A Googly in the Goolies

Tags

Balm of Gilead, googly, goolies, Leavers' barbecue, Lower Wraxall, Mentholatum, Michael Jackson, Moonwalk, street art, The Longs Arms, Woodworm Cricket Box

Drusilla had managed to reach the A&E Department of Suttonford’s nearest

hospital.  She suspected that she had badly sprained her ankle by tripping

over that wretched girl Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe’s street art installation.

It would have to have happened on the very first day of Dru’s holidays- before

she had even had time to vacate her flat and head off to her mother’s house

in Bradford-upon-Avon.

She was sitting very uncomfortably on the metal seating, which was obviously

meant to be indestructible, but which was the most excruciating furniture to

accommodate any injured person.  There was a queue for X-rays and she had

read all the magazines, which dated from 2008.

There was a diversion as an older man entered, completely doubled up and

clutching himself in a Michael Jackson manner, without doing a Moonwalk.

Heavens to Murgatroyd!  It was her father, the prep schoolmaster, Augustus

Snodbury.  Relations had been cool between them since an unsuccessful family

reunion at The Longs Arms in Lower Wraxall.

She couldn’t prevent herself from hobbling over and clutching his arm.

What on earth has happened to you?  she asked solicitously.

I was bowled a googly by that wretched John Boothroyd-Smythe at our final

cricket practice, he groaned.  It got me in the goolies.

(Drusilla blanched.  It was not an expression that was in common parlance

at St Vitus’ School for the Academically Gifted Girl.  That was not to say that

its meaning was not fully understood.  Indeed, English Language studies

encouraged the tracing of lexical etymology, so she fancied that she recalled

that this particular word evolved from the Hindi: a small ball or bullet.)

It was the only time that I was not wearing my Woodworm Cricket Box, he

continued.  I’d packed it away as it is the start of the holidays tomorrow.

Drusilla did not know whether to feel concerned, or merely glad that this

ailing organ of generation had fulfilled its destiny many years ago, when

she had been conceived.  She did not think that the accident was of any

life-shattering import now.

However, in the next few hours, once two ice packs had been applied-

actually three, as Drusilla had one applied to her foot also-they managed to

raise the emotional temperature in a positive way and applied their new-

found goodwill as a Balm of Gilead, or Mentholatum Deep-Heat salve, to

the emotional scars which had been mutually inflicted on their last meeting.

They deliberated on a plan to break the ice that had formed since Easter

between Gus and Diana, Drusilla’s mother.

By the time that they had been confirmed as Walking Wounded, but not on

Heightened Alert, nor suffering from Aggravated Mayhem, they had hit on

Plan B.  They shared a taxi to St Birinus Middle School, where Bursary staff

had enough fuel for gossip to last them the duration of the holidays and to

ignite a bigger conflagration than had had to be extinguished at The Head’s

Leavers’ barbecue.

A woman going up to Snod’s room!  What could be going on?

Advertisements

Speech Day

Tags

aigret, Ascot, Auchenshuggle, Charles Saatchi, chavette, Isabella Blow, Old Girl, Philip Treacy, Pippa Middleton, Prizegiving, Rabbie Burns, Shard, Speech Day, The Hatpin, To A Louse, Yarn bombing

Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe’s mother, Gisela, had been trying to find a suitable

hat to wear for the St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl‘s

Prizegiving.

Her daughter was going to receive the 2013 Sirdar Yarn-Bombing Textile Award

and her classmates, Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade, were being awarded

acknowledgement shields and cups for being The Girl Least Likely To and

The Girl Whose Mother’s Timekeeping Has Improved Most Markedly.

Gisela was going to be braving the marquee toute seule, since her formal

separation from Juniper’s father- realised after a much less provocative

gesture than that of Charles Saatchi’s.

Gisela had spotted a hat in Help The Ancient, Suttonford’s designer charity

shop. Some tattooed chavette may have abandoned it post-Ascot.  It

wasn’t exactly Isabella Blow-cum-Philip Treacy, but, for £9.99, it was a very

good deal and could be re-cycled afterwards.  Hat boxes took up too much

room in the wardrobe, she felt.

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk had just come out of her closet- not in a gender-

assertion manner.  No, she had literally de-cluttered her bedroom in her

flat in the boarding house, before vacating the premises for the summer

school let.  Lodging with her mother in Bradford-on-Avon usually stretched

both their reserves of patience.

She was glad that she had been disciplined enough to rid herself of that

hat which she had optimistically purchased in anticipation of her mother’s

demise.  It would have fitted the daughter of the deceased’s role very well,

but her mater was obstinately clinging to life and so the millinery moment

had not dawned.  Help The Ancient had been the beneficiary.

Drusilla intended to sport a Pippa Middleton-style fascinator for Speech Day.

She had fastened two aigret feathers together and secured them to a scrunch

of net veil with a vintage brooch.  Burlesque not.

Come the day, Gisela was sitting two rows in front of her daughter’s

housemistress and she was unaware that her headgear was being scrutinised

as closely as Rabbie Burns had inspected the louse on the woman in the pew

in front of him.

Drusilla knew it was the same hat which she had donated, as she could detect

the pinholes in the brim where she had removed the amber-headed hat pin

which she had inherited from her grandmother, who had advised her to stick it

into any male who bothered her in the dark at the cinema. (Drusilla had never

had occasion to employ this strategy and felt that she might have been

arrested if she had done so.)  Even after all these years of teaching in a girls’

school, she was still somewhat in the dark as to what male reprehensible

behaviour might consist of, and she was, frankly, rather disappointed that no

one had ever molested her sufficiently as to render the bodkin’s function as

anything greater than decorative.

In fact, when she saw how fetching the hat could be, she immediately wished,

like many other women who part with items from their bulging wardrobes, that

she could turn back the clock and reverse her actions. She was completely

distracted and paid no attention to the Head’s speech, in common with most of

the assembly, admittedly.

She missed the accolade to all those who have acted as the pacemakers of

the pastoral heartbeat of this remarkable institution. Old Girl, Ffion

Tullibardine-Tompkins’ account of how she had scaled The Shard in aid

of the locally-favoured charity, Anacondas In Adversity! went entirely

unregistered.

She was last on her feet for the rousing school song, scraped enthusiastically

by the Junior Orchestra: Here’s tae Us/ Whae’s Like Us?/ Gey Few..An’ They’re

A’ Deid, to the tune Auchenschuggle.

By Monday, the first day of her holiday, she had re-purchased the hat for

£12.99 from the charity shop.  She couldn’t believe her luck, having spotted

it immediately it had re-appeared in the window.  She’d been on her way to

meet an ex-colleague for coffee, since friends were in rather short supply.

Help The Ancient is, as you all know, dear Readers, right next to

Costamuchamoulah, the must-seen cafe.  Now she only needed the

appropriate occasion to bring the cat, I mean hat out of the box.

Hi, Miss Fotheringay-Syylk.

Drat: it was that awful Juniper girl.  Why hadn’t she gone away like the others?

Of course, Mrs Boothroyd-Smythe had to work, unlike most of Juniper’s

classmates’ mothers.

It looked better on you than on my mum!

(She had been spying through the window.)

But why did Drusilla always feel that the girl was being sarcastic?  Maybe it

was the not-so-fleeting snigger that played about her lips.

Have a nice holiday, Juniper, she smiled.  In fact, she thought, Why don’t you

take a premature gap year, or ten?

And then Drusilla tripped over the pavement art.

Yarn bombing! Grrr!!!

Sorry, Miss Fotheringay-Syylk. I hope you haven’t broken your ankle.  Do you

want me to call an ambulance on my mobile?  Let me carry your hatbox.

The first day of the holidays in Casualty.  She might have known.

Noteworthy Females

Tags

Ada Lovelace, Bank of England, Calendar Girls, Churchill, Currer Acton Bell, deep maths, Deep Throat, Elizabeth Fry, Ellis, Elsie Inglis, George Eliot, Good Queen Bess, Helen Mirren, Jane Austen, Katherine Jenkins, Lady Godiva, Linda Lovelace, Maggie Thatcher, Mark Carney, Mary Slessor, Mervyn King, Saatchi, Wimbledon

So, The Bank of England is withdrawing the face of Elizabeth Fry, the social

reformer, from our fivers, I remarked to Brassica, as I handed over a

couple of the aforementioned notes to the Costamuchamoulah cafe

assistant, in exchange for two Mochas and a shared chocolate slice.

Yes, but apparently there is a mystery female in reserve, in case

Churchill doesn’t turn out well  in the engraving, Brassie elaborated.

Oh yes! I joked.

Brassie had a choco-powder moustache, but I wasn’t about to lean over and

erase it from her upper lip; Saatchi has deterred cafe goers everywhere from

making physical contact with their companions in public.

So, apart from the Queen, we are to have no female physiognomies on our

banknotes, I continued.  Except in Scotland. I suppose that still

counts as the UK. The Scots have Mary Slessor, the missionary, and Elsie

Inglis, the suffragette, on their notes.  But I bet they wouldn’t be accepted if

tendered in Costamuchamoulah.

The Scots or their currency?  Brassie quipped.

Possibly both, I replied.  I certainly couldn’t envisage a frugal Mary Slessor, nor

an earnest Inglis dropping by for a cappuccino and a tranche of Polenta cake.

Well, Brassie kept up the conversational momentum. There are some 

names being currently proposed, such as Linda Lovelace.

I think you mean Ada Lovelace, the mathematician, I clarified, rather

pompously. There is a difference between deep maths and Deep Throat. 

Anyway, your suggestion was an American.

Was she? Brassie said vaguely.  She had detected the chocolate smear

and was concentrating on removing it.  I thought Jane Austen had been

mooted too.

Well, she certainly understood currency, I agreed.  And her brother, Henry had

a branch of his bank not too far from Suttonford, didn’t he?  At least, before it

went bust and he joined the church!  As someone who supported the concept

of thrift, maybe Jane would be a good choice.

We ought to canvass Costamuchamoulah customers, said Brassie brightly,

and then we could present a petition containing the most popular female

names to Mark Carney, when he takes up his new job as Bank of England

Governor, at the beginning of July.

Oh, he’ll probably be too busy at Wimbledon, I said.  Mervyn King is always in

the Royal Box, so he’ll probably reserve a seat for him.  Mind you, there’s

probably some Suttonfordians heading for Centre Court in the next week or

so.

We could ask them to present our findings to him, even if he is off-duty, I

suppose, I granted.

Good idea! concurred Brassie and she was off with her paper napkin and a

pen before the starting gun had been fired. (I think she gets her prematurity

of behaviour from Cosmo, by all accounts.)

The first caffeine addict she approached was too quick to promote Maggie

Thatcher, which was predictable, given the territory, but I could see one or

two others within earshot- not difficult in Costamuchamoulah!- looking flushed,

or maybe enraged by the suggestion.  So, before any iced cupcakes were

hurled by covert Lib Dems, I turned to an intelligent-looking female with a

laptop, in the corner.

What about George Eliot? she proffered.

Nah, love, interrupted one of two local workmen who could afford a daily fix

at this elite establishment. (I had previously observed their regularity of

attendance at about 3pm each day-an unsurprising habit, supported by the

prices they charge for basic DIY and maintenance.  Mid afternoon seemed to

be their premature knocking off time.  Not in any way a reference to

Cosmo’s entirely different, connubial activities, I must add.)

Nah!  We were discussing wimmen, weren’t we?  Not blokes!  That Katherine

Jenkins is a bit of all right, i’n’t she?  Whoarr! I wouldn’t mind seeing her on

a fifty quid note-preferably as Lady Godiva.

Yes, I suppose you handle a fair few of those denomination, I remarked

caustically. But she is Welsh, isn’t she?  Maybe they will get their own

currency, or perhaps they’ll revert to Anglesey Druidic pennies.

I bet they wouldn’t charge her as much as they do for services rendered to

local households headed up by femmes d’un certain age!

Educated conversation is completely lost on the average Suttonfordian, I find.

No wonder they didn’t recognise the pseudonym of dear old Mary Ann Evans.

I expect that is why I seek an international audience, Dear Reader. So, I

refrained from adding my own Trinity of female talent: Acton, Ellis and Currer

Bell.

I especially like the way that the male has been airbrushed out of the

picture. (Branwell knew that he wouldn’t be appearing on any bill of promise.)

The girl behind the counter suddenly said: What about Good Queen Bess?

Better, admitted Brassie, but there is a new book out by someone called

Steve Berry, which suggests that she was a man in disguise.

Maybe she had a moustache.

Or drank too many Mochas, I teased.

Women sometimes had to dress as men to achieve recognition, said

Brassie thoughtfully.  You know, like Pope Joan.

I know, said the girl, who clearly hadn’t bee lstening.  What about Helen

Mirren?

Well, I faltered.  She was born Mirronoff, but I suppose she is as English as

the present Royals , so maybe she is as good a choice as any.

Yeah!  Get her name down on your list, girls, approved what we might

laughingly term the ‘workmen’.  She looked pretty good in Calendar

Girls and Costa here could supply the strategic cupcakes, couldn’t you,

ladies? Whoarrrr!

I’m sorry, sirs.  We don’t accept these, said the assistant, returning their

Mary Slessor.  She would have in the normal scheme of transactions, but

customers who cheapened their brand by abbreviating its title were

personae non gratae. They had to substitute the note with another from

their rubber-banded wads of paper currency but left, quite cheered by their

ideal candidate for financial commemoration.  They were only aware of one

promotional photo of the aforesaid actress and it was from a fair number

of years ago.  They thought it would do nicely.

Number One: Helen Mirren, wrote Brassie on the napkin.

Open Garden 2

Tags

Bombay Sapphire, boomerang effect, detaupeur, Guantanamo, Open Garden, passing Go!

Ginevra and Magda, her Eastern European carer, arrived mid-afternoon and

avoided paying the entry fee as predicted.  Ginevra turned her nose up at

the suggestion of an elderflower cordial and asked if there wasn’t anything

stronger on offer.  Carrie went into the hall to see if there was any leftover

Bombay Sapphire in the wine cellar.  Magda meanwhile wheeled the old girl

around the perimeter of the garden, so that she could smell the roses before

she pushed them up.

When Carrie emerged, she was stunned to see that the wheelchair had left

parallel ruts round the erstwhile perfect lawn.  There was one anti-mole

petard left, butshe did not think it would have a powerful enough voltage

to blow her mother-in-law right out of her garden.  Dommage!

There was little point in remonstrance with Ginevra and, in any case, the

gin-loving one was deep in earnest conversation with Carrie’s neighbour,

the vicar’s wife.  The latter had taken some time off from typing her

husband’s suitably entitled column for the parish magazine: Rector’s

Ramblings, in order to engage in some floribunda espionage.  This month

her husband’s theme was Franciscan: All Creatures Great and Small.

(Not that he was averse to sprinkling his hosta pots with slug pellets.)

As his amanuensis was nibbling a crystallised violet with her rather

rodent-like teeth, she nodded vigorously in response to Ginevra’s

expressed theological certainty that she had always believed that what

goes around comes around.

I think the Almighty must have some Aboriginal features, for He always

ensures that the boomerang returns to hit you in the back of the neck,

she pontificated.

One is always hoisted by one’s own petard, she continued, glad of an

attentive audience.

It was ever thus, agreed the vicar’s wife, wondering where the opinionated

one had found a gin.  She had only been offered cordial.  Why, oh why, did

people always assume that the clergy and their families were abstemious?

And so Ginevra was confirmed in her expressed philosophy when a week later,

Carrie and Gyles received a call from the anti-terrorist squad.  Some mole had

informed them that the contents of their re-cycling bin had been reported and

a cardboard  box which had contained an explosive device had been

discovered, having been brought into the country illegally.  Would they care

to explain, or would they prefer to go straight to Guantanamo without passing

Go, or collecting £200?

Both Gyles and Carrie had needed a stiff gin after they had been invited to

clarify French methods of rodent destruction.  This had been difficult as the

young officer had not studied any Modern Languages and, even if he had,

would not have understood the noun detaupeur.  Gyles and Carrie claimed to

have believed that rules for pest control must be the same in all  EU countries.

The interrogator had laughed comme un drain.

And later, somewhat drained also, they went to the cellar to locate the

Bombay Sapphire.  Curiously the bottle had disappeared, as well as its

contents.  It didn’t take too long for Carrie to recall who had been the

most recent imbiber.

Next year, they decided, they would remove the lawn and lay a patio.

And, they agreed, that worthy though the cause of anacondas was, they

would not open their garden to the public.

Open Garden 1

Tags

anaconda, Aphra Behn, Carol Klein, Cate Blanchett, Charlotte Gray, detaupeur, Gamm Vert, Gertrude Jekyll, Jane Asher, Kangol beret, Kenneth Grahame, National Garden Scheme

Gyles and Carrie had agreed to open the garden of Nutwood Cottage to the

general public, in conjunction with three other neighbouring plots, in aid of

locally popular charity, Anacondas in Adversity.

Although their cottage garden was only just over half an acre, Carrie’s

anxiety levels had been high.  It was all so competitive.

Tiger-Lily, their teenage daughter, had taken some time out from

studying to help with the baking required for the refreshment stall.

She had been crystallising violets while her mother attempted to

produce Jane Asher’s Festival Cake recipe, which was de rigeur for any

self-respecting National Garden Scheme follower.

Owing to the appalling Spring, Carrie had lamented that there was not a

lot of colour to celebrate.  However, in the previous few days, some roses

had blossomed, including all the ones she had chosen for their pretentious

names, such as Bluestocking and Aphra Behn.  She was alarmed to notice

that Sappho had whitefly infestation and Theresa May had black spot.

There seemed to be some undermining of their party wall, which Carrie,

initially thought was down to the roots of a fig tree which she now

regretted ever having planted, but, on closer inspection, she saw that

some burrowing creature had been tunnelling with the dedication of a

Colditz fugitive.

Yet the fig tree had been spared in the Biblical manner and the neighbours’

attention had been diverted from sapper activity by the questionable gift of

a jar of fig chutney.  (Not the best atonement for a family who were latex

allergic.)

The afternoon of the opening had arrived and assistance had been

requisitioned from as many of Carrie’s friends as she could muster.  That

meant Brassica, Chlamydia and myself.  We were on teas and Clammie

was appointed treasurer and guardian of plants.  No cuttings were to be

taken by the light-fingered, no matter how green-fingered their

credentials and not even if they said their name was Gertrude Jekyll .

Carrie’s children were still at school and Gyles was at work.  He

had, however, helped by potting on a few ubiquitous seedlings for

plant sales.

Magda, the carer, had offered to wheel Carrie’s mother-in-law, Ginevra,

round for an hour or so.  Carrie thought that this was a bad idea, as Ginevra

had never shown any interest in horticulture whatsoever and had a deep

antipathy towards Carol Klein and all of her ilk.  Still, Carrie wasn’t going to

make a mountain out of a molehill over it and so she acquiesced, though

somewhat grudgingly.  She knew Ginevra would avoid paying the ticket price

for entry and Magda would eat all the cupcakes.

She surveyed the greensward in front of her.  Gyles had definitely won the turf

war thanks to his sister, Victoria, who lived in the Charente, who, hearing of

his trials in attempting to create a perfect pelouse, had sent him a box from

Gamm Vert, the Gallic garden centre, which contained a detaupeur and a set

of petards.

You can’t use this in the UK, Gyles had told his sister on Skype.

Well, all my French neighbours insist that it is the only solution, she had

informed him.  They say, Pouf!  Ca marche and C’est normal! Ze mole, he is

no more!

Carrie worried about the hypocrisy of supporting anacondas while blowing

Monsieur Pantalon Velours as high as the Eiffel Tower, in the cause of

cultivated jardinage. Hadn’t she read Kenneth Grahame to all her brood?

However, with one hit she had eliminated all earth excavation and she felt

as powerful as Cate Blanchett in Charlotte Gray.  Next she would be toting a

smoking pistol in her stocking top and wearing a Kangol beret.  Gyles wouldn’t

put up any resistance.

Opera in the Park 2

Tags

balalaika, Border Terrier, candelabra, Dr Johnson, Highland Spring Mineral Water, Kettle Chips, Liberace, Pravda, Putin, Raskatov, Samoyed, scrims, Sobac'e Serdce, wasabi butter

Brassica thought her heart would burst with pride when the semi-

transparent scrims revealed the symmetrical shadows of her pinioned

progeny.  She squeezed Cosmo’s hand, but his mind was elsewhere, as it

often was when she attempted such familiarities.  He was worrying what

havoc was being wreaked by Andy, their manic Border terrier, who had

been stair-gated in the kitchen for the duration.

When the boys raced out to meet their parents at the interval, they pulled

open the wicker hamper.

Don’t knock the candelabra over, darlings, said Brassie in her best operatic,

carrying voice.  She had just noticed another parent from the boys’ school.

She hoped the woman wouldn’t think she was a fan of Liberace.

But, Mum, where’s the pastrami and Serrano ham?

Mum, who ate the Balsamic Vinegar Kettle Chips?

Brassie looked into the hamper with horror.  The cylinder of Wasabi butter

which she had rolled in greaseproof paper bore the evidence of canine

dentition.  Some mushy strawberries lay squelched at the bottom of the

basket and the double cream had leaked everywhere.

There was nothing for it, but to crack open the warm bubbly- Andy had

even managed to knock the lid off the ice bucket.  The boys had Highland

Spring Mineral Water.

You know what this means, Dad? said Pollux ruefully.

What son?  Cosmo was grieving over the Kettle Chip loss; he had never

been a great fan of opera.

It means, clarified Pollux, that we can’t ask Mr Poskett if Andy can audition

for the lead role in Sobac’e Serdce, in next season’s programme.

Yes, added Castor, the new opera by Raskatov.

But Andy can’t speak Russian, joked their father.

No, but it’s all about a dog that loses its fur and tail and walks upright

and plays the balalaika.

Are you serious? asked Brassie, who was sucking a mulchy strawberry.

She remembered that Dr Johnson had made a remark to the effect that,

although a dog could walk on its hind legs, it didn’t necessary follow that it

should- or was he referring to a woman?  She couldn’t quite recall the exact

quotation.

Well, replied their father, Andy certainly isn’t disciplined enough to be on

stage.

No, but now the caretaker’s ex- wife’s Samoyed will probably get the part,

mourned Castor.

Oh, that dog that’s called Putin? said Pollux.

It probably understands Russian, so it would have a head start, commented

Castor.  Mr Poskett is bound to choose it over Andy.

Pravda, Brassie said disconsolately, realising that the curtain was about

to descend on their familial spot in the limelight.

Opera In The Park 1

Tags

AlastairCook, Bethlehem, comparethemeerkat.com, Cumberbatch, feather allergy, Gio Compario, Jessye Norman, opera in the park, Oprah Winfrey, Stuart Broad

It was that time of year again, when Suttonford played host to

Cringe Park Opera in the grounds of Incapability Black’s lakeside

gardens.

City types on corporate freebies were booking their hampers and

hamper-toting minions; women who confused Oprah Winfrey with

Jessye Norman and who preferred Sergei from comparethemeerkat.

com to Gio Compario, had had their heels exfoliated at Aquanibble, by

mini-pyranhas, in readiness for stepping out over the lumpy sward in

the latest Coltsfoot ankle-breakers.

Suttonford resembled Bethlehem on the night before Jesus’ birth:

there was no room at the inn and locals had shifted their grannies

into respite care, in order to free up a spare bedroom, for they were

onto a nice little earner in B&B- the householders, I mean.  No wonder

there was local lobbying of their MP regarding opposition to bedroom

tax.

Geoffrey Poskett, choirmaster and Head of Music at St Birinus Middle

School (there was only a single full-time member of staff and he was

the selfsame) was acting as repetiteur in some of the early rehearsals,

until the vocal coach arrived to take the chorus through their language

lessons.

He was dismayed to discover that his white tie and waistcoat had yellowed

over the winter and he was aware that his cummerbund would not fasten

and that he did not give the impression that he was in any way related to

that attractive young actor, Cumberbatch, who, no doubt would have no

difficulty in buttoning up his evening garments.

No, he had had the indignity of being given a severe look by Matron,

before she agreed to insert an elastic panel into the aforementioned

weight redistributor.  Oh, the shame!

Castor and Pollux, the musical twins from Poskett’s school, had been chosen

to represent the juvenile souls of the doomed lovers.  All they had to do was

to remain immobile on stage for twenty minutes, wearing putti wings fabricated

from two old feather boas sourced from Help The Ancient charity shop and

which had been donated by Sonia and Ginevra, the local erstwhile gaiety girls.

Castor had proved allergic to feathers and had experienced dreadful urges to

sneeze during key emotional arias, so Brassica, his mother, had remembered

to bring along his swimming nose plugs for the final rehearsals.

Their musical talents, which were prodigious according to their mother, were

not required in their roles. Their offsprings’ past stage experience sufficed to

gain their parents two coveted tickets to the dress rehearsal, where they sat,

three rows back from the orchestra pit.

Suddenly Brassica spotted Castor’s freelance flugelhorn teacher in the band

and she waved enthusiastically, but he pointedly ignored her, in spite of all the

lessons she had paid for over the years. He couldn’t have been less

acknowledging if she had clapped after the overture and shouted, Bravi!

She thought how unsupportive the school had been in general to this

marvellous opportunity.  Snodbury had very reluctantly given the boys leave to

miss bowling practice after school and had muttered something about Alastair

Cook and Stuart Broad not going in for such poncey activities.  She must

complain about his lack of professionalism.

Higher Bockhampton

Tags

goldcrests, Higher Bockhampton, Puddletown, swallet holes, Thomas Hardy, witches' broom fungus

Do you remember I asked you where you would like to go

for your significant birthday, several years ago? asked Brassica, while

we were sitting in the rear courtyard of Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.

Yes, and I said to Dorset, to see Thomas Hardy’s house and/or cottage,

I replied, wondering where this conversation was headed.

Well, I found that poem that you wrote afterwards and so I thought

you might like to read it again.

Oh, pass it over.  I’d forgotten all about it.

(Well, dear Reader, you might as well read it too!)

HIGHER BOCKHAMPTON

Where bright goldcrests dip over Rushy Pond,

speckled fawns lie, peaceful, in swallet holes,

cushioned on russet-needled floor.  Beyond

lies Puddletown Heath, but here thick beech boles,

sweet chestnut, laurel and hazel copses

shelter grass snakes, which coil in leafy shade,

where Hardy coppiced verse; plot synopses.

Witches’ broom fungus found on some decayed

branches illustrated family trees:

supernatural blight in Paradise,

which brought his fruitless marriage to its knees.

Through opened casements he would watch fireflies,

straining to see some glimmer in the pitch

dark of the cottage garden.  Then he wrote

of class difference between poor and rich;

his real words of complaint choking his throat.

Horological Heartbreak

Tags

bezel, bracket clock, clappers, deadbeat escapement, duplex movements, fecit, fusee, Horology, hunter watch, long case clock, mainspring, Moon Phase clock, orrery, pendulum, raised daggers on clock, Tempus Fugit

It was an orrery day in Suttonford.

Carrie stirred her coffee and griped,

Everything is basically okay between Gyles and myself, but you know…

What? I asked.

Well, our relationship just ticks over…

..hmmm.  But you wouldn’t want to sense alarm bells?

No, I suppose not. I mean, I wouldn’t want a ticking bomb!

Precisely. Maybe even clocks become out of synch with each

other, I mused. They don’t always chime at the same moment. 

Listen, I’ll cheer you up with a poem.

So, I took this one out of my notebook:

A CLOCKWORK AFFAIR

The alarm rang.  I finally awoke.

He who had admired my hourglass figure

could never analyse what made me tick;

was unsympathetic to my moon phase.

(His mood swings were like a pendulum.)

Yet, curiously, he never lost face.

Sometimes he seemed like an automaton.

At other times he would look raised daggers.

yet people seemed to bracket us together.

My best friend thought he was rather striking,

but I felt that he was winding me up-

like when he told me he had a pierced cock.

Although he had an open face, duplex

movements were second nature to him.

Now he’s not the mainspring of my life

any more.  We’d got into a bezel.

Tempus fugit…it had been a long case;

it was time someone regulated things.

My lack of self-esteem was weight-driven.

He was pushing me nearer to the verge.

I was getting Thursday disease all week,

waiting for him to dial, seeking a crutch.

I should have seen that he was the loser.

Inevitably, I lost my fusee.

Mother said a man should be the hunter

and a girl’s best friend would be her jewels,

but I made my own deadbeat escapement.

Ultimately I ran like the clappers

to avoid horological heartbreak.

Now I don’t have Fecit written on me.