Who’s That Girl?

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, countertenor, HB pencil, John Eliot Gardiner, Monteverdi, Panama hat, St Endellion Festival

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School and Nigel-Milford

Haven, Junior Master, had thoroughly enjoyed the Summer Music Workshop

and its final concert in Bath.  They launched themselves into the next section

of their holidays, humming Monterverdi.

It was true that they had shared a score in the concert, a fact not

unobserved by the keen-eyed Drusilla Fotheringay.  Her vision was more

acute than her discernment, however.  She had left the concert with

a misapprehension, after the interval, which, incidentally, has been

thought by some to be the highlight of such entertainments.

Her interpretation of social relationships had been skewed by her minute

observation of the close interaction of the two singers.  In fact, their

perceived intimacy had been owing to Geoffrey’s pencil having been blunt

and therefore his having to borrow Nigel’s obsessively sharpened HB, to

reduce a semibreve by one beat, as firmly instructed.

Nigel had forgotten his score in his haste to get a position on the front row of

the male participants, where there was some jockeying between the tenors

and countertenors as to precedence.

Divas are found in both sexes, he reflected.

And so the two teachers had shared and halved their logistical problems.

Geoffrey’s heart had skipped a beat when he had spotted that very nice

Housemistress from St Vitus’ School for the Academically Gifted Girl in the

audience.  He had been so discomfited that he had whispered an enquiry to

Nigel and had been glared at by the conductor, who, by-the-by, was NOT

John Eliot Gardiner, nor was meant to be.

Geoffrey then forgot to reduce the semibreve, earning himself a raised

eyebrow which was the equivalent of a bad order mark.

What was she doing in Bath?

He was surprised to see Nigel delivering some glasses of over-priced

rose to the Housemistress and her friends at the intermission.

No, surely not!

There was that old duffer, Augustus Snodbury, the Senior Master.  He was the

bane of Geoffrey’s life, as he was prone to correct the spelling on the

Choirmaster’s End of Term reports, quibbling over the orthographical

differences between practice as a noun and practise as a verb.

Snodbury had also made it his peculiar habit to snaffle the last Bourbon biscuit

in the staffroom, when he ought to have known that Geoffrey was especially

fond of them and looked forward to a couple with his coffee at break.

The weird thing was that the Housemistress seemed to share the same jawline

as the reprehensible old…Geoffrey restrained himself at this point.  He would

ask Nigel about her later on in the pub.  (They were permitted to have some

post-concert refreshments in the local hostelry, as they had had to deny

themselves the fruit of the vine for the sake of musical accuracy.)  But they

were expected to be tucked up in their bunks by eleven thirty, as if they were

still at school- which, in a way, they were.

Being institutionalised, they hardly noticed the restriction to their civil liberties.

So, no rioting in the town square for them.

Yes, I seem to have blown it, Nigel said to himself as he drove down to

Cornwall to check on his peevish mother.

Drusilla hadn’t waited for the second half of the programme. Mind you, she may

very well have left something in the oven..  And so he ruminated over the

events.

Maybe he could earn some Brownie points as he had rescued Snod’s rather

flattened Panama hat, which he had left behind at the ill-fated concert.  He

would return it with a flourish.  If its true owner didn’t mind, the abandoned

headgear might come in useful to screen Nigel’s only just noticed balding area

from the intense rays of the Cornish sun.

He hoped his mother would enjoy The St Endellion Festival.  He hoped to meet

up with Geoffrey there in a few days’ time.

Suits You, Sir!

Tags

Celia Imrie, Cheeky Girls, Down By Salley Gardens, Duchess of Cambridge, Fast Show, George Alexander Louis, Harry Enfield, Harry Potter, Imelda Staunton, Jennifer Saunders, Kathleen Ferrier, Lembit Opik, Maggie Smith, Mark Williams, Ron Weasley, Steve Bell, Suits you, The Cheeky Girls

Brassica e-mailed me.  Candia, I really think you should approach Mark

Williams and ask him if he’d play the part of Augustus Snodbury in the

film of your Suttonford Chronicles.

Mark Williams-basketball player?  Welsh Snooker player?  I Googled him

and, oh yes, he played Ron Weasley’s father in the Harry Potter series.

He also represented the butler in Blandings and was in The Fast Show

with Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield.

Actually, I could see what she meant.  Williams was educated at Brasenose

and the role of the pedantic Gus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus

Middle School, would not be a dramatic bridge too far to cross. In fact, I

discovered one of the thespian’s comments from an interview, where he

revealed: If I wasn’t an actor, I’d be a teacher. 

Apparently he had been deeply affected by his English master, in his own

early days.  And he loves the contralto, Kathleen Ferrier, whose crackling

vinyls Snod is sure to play in his grace and favour flat-a favourite being

I Know That My Redeemer Liveth and, in more poignant secular moments:

Down By The Salley Gardens.

However, I don’t think that he would consider himself as ever having

been ‘young and foolish‘- Snod, that is- not Mark Williams.  Let’s not confuse

the two.  Yet.

He loves satire, as in Steve Bell cartoons and so I reckon he would

appreciate my candour and sarcasm. Snod would definitely suit him,

sir.

Actually, Brassie might have prompted a train of thought.  I can see Celia

Imrie as myself and Maggie Smith as Ginevra, the gin drinker

extraordinaire.

Jennifer Saunders would be useful as one of the yummies and

Imelda Staunton could be the cleaner, Mrs Hatch-Warren.

Either, or both of The Cheeky Girls could be useful for the au-pairs,

Magda and Ola.  And, yes, I know that they are Romanian, but anything

of an Eastern European flavour should do, as Lembit Opik once reputedly

said.

Which reminds me- Ola, whose pregnancy followed the Duchess of

Cambridge’s, or MC, as she is now called by her own Royal family,

has now sprogged, or frogged, her firstborn with the encouragement

of her French widower, whom she met on the last occasion of

Suttonford’s twinning exchange with Bric-a-Brac (Normandy).

The conjugal jumelage has resulted in a little dauphin called

Georges Alexandre Louis and Ginevra, her erstwhile employer-

cum- patient has already wetted its little head in her usual fashion.

Brassie, you are an inspiration and I owe you a latte in

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe very soon!

Any suggestions for Nigel Milford-haven?

Just Good Friends

Tags

Acis and Galatea, Beatus Vir, Fourth Book of Madrigals, Full Monteverdi, I Fagiolini, Iford Manor, John La Bouchardière, Lower Wraxall, Monteverdi, Panama hat, Peto Gardens, The Full Monty, The Longs Arms

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ School, near Suttonford,

shuffled his fundament in the uncomfortable chairs of the music school

concert.  Actually there was nothing unergonomic about the seating; he had

regrettably sat down on his Panama hat.

Monteverdi wasn’t really his milieu, but Drusilla, his daughter, had been

very keen to attend the Saturday night, end-of-course, culminatory

celebration of this weekly workshop, ever since she had discovered the

crumpled flyer in her handbag.  You will recall, Dear Reader, that Nigel

Milford-haven had given it to her when he had assisted with her luggage,

when they had left the school grounds at the end of term.

Gus’ surprise visit to the mother of his child had been a sudden whim of

Drusilla’s and, over all, the shock hadn’t killed Diana.  She had arranged a

mattress on the floor in her spare room and the disastrous previous

planned reconciliation in Lower Wraxall had been largely forgotten.  In fact,

Snod had treated both females to some rather tasty lunches in The Longs

Arms, in recompence for hospitality received.  They had enjoyed visiting the

Peto gardens at Iford Manor, but Snod’s holiday budget did not run to three

al fresco tickets for Acis and Galatea at £81 a throw.  Anyway, Diana would

have been more interested in a musical on aphids, followed by a cup of tea.

At the interval, a somewhat refreshed-looking Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior

Master, bounced up to the party of three and asked if they had enjoyed the

Beatus Vir. 

His tutelary cobwebs had been blown away in the rehearsals throughout the

week and he had forged a deeper association with Geoffrey Poskett, the school

choirmaster,who had picked up some very useful tips on conducting during the

workshops.

Nigel was so glad that Geoffrey had invited him to take part.  It prevented

him from having to devote too much of his precious school holidays to visiting

his elderly and rather demanding mother in Cornwall.

Nigel was keen to impress Drusilla, so he solicitously brought her a rather

dispiriting glass of unchilled rose and left her mother to the ministrations

of her erstwhile lover.

You are going to adore the second half of the evening, he enthused.  We

have managed to erect-he blushed slightly and flushed a slightly darker

tone than the wine he had just produced –a screen.  We can show part of The

Full Monteverdi film by John La Bouchardiere.

Oh, Drusilla brightened.  Is that the jolly one where the hunky guys strip off?

Eh, no.. I think you are confusing it with a rather more downmarket

production.

He could read her disappointment.  No, it is based on the Fourth Book of

Madrigals.  It is sung by I Fagiolini..

I might have known, thought Dru. He seems over-friendly with that Geoffrey

chap.  She had spotted them sharing a score.  Her Italian wasn’t up to much,

but she could hazard an educated guess as to the meaning of the group’s title

and she didn’t think it had anything to do with beef olives, or a type of haricot.

Each singer is paired with an actor, Nigel explained, and the film reveals their

intense failing relationships.  At the end, all they can do is to contemplate

their lonely lives. He felt that the entire teaching profession would be able to

relate to this juxtaposition of high art and real life.

A pity, decided Drusilla.  He isn’t too bad-looking.  It’s always the same.

Excuse me, she said, handing Nigel the empty glass. I must find my mother.  I

think we may have left something in the oven.

It was one of the least creative excuses he had heard and, believe me, he

had heard quite a few over the years-mostly over non-produced prep.  He took

it that his own non-existent love life was set to continue.

Can I take that glass for you? Suddenly Poskett was at his side.  The film is

about to start.

The three empty chairs-empty except for a battered Panama- hinted at a

failed courtship ritual.  The singers began to weave the mournful agonies of

their complicated webs of interaction.

 

You’ll Have Had Your Tea!

Tags

44 Scotland Street, Abbotsinch, Alexander McCall Smith, Auld Reekie, Chris Hoy, creme de la creme, Gardez Loo!, Glasgow airport, Kelvinside, Miss Cranston's, Miss Jean Brodie, Morningside, Muriel Spark, Mussolini, Royal baby, Sauchiehall Street, Valvona and Crolla, Willow Tea Rooms

Chlamydia and I were back at our favourite haunt, the

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe in High Street,

Suttonford.  It seemed a million miles away from genteel Edinburgh

and the trendy Valvona and Crolla Vincaffe in the New Town.  Still, the

topic of conversation might have been identical: both sets of clientele

commenting on the amazing precocity of the new, Royal and (as yet)

nameless babe, who managed to wave endearingly from the woolly depths

of his swaddling.

THE NAMELESS ONE: Lang may its lum reek!

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

“SANDY”

Alexander McCall Smith may have made a fortune from weaving the foibles

and fancies of the inhabitants of 44 Scotland Street into a fictional web, but

I, Candia Dixon Stuart, am seeking a publisher for my observations on the

activities and lifestyle choices of Suttonford’s fairest inhabitants.

Yes, as I told Clammie, Edinburgh folks are generally well-mannered, and,

even the homeless bow their heads discreetly while begging on the streets.

I observed a grubby, long-bearded man who was carrying a 4xlitre carton of

semi-skimmed- for it had been purchased in health-conscious Auld Reekie.

Around 2:30pm, the aforesaid stopped in front of his acquaintance, the beggar

with his bull terrier, and frankly expostulated:

I would have thought you’d have retired for the day by now.

Clearly he was concerned that his friend had not had his tea.

But, as I explained to Clammie, I had also

visited Central Scotland’s other city.

How different is the patois of the Glaswegian!  On landing at Abbotsinch, or

Glasgow airport to the less au fait, even as we were instructed that it was only

now permissible to unfasten our seatbelts, enthusiastic locals were leaping up

to open the overhead lockers, in readiness for a speedy disembarkation which

would have impressed Chris Hoy.

I must have looked a little schoolmarmish, as the man who had been snoring

next to me for the duration, leapt up to reclaim his hand luggage, without any

apparent sign of chivalrous altruism.  But, judge not that ye be not judged; he

immediately looked down with Christian neighbourliness and regaled me with

this attentive interrogative:

Is that your hat ‘n that?

Aye, one has to look not on the outward appearance, but on the heart and,

rough quartzy Cairngorms though they have at their core, Kelvinside kindred

are just as likely, or perhaps more likely than the Morningside matrons, to

ensure that one will have had one’s refreshments, even if time is pressing

and there isn’t really time to linger:

You’ll surely take a wee moothfie a’ tea in your haun?

How disinhibited compared to the rather reserved partakers of creme de la

creme in the South’s Costamuchamoulah.  They probably think that Mussolini

is a shellfish starter and Gardez Loo! is a jardinage WC servicing the children’s

tree house and the gazebo.

Ah, Miss Cranston’s Tea Rooms it isnae. Suttonford High Street will

never aspire to the drama of Sauchiehall Street and the Willow Tea

Rooms.

As one looks around, Muriel Sparks’ words come to mind:

Ah well, ..I often wonder if we [are] all characters in one of God’s dreams.

Conflict at Craiglockhart

Tags

Antaeus, Colinton, Craiglockhart, Edinburgh Napier University, hydra, Overtoun House, Pat Barker, Regeneration, Robert Graves, Salisbury Crags, Sassoon, Siegfried Sassoon, trench foot, war poetry, Wilfred Owen, Ypres

So, you are off up north, Candia, for a couple of days?  Brassica looked

curious.  We were sipping cold drinks in Costamuchamoulah’s courtyard,

as it was such pleasant weather.

Yes, Carrie wanted me to go and see her relations in Glasgow, but it is

always hectic when you are only there for a few days.

So, what will you do?

Scout around Edinburgh, probably.  There is plenty to research. Last time I

went into Napier University, as I discovered that it was the original hospital of

Craiglockhart, where Wilfred Owen and Sassoon were rehabilitated. In the film

of Pat Barker’s novel, ‘Regeneration’, they made Overtoun House near

Dumbarton the setting instead. That interested me as I was born in that

house- in the Angel Ward- naturally.  It was a maternity hospital in the

1950s. 

I suppose it was giving life, whereas Craiglockhart was dealing with those

whose lives had been taken from them in many ways.

Wow!  Brassica was genuinely interested.  We had  been to see the film

together. Yes, it was spine-tingling to have access to the archives.  When I

signed in, the name previous to mine on the signature list was Pat Barker’s

herself! I expect she was researching Captain Rivers’ work with the

shell-shocked and traumatised.

So, this visit had an impact on you, Candia?

Yes, I will send you a poem that I wrote about it and you can share it with my

readers.  It will keep everyone interested till I return and let everyone know

what happened to Augustus Snodbury!

Note from Brassica: here is Candia’s poem:

CONFLICT AT CRAIGLOCKHART

Gales bombard barred windows.  Down the line,

Ypres to Frise, they ask why I am warm,

wrapped in best British buff while they chitter

with Christ in no-man’s land. Blunt bayonets

are rusted by His tears, which trickle down,

augmenting quagmires. Celestial spires

could be seen from Salisbury Crags today:

Holyrood nimbused in a golden haar.

Over Colinton meteor showers

blaze like shells, or comets auguring death.

Soldiers have to learn to live with their dreams,

as do poets, who paeon ploughshares.

Now pale spirits make their way to my bed

past padded cells of wretches who inhale

corpse stenches, retching with no catharsis

in this decayed hydro, with trench fever.

I can’t subdue hydras any more.

Like Antaeus, I am strong just as long

as I keep my feet solidly entrenched.

It is time to return to my platoon

before my name is mud; my verse bare bones,

putrefying in Graves’ pre-planned rut,

with stammerers, neurotics with trench foot,

gangrened privates, nervous tics, the mute.

Now it is time to go over the top:

not a moment too soon, Siegfried Sassoon.

Sekentei (-of you all!)

Tags

amae, Djokovic, Hikikomori, Ibasho, Neet, Roundhead, sekentei, street art, Walker Art Gallery, Yarn bombing

Gisela Boothroyd-Smythe was becoming desperate.  It was only the first week

of the holidays and she had been unable to persuade her pre-pubescent son,

John, to get up in the morning.  She had called through the door of his

bedroom: Don’t be so monosyllabic!  She had just about heard the reply:

Wot? 

Today she had heard nothing and was becoming concerned.

She had come across an article which stated that a million young people-

and some not so young- remained holed up in their bedrooms, sometimes

for decades at a time.  They slept by day and stayed up all night, in a

withdrawn state known as HIKIKOMORI.

Gisela was afraid that John might be lapsing into such a condition.  She

checked the article again.  It commented that the youngsters often

exhibited infantile behaviour and could have violent outbursts.  But, as

the French would say, for teenagers: C’est normal! 

Was she worrying inordinately?

The Japanese feared loss of face, she’d read.  Maybe if the children didn’t

do well in their exams, they and their parents, would experience SEKENTEI.

This might lead to AMAE, a kind of extreme dependence.  In bad cases,

sufferers would have to be re-introduced to society through a halfway house,

or IBASHO.  But when she had tried to discuss her worries with her soon-to-

be ex-husband, he had only scoffed:  I’m already sekentei of you and the

children.  Why do you think I left?

She hadn’t known that he took an interest in global culture.

It would be all too easy to become an over-pushy parent, like so many others

who sent their offspring to St Birinus’.  It was just that she didn’t want John to

end up a NEET-(Not in Education, Training or Employment.)

It was so difficult as a virtually single parent and she was trying to be both

mother and father to her children, during the divorce period.  They, of course,

were running rings round them both.

She returned to the article.  Goodness, in Japan some parents approached an

agency which sent round hired, not assassins exactly, but strong persuaders,

who basically broke down the doors and hauled the hermits out, gave them a

severe dressing down and then took them away to a dormitory.

Well, she had already done something similar by sending him to boarding

school. But what was she to do in the holidays?

Maybe she should phone the mother of those twin boys who were in John’s

class- the ones with the ridiculously over-pretentious names.  They seemed

quite nice and couldn’t help their parents’ labelling choices.  A rose by any

other name would smell as sweet.

But they might not want to come round as John often teased his peers.  This

verb was a euphemism and she knew it.

Just at that moment, with Gisela’s hand hovering over her mobile, her daughter,

Juniper sauntered into the kitchen, opened the fridge door and proceeded to

drink pure orange juice straight from the carton.

Gisela refrained from expressing her outrage and casually asked: When did

you last see John?  She felt a role reversal, as if she was a blue satin-suited,

ringleted child being asked by a committee of Roundheads for information as

to the whereabouts of his Cavalier father.  Wasn’t there a famous painting

of this subject?  Her mind began to wander through Art History.  Wasn’t it in

The Walker Art Gallery?

Ha!  I was wondering when you would notice that little darling was missing,

sneered the evil Juniper.  I yarn-bombed his door handle and connected it to

his window catch, so he can’t get out of his room.  I’m writing it up for my

Street Art Project and it can go into my portfolio for A2.  I’m calling it

‘Prisoners For Art.’

Mum! groaned a shaky voice from behind the door.  Let me out!  I’m hungry!

Clearly he had finished all the food stashes under his bed.

Juniper!  You’re grounded!

But Juniper was already halfway down the street, having performed a Djokovic

slide on the kitchen tiles which continued down the laminated hallway, until she

laughed and ran out of the front door.

Quiz Night

Tags

Boris Becker, Boris Johnson, Cluedo, denunciation box, Ghostbusters, Liberace, Lloyds TSB, Michael Douglas, Perpetual Victim, quiz night, Wilderstein

The Running Sore, only one of Suttonford’s watering holes, once-favoured by

the droving community, had been refurbished by its dyslexic landlord.  He had

decided to leave the pub sign as it was, in spite of many townspeople pointing

out the orthographical inaccuracy, or its similarity to Lloyd’s bank logo.

But how to draw in the hard-pressed-for-choice revellers?  He was in

competition with The Ostlery and The Bugle, both with their particular themed

atmospheres, aimed at certain clientele.

Ah, he thought, as he read the latest news about Edinburgh being the

new location for an updated version of the popular board game,

‘Cluedo’,  I will arrange teams who can play a Suttonford version on our

quiz night. There can be a prize for the team who is first to detect the

identity of the Perpetual Victim.  Most people round here will be only

too quick to spot one, especially if they look in the mirror.

The game’s weaponry could be retained, except that the candlestick

would be upgraded to a candelabra, if the Liberace film hadn’t rendered

that item too lowbrow, by connotation with Michael Douglas.

Hmm, let me see, he cottagated, or was that cogitated?  I will need to supply

six new characters.  I could base them on regulars: what about Miss Melinda

D’Oyly Carter, the popular masseuse;  Colonel Grump; ‘Lady’ Dyson, the

cleaner who loves frequenting the broom cupboards of householders to

consort , or besport, with butlers who resemble Borises Becker or Johnson;

the Rev Anna Baptiste: an heretical woman vicar- at least unorthodox in

the generally conservative ranks of Suttonford worshippers;

Mrs Everso-Peabrain, an easily recognisable ‘type’ whose cut glass

pronouncements often reverberate off the stuccoed walls of houses in

High Street (a lady who lunches as she goes about everyone else’s business.)

Finally, Sir Solly Senokat, retired military surgeon, whose third wife looks as if

she has gone under the scalpel nearly as often as a Wilderstein.

He would relocate the mansion to Royalist House, owned by Sonia, the town’s

medium.  Then he could alter the apartments to boot room, minstrels’ gallery,

tack room, barrel-vaulted gin cellar and so on.

If anyone in the town had better suggestions, then they could post them

anonymously in the denunciation box which he would fix to the outside wall

of the pub.

He couldn’t wait to witness someone accusing Melinda of homicide inflicted by

a candelabra. Or anaphylactic shock provoked by maribou allergy!

More usually it was the Suttonford Wives who expressed such

murderous thoughts towards the hard-working physio and they expressed

these premeditated malice aforethoughts in Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe on a fairly regular basis.  They weren’t postulating Death By Chocolate

for their bete noire, though the lady herself favoured that particular mode of

asphyxiation, it must be said.

And what would the prize for the winning team be?

Ah yes!  An overnight stay in Sonia’s haunted attic with a boastgutser, namely

himself, with Sonia’s merpission.  All lucre accrued could be donated to the

town’s favourite charity: Anacondas in Sad Verity!

With his creative character assassination, he only hoped that he would

not be found bludgeoned by the rival establishment’s hit men and floating

on Golden-Or-Otherwise Suttonford Pond, not waving, but drowning.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery

Tags

Bianca Bosker, Bianca Jagger, copycat culture, duplitecture, Eiffel tower replica, Hallstatt, Hamlet, Izaak Walton, J S Mill, London Bridge, Long Beach, pushpin, Queen Mary, Terracotta Army, Thames Town, Tony Mackay, white peony tea, Zaha Hadid

Brassica and I were catching up and I said that I’d have a cup of White

Peony and Rose tea for a change.  It can be irritating when someone else

jumps on your raft of choices.  Yes, Brassie thought that she’d like the same,

please. This drew us into a conversation about copycat culture and whether

it was a compliment or an irritation, not to say, theft, to adopt someone else’s

mores.

Apparently, in China there are replica Cotswold villages, a Thames town

with half-timbered houses, cobbles and olde worlde pubs.  In other regions

there are counterfeit Eiffel towers and Tower Bridges.

Hah! I scoffed.  They even have a Stonehenge and a Hallstatt. Mind you,

the Americans have our Queen Mary at Long Beach and didn’t someone

transport the original London Bridge to Arizona and rebuild it over the

Colorado River in 1971?

Oh yeah, Brassica said.  I don’t think she’d heard of Hallstatt, so she

by-passed that topic.  I read about an architect called Tony Mackay who

criticises the pastiche effect, where the wrong building materials are used and

they get proportions wrong, creating a film set rather than authentic

buildings.

There’s a book called Original Copies, or something like that, I added, having

read the BBC News reports online the day before.  I think the author is Bianca..

Jagger? interrupted Brassie-Know-It-All.

No, I gave her a withering look.  Bosker.  She postulates- I deliberately used a

long word here to deter any further interruptions- that the Chinese regard

imitation as the sincerest form of flattery.  It is their original concept of

takeaway.

Well, who’s to say which is superior: pushpin or poetry?  Brassie was showing

off her ancient residual knowledge of JS Mill from her degree, many Chinese

lanterns ago.  It was hardly likely to ignite a conversational conflagration and

anyway, nobody ever knows what pushpin is and it’s a bore having to explain,

like trying to clarify why a joke is funny, or not.

But they do like innovation too, don’t they?

Brassie was determined to score one over me. ( Advantage.)

Zaha Hadid is a British architect, isn’t she?  Brassie looked triumphant and

somewhat flushed.  It wasn’t the tea. 

British-Iraqi, I countered.  Advantage Dixon-Stuart.

Isn’t she designing some ultra- modern project in Beijing which is meant to

look like three fish-like forms emerging from a stream?

Hey! I squealed.  I’ve just had an idea!  Why don’t we get the Town Council to

invite some Chinese VIPs over here to see if they’d like to buy Suttonford,

lock, stock and barrel.  We have half-timbered cottages and period houses and

original characters.  Or, they might build us in duplitecture.  I’m sure they’d

love Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe and A La Mode.

You mean Suttonford with a Chinese skin?  Brassie’s eyes were wide.

Actually, then we could ask Zahid to design some fish buildings for us.  After

all, we have the trout and the chalk streams, so they would fit in well with

our environment.  We could offset the cost by selling off the Suttonford

Kebab van, complete with its fairy lights and noisy generator…We could pull

in more tourists with an Izaak Walton custom-built museum to fishing flies

and all things piscatorial.

And we could have a Terracotta Army on the roundabout, gushed Brassie.

No, that would be naff, I cautioned her.  After all, I am the arbiter of taste

around here.

So should we attend the next Council Open Meeting?  Brassie asked

circumspectly.

Possibly.  But don’t say anything to anyone meanwhile.  We don’t want anyone

copying our ideas.  Hmm… I don’t know what to cook tonight.  Oh, I

know-we’ll just have a Chinese, though it’s nothing like the real thing.

Oh, we can do that too, said Brassie.  Cosmo and the boys like one once

in a while.

Why, oh why does she not get her own ideas!  If I change it to an Indian,

she’ll follow my choice.  I suppose it is a compliment, but if I said nay, it’s

very like a cloud then she’d agree and then if I changed it to but very like a

camel, she’d be right behind me.  Irritating!  I’m with Hamlet on this one:

get your own ideas and stop jumping on my band waggon, whether you are

Chinese, Danish, or home-grown.

 

Surprised By Joy

Tags

agape, Bradford on Avon, C S Lewis, centaur, Cubist painting, Evac chair, Galahad, Inkling, James May, Jeremy Clarkson, jousting, Lancelot, Lothario, Monteverdi, Mr Tumnus, petrol head, Stannah stairlift, Surprised By Joy, The Four Loves, Thora Hird, Top Gear

Nigel Milford-Haven was rushing down the stairs which led to the school

vestibule when he almost bumped into Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master,

who was struggling with two suitcases on the landing.  Nigel was just about

to volunteer to sherpa at least one of them, since Old Snod seemed to be

moving in a curiously painful fashion, but then the erstwhile boy scout noticed

the damsel in distress and offered to take her arm and hold her crutch while

she zoomed down the flight on one of those institutional Evac chairs, like a

marginally more attractive Thora Hird going in the opposite direction to her

usual demonstration of a Stannah Stairlift.

He thankfully failed to observe Augustus’ clutching of his own bruised

and battered crotch as he descended the stairwell like a Cubist painting

in motion.

You know, I think we’ve met, the Junior Master said thoughtfully when he

reached the bottom and unstrapped Dru from the safety belt, in a curiously

intimate gesture of assistance.

Yes, it was at the joint schools’ evensong, Drusilla replied, holding onto

the polished banister with both hands, now that they were free. I teach

at St Vitus’.

Mr Milford-Haven, my daughter, Drusilla.

Nigel nearly lost his footing on the last step.  Daughter!  He hadn’t known

that Snod was a married man.  Oh, maybe he wasn’t!  Nigel knew that he,

himself, was rather conventional when it came to that sort of thing.  But who

would have guessed that Old Snod had hidden fires.  Maybe he was a

widower?

Nigel had always viewed Gus as a kind of non-Christian Inkling, if that wasn’t

an oxymoron.  He would ask Matron, Fount of All Information, if she had any

inkling about it. (He was rather pleased with that joke.)

Hmm, Snod as Lothario! Mind you, he was a law unto himself. He had been

known to skip Assembly and Hymn Practices when the Spirit did not move him,

so any level of debauchery was theoretically possible.

Now that he was able to glimpse the woman, she did bear a resemblance

around the jawline.  Did women have jowls?  Would it have mattered to C S

Lewis if they did?  He would probably have still married anyone who needed

a British passport, out of sheer agape.

But it was one of the stronger Four Loves than agape that struck the youthful

form teacher.  He felt Surprised By Joy.

Enchante, he said in his best Franglais. You do seem to have been in the

wars somewhat. I trust that the injury is not too severe?  He shook her hand

vigorously, forgetting that her equilibrium was not yet steady.

He glanced at Snod, but decided to say nothing about the old boy’s

wounded expression.

Let me carry your cases out to your car, sir, he offered in his new-found role

as Sir Galahad.  You look as if someone has kicked you in the..

Yes, all right, Milford-Haven, Snod interrupted, nodding towards Dru, to remind

Nigel that he was in the presence of a female.  Sir Galahad and Lancelot

would not have been employing such non-courtly language, so Snod wasn’t

about to award his daughter as jousting prize to a Knight with No Garter of

Gentilesse.

Having safely stowed Snod behind his own steering-wheel, like Polonius behind

an arras, Nigel carefully took Dru’s crutches from her and placed them in the

boot.

Going anywhere nice then? he enquired, according to the textbook of chat-up

lines.

We are going to my mother’s house in Bradford-upon-Avon, she volunteered.

It’s to be a nice surprise.

Well, that is a surprise indeed, said Nigel, who was completely on the ball

now that the term was over.  You see, I’m going to Bath with Mr Poskett,

the choirmaster, to take part in a Monteverdi workshop for countertenors.

Perhaps you could all come to the final concert on the Saturday?  He felt in

his pocket and took out a crumpled flyer.

Drusilla accepted it and couldn’t help thinking that her father should join

the class as his voice had been elevated by a couple of octaves after the

attack on his crown jewels.  However, she suppressed this amusing thought.

Can’t say it’s my cup of tea, said Gus, winding down the car window and

signalling his eagerness to depart.

Having helped Dru to swivel her fairly attractive legs into the small car, Nigel

mimed a telephone call as Gus reversed.

Call me, he shouted enthusiastically.  The number of the music school is on

the back of the leaflet.

He leapt out of reach of a spray of gravel as Snod pretended to be James May,

or Jeremy Clarkson.  He was showing off to his daughter, who actually

detested Top Gear and all it stood for.  She preferred centaurs to petrol

heads.

I’m surprised that he’s lasted more than a term here, said Snod, a shade

ungraciously, given the logistical assistance that they had just been given.

But Dru had always found the counter tenor voice very alluring.

What is he called? she asked airily.  I didn’t catch his name.

Secretly he reminded her of Mr Tumnus.  Bless!