:

Should have listened the first time.  That’ll teach ’em. Anyway, the mocks are

only an organised shipwreck to see who can swim.  He would then eye the

clock and make himself as scarce as hens’ teeth before the 1 o’clock

bell.

This was especially true on a Wednesday when there was a limited

amount of roast pork on offer in the refectory.  If one arrived in a tardy

fashion, there would be no apple sauce remaining and the little

buggers would have scoffed all the crackling.

Nigel looked at the clock: Four thirty.  Good!  The parents should

have cleared the drive by now and so he should avoid the traffic

scrum.

He gingerly opened the staffroom door and peeked outside to see if

the coast was clear.

But to his chagrin and extreme annoyance, the aforementioned

Boothroyde- Smythe was hovering, with a Maths ink exercise book

in his grubby paws.

Sir! he whined.  I didn’t understand…

Nigel wearily beckoned him towards his classroom.  He wasn’t

even paid overtime!

What exactly didn’t you understand? he asked in a scarcely disguised

attempt to sound concerned.

Oh, just something that Mr Snodbury said about some educational

establishments being loser-making factories that produce the likes of

himself, sir.

Oh yes, add the vocative ‘sir’ to any kind of impertinence and it sanctifies

bare-faced cheek, Nigel thought.  However, he judiciously replied:

I expect that he was being sardonic.  Do you know that word? I suggest

that you run along and add it to your extensive prep for this evening.

But, sir, the precocious one responded, I did all my prep last night

with my tutor.

In that case, take this declension sheet as an extension.  We don’t want

your parents to think that you are being underwhelmed, do we?

Two could play at that game.  And the exercise was in multiple choice

format, so the marking would be easy-peasy.

In some ways, this type of interaction was strangely satisfying in a way

that money couldn’t buy.  Maybe that was why, in recognition, his pupils

called him Caligula.

Who needs to be a tiger tutor when you can be a leopard that doesn’t need

to change its spots?

Tolerating the Outsider

Tags

Barbarossa, charismatic church, Duke of Wellington, Elijah and the ravens, Jackdaw, Nigel Farage, outsider, Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, sparrowhawk, St Francis, The Jackdaw of Rheims, Tracy Emin, Wee Free

I have been taken by the presence of a jackdaw in Wintoncester Cathedral

these last few weeks, I announced.

Haven’t they had it removed? asked Carrie.  I mean, it must make a mess.

No, it has not been possible to approach it and cover it with a blanket.  It is

too quick, apparently.

Yesterday it flew up onto a banner support and looked down on a family

gathering at the font, as if it was Tracy Emin’s new sculpture based on a

Roman standard.  It literally had a bird’s eye view.

Well, Carrie interjected, a jackdaw on a roof heralds a new arrival, so it was

very apt that it should be an extra guest.

I kept thinking about the reading from the previous week, I continued,

where we were enjoined not to call anything unclean that God had

pronounced in His favour.  I mean, a crow, or raven or suchlike is one

of His creatures.

Didn’t the ravens feed Elijah in the desert? Carrie suddenly remembered

a Sunday School story.

It is a bit creepy, though, I said.  A raven was once considered to be the

ghost of a murdered person.  This bird struts about like the one in the fable

who borrowed the finery of other feathered friends, to make an impression.

I thought jackdaws were considered to be tricksters, volunteered Carrie.

You know, because they steal shiny objects.

Oh, like in the poem The Jackdaw of Rheims?  The Bishop cursed the bird

for stealing his turquoise ring, but then reversed the excommunication

when the ring was discovered in its nest.  Eventually they canonised it and

gave it the name Jim Crow!

Carrie had been thinking :They used to have all sorts of dialect words for

jackdaws, such as cawdaw, jacko and college-bird.  But I like the collective

noun for a group: a clattering of jackdaws.

I looked up information on the jackdaw as it is going to be a permanent

feature, I believe.  Apparently it was punished as being only one of three

creatures that copulated in the ark.

Really? observed Carrie.  I expect that it was bored being shut up for

weeks on end.  It probably had nothing else to do.

My mother always used to tell us to find something to do if we said we

were bored, I commented. But I don’t think she had copulation in mind as

a diversionary activity.

Changing the subject, interrupted Carrie, aren’t these birds supposed to be

stupid?  Weren’t they supposed to starve while watching figs ripening?

No worse than teenagers, I laughed. Some of them watch paint drying.

But, no, I think they are meant to be intelligent.  Some of them protected

saints’ bodies after execution, or saved them from being poisoned.

I suppose you are right, Carrie admitted.  If the ravens leave the Tower

we are all in trouble.

Yes, and if they stop flying around Kyffhauser, Barbarossa will awake and

restore Germany to its former glory.

I seem to remember that a jackdaw is a harbinger of rain, Carrie mused.

I suppose that means the Bank Holiday sunshine is on its way out.

We will see by tomorrow, I agreed.  Anyway, they need to get rid of it.

Someone said that if it had been in a Wee Free Church, then it would have

been driven out by the monotony of the psalms.  If it had been in a

charismatic church, it could have been commanded to leave in the name of

Jesus.

But it’s in an Anglican church, Carrie pointed out.

Yes, and so the solution is to immediately baptise it and then it will never be

seen again! I quipped.

I’ve heard that one before, Carrie groaned.  But they should do what The

Duke of Wellington advised when there was an invasion of sparrows in a

church near to his home.

What was that? I asked.

Bring in a couple of sparrow hawks, she said.

And the swans will sing when the jackdaws are silent? I suppose.

That’s the general idea.  Failing that, give it a saucer of oil and it will

admire its own reflection and then someone can creep up on it.

Right! You’d better phone the vergers’ office then.  You can always

pretend to be from the RSPB, I suggested.  Just don’t quote Psalm

84 verse 3.

Why not? she asked.

Because it goes on about how lovely it is that the sparrow and the

swallow can make their nests even in the altars of the Most High and

we are all trying to drive the poor thing out. I bet St Francis wouldn’t have

approved.

Hmm… maybe we should tolerate all God’s creatures then and live alongside

them, she conceded.

Lesson for the day, I stressed.  But try persuading Nigel Farage!