Travels To Their Aunt 1

Tags

Alastair Sim, Grade 8 music exam, Graham Greene, Grayson Perry, Lemon Drizzle cake, Macduff, Marisa Robles, Maxime de Paris, Narnia, Snodland, The Importance of Being Earnest, Wilde

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk had dispensed with the second part of her

double-barrelled surname, since discovering that Syylk was not her

biological father.  She was whole-heartedly embracing a new relationship

with her real pater, Mr Augustus Snodbury.  Teaching was clearly in her

genes.

Her mother, Diana, was attempting to clear out her spare room, in order to

create more room for her computer and printer and so she had the inspired

idea of arranging for Drusilla’s harp, on which she had gained Grade 8 once

upon a time, to be transported to St Vitus’ Boarding House, where her

daughter just might take up her musical passion once more.

Diana came across a box file of cuttings and she had to blink back a tear

as she read the faded headline in the local newspaper: Fingers of an Angel-

pluck-y pupil pulls all the heartstrings at local festival.  And there was the

young Drusilla receiving her certificate of commendation from no other than

the famous harpist, Marisa Robles, who had actually played the theme tune

to Narnia on Dru’s instrument.

While her mother valiantly made progress, Dru and her father were heading

towards Kent, to a nursing home in Snodland, to be precise, where Aunt

Augusta, or Great-Aunt Augusta was counting out her days in Premium Bonds.

She has checked herself into a hydro hotel in the first years of her widowhood,

but hadn’t been too keen on taking water in any form, so had decamped to a

gracious mansion with care staff.

Dru was curious to meet this relative after whom her father derived his

forename. She wondered if she would be anything like the Aunt Augusta

in Wilde’s play, or Graham Greene’s novel.  She studied the black and

white photograph of this newly- to-be-introduced relative which Gus had

produced and she could clearly see the family jowls.  In fact, she thought

that  Augusta looked incredibly like Claire, Grayson Perry’s alter-ego.  She

would have made an incredible headmistress, in Dru’s opinion- somewhat

in the style of Alastair Sim, in drag.

Gus explained that she had been richly left, as Portia had been, but although

the well-endowed widow had helpfully paid for his school fees, thus creating

obligation- there was no such thing as a free uniform-his parents had come

under a degree of emotional blackmail over the years. Indeed, she continued

to exert control even now, as she was always threatening to cut him out of

her will, if he did not visit every half term.

Gus had written his aged relative a letter to explain Drusilla and to express

her wish to meet her great-aunt.  He didn’t want to give Augusta a heart

attack. Or did he?  No, he really didn’t.  Not really.

Dru had furnished herself with a box of Maxime de Paris choccies and a bottle

of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.  She thought the authorities

might just let the old lady have a nip or two at aperitif time.  The proprietor of

Pop My Cork! , the Suttonford wine merchant, had assured her- most

unprofessionally thought Dru-, that a female nonagenarian neighbour in High

Street adored the tipple and practically derived her entire nutritional input from

the potent brew and small, but regular, helpings of Lemon Drizzle cake.

Here we are, sighed Gus, putting on the handbrake and girding up his loins.

Oh, is this it?  It’s very grand, isn’t it?

Dru refreshed her nude lip salve and powdered her nose.  She wanted to

make a good impression.

Right! Lead on, Macduff! she said.

Lay on , Drusilla.  Don’t they teach anything correctly any more?

She hoped this wouldn’t be a bad omen.  She so wanted to get it right.

The importance of being earnest and all that..

But unfortunately she had left the bottle in the boot.

Copper-Bottomed Coffee Pot!

Tags

Birinus, copper-bottomed coffee pot, Delia, diaphragm support, low self-esteem, Martin Luther, Mary Berry, parable of wedding guests, St Jude, St Nicolas

Half-term was supposed to be relaxing, but it wasn’t for Nigel-Milford-Haven,

Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School.  He was firmly under the iron rod of

his mother, who had compelled him to complete his decoration of her Cornish

bungalow’s bathroom, with the force of the estate manager in the parable

who issued the wedding invitations that couldn’t be refused, on pain of

damnation.   Even then, those invited could and did make excuses, but this

was not a viable option for Nigel, as Judgement would have begun there and

then and the mouth of Hell would have opened on the telephone.

Nigel felt like adopting as his patron St Jude, he who supports Lost Causes,

but he could not serve two masters: he was a committed devotee of a

different saint at the moment and he could only serve one master and one

mistress at this particular time.  He had prayed to be excused, but Jude had

only confirmed that he should bend to the will of She Who Must Be Obeyed. 

Even St Birinus had been a bit of a dead loss in his experience over the term.

Nigel supposed that he ought to have been grateful to the aforementioned

one for, at least, granting him a job, but sometimes he considered it a

poisoned chalice.

As he rollered the ceiling he practised his rapid-fire delivery of consonants, to

gain fluency for his Christmas concert eponymous role in Britten’s St Nicolas.

Copper-bottomed coffee pot, he pronounced over and over again.

Copper-fottomed botty-pot!  No..

Nigel!  What are you blethering on about?

Nothing, mum.  Copper-pottomed boffy-cot!

There’s your tea.  I thought you’d have been finished by now.

Damned with no praise.  Not even the faint variety.  Nothing changed

over the years.  No wonder he had a tendency to low self-esteem, which

the boys picked up on all too easily.

He supposed it had left him with a legacy akin to humility which might help

him in the convincing portrayal of a saint.  But he bet that Nicolas had never

been so sorely tried and that he had never been cajoled into painting his

mother’s ceiling, to her exacting standard, in his well-earned school holidays.

Frankly, he thought that it had been nothing short of miraculous that he had

not tipped the paint pot over her head.  He could have explained the action

away with a reference to Martin Luther’s casting of an ink pot at a demon’s

head. Perhaps.  As it was , he was practically served up a diet of worms,

the maternal cuisine not being up to the divine Delia or the meretricious

Mary Berry.  Oh, for the canteen of St Birinus!

Only three days left and he still hadn’t conquered that tendency to go flat on a

downward phrase.  Geoffrey Poskett had kept raising his finger at him in

rehearsal, which Nigel had, at first, thought was a crude signal that something

was amiss, but which was later explained to him was the time-honoured gesture

to indicate that more diaphragm support was needed.

If only he had retained Snod’s old Panama to keep the spatters off his face,

but he despaired of ever keeping his mother out of his hair!

Ode to Autumn

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designer stubble, elderberries, home-brew, housing bubble, John Keats, lama, light box, llama, Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness, Ode to Autumn, poppy opiates, Seasonal Affective Disorder, silk pyjamas, St Crispin's Day, stalactites, Wolford tights

St Crispin’s Day, sighed Brassie, my close-bosom friend.

The nights are drawing in. This weekend we change the clocks,

don’t we?  Which way?

Fall back; Spring forward, I reminded her.

(She can never remember in which direction to adjust her timekeepers.)

Think about it like this: tights down. Tights, as in stalactites.  My teacher said

they hung down.  But people are hanged. She also recited: One ‘l’ lama he’s a

priest; two ‘l’ llama he’s a priest, but you can bet your silk pyjama, there isn’t

any three ‘l’ lllama.

Why should tights hang down?  Wolford ones don’t. And shouldn’t it have

been ‘pyjamas’? remarked Brassie.  Anyway, what are you

talking about?

Just deliberating on my life and how it has fallen into the sere..

You sound a bit depressed, she stated bluntly.

I can’t help the pathetic fallacy of the season.  Keats was too upbeat in my

opinion.

I wouldn’t exactly have called him a glass half full kind of guy, objected

Brassie.

Suppose he had written about Autumn thus, I volunteered, pushing a

sheet of A4 in her direction.

THE FALL

Season of fogs, mouldy putrefaction,

enemy of the geriatric sun,

bringing depression, dissatisfaction,

blasting the mildewed fruit trees, one by one;

tainting blackberries with lead pollution,

eroding limestone buildings as the air

saturates with sulphuric solution.

Emissions from cars, whose owners don’t care

make children’s lungs bloat as they breathe exhaust

fumes more deadly than poppy opiates:

an inspiration of enormous cost-

harvest to be garnered at future dates.

Who has not seen them oft amid their stores,

stockpiling for Christmas, demented folk?

Those raking rotting leaves: of garden chores

the most thankless.  Resulting bonfire smoke

irritating neighbours, whose dank washing

is ash-specked.  Home-brew enthusiasts start

ineffectual sterilising, squashing

of elderberries….It’s then their wives depart

for evenings out, to let men watch the ooze;

they do lotteries with syndicate friends,

hoping for windfalls; drinking decent booze.

Who hears the songs of Spring?  It all depends

to what you are attuned.  If you have kids,

you’ll hear the first whine of the Christmas list,

as children’s advertising makes its bids-

o’erwhelming, so no parent can resist

its importunities.  The dismal rain

fills gutters blocked by aforementioned leaves,

which de-rail, or delay the British train,

which sceptical commuter scarce believes.

Cold, full-grown lambs may bleat from hilly bourn,

outwith the fold, or a housing bubble.

Reaped fields disappear; crops, livestock we mourn.

Winnowing is gone- designer stubble

the only razing we can recognise.

Clearly Men and Nature are out of synch.

Seasonal disorders rise.

If Keats were here, whatever would he think?

I think that is SAD, said Brassie.

Sad?

Yes, the product of Seasonal Affective Disorder.  Go and get a light

box!

Very helpful.  If the Romantics had been persuaded to get a light box,

we wouldn’t have had all that marvellous poetry.

Interesting subject for a dissertation.

Well, why don’t you write it, instead of all that drivel?

Because we might not be amused. How much are light boxes, anyway?

A Pet What?

Tags

Arms and the Man, Bourbon biscuit, Britten, BUPA, Ceremony of Carols, Discovery Centre, electric bell, flu jab, Garibaldi biscuit, George Bernard Shaw, Ken Livingstone, nocturnal emission, Petkoff, proleptic allusion, prostate, Strictly, Tupperware, Type 2 diabetes, urologist, Viennese Whirls, Vince Cable, Well Man Clinic

Two weeks for half term this year!

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School, could hardly

believe his good fortune.  He had actually managed to stagger on and had

avoided becoming a stretcher case, even though he had received his flu jab

mid-session, which left him somewhat debilitated for a couple of days.

The Parents’ Open Evening had almost finished him off.  He had been

stationed in the Library, now designated The Discovery Centre,

but had hoped that no one would ferret him out from his hiding place.

He was supposed to showcase its latest technology to prospective

‘clients’, but such a role reminded him of the Major in Arms and the Man,

who kept boasting to all and sundry of his latest piece of technical kit for

the reading room, namely an electric bell.

A divorced father wandered in, but he made a very hasty departure,

as he thought that Snod had given him his marching orders. In fact, the

prematurely-aged one had just been repeating the ostentatious Shavian

character’s name- Petkoff!- in order to share ironic references to  buzz

furnishing accessories for educational spaces.  However, Snod was finding

out that fewer and fewer people shared his cultural references and,

consequently, his jokes were misconstrued, as we shall see later on in this

post.

(That’s a proleptic allusion, by the way.  But I digress.)

Snod may have lost the school some ‘business’, I fear.

While the elusive Master hid behind the bookshelves, he consulted

a Medical Dictionary.

At The Well Man Clinic, which Diana had urged him to attend, he had been

surprised to learn that he was close to the margin for being diagnosed with

Type 2 Diabetes.  However, he had been advised that he could hold back the

waves, unlike Canute, if he reduced his sugar intake.  Worth a try.

Geoffrey Poskett, Head of Music, had been stunned earlier in the day, by

Gus having eschewed, rather than chewed, the last biscuit at break.  He had

held out the Tupperware box to Poskett and waved the Bourbon, usually his

favourite mid-morning nibble, under the puzzled choirmaster’s nose.

You have it, he had said, graciously.

Geoffrey sat down and dunked the dark brown chocolaty finger into his

coffee while he waved his left hand in time to a beat that only he could hear.

Gus screwed up his nose.  Dunking! This was a practice which he considered

to be anaethema– yea, beyond the pale.  If he could have predicted the

biscuit’s fate, then he would have offered it to Nigel Milford-Haven, whose

eyes had followed its trajectory and milky disintegration.

Nigel had not bothered to open the cupboard in the staff kitchen, as he had

known that by now, there would only be packets of Garibaldis remaining, and

he would never ingest these, as they had far too revolutionary a name.  One

could call them Flies’ Cemeteries, but a sweetmeat by any other name would

taste just the same, and revolution stuck in his craw.  Leave it to characters

such as Red Ken Livingstone, who, no doubt, had sucked on the curranted

Italian perforated strips since boyhood.  As for Viennese Whirls, they were

more Vince Cable, he had thought, ever since seeing the politician strutting

his stuff on Strictly.

And Nigel was not a Lib Dem. He wasn’t sure what he was.  And that was why

he had been overlooked for promotion.

Gus, skulking behind the Human Biology section was looking up information on

nocturnal emissions.  When the hymn  All Hail The Power of Jesus’ Name had

been announced in assembly that morning, Snod had been reminded of

another medical problem that he should have discussed at the clinic.

Let angels prostate fall, in line two, had leapt out at him, even though he knew

that there was a difference of one consonant. For, yes, he was getting up

several times in the night to take a leak, in prep school parlance and, so he

really must phone Bupa to see if he could choose a urologist who might be

in the country over half term.  Vain hope!

He had glared at some of the older boys during the Junior Choir’s rendition of

Faire is The Heaven.  It may have been a trial run for a future performance,

but he was too long in the tooth not to anticipate the sniggers at the phrase:

in full enjoyment of felicity.

Actually, Poskett was doing a good job.  He had elevated himself in Snod’s

opinion by planning the Britten Christmas concert.  It was ambitious, but,

apart from the difficulty of finding a harpist for The Ceremony of Carols, he

was managing the rehearsals sensibly and hadn’t requested anyone’s

absence- as yet- from a Snodbury lesson.  Hence the biscuit offer.

…………………………………………………………

It was the morning after the Open Evening and staff were all rather

exhausted. Snod had leapt up two minutes before the bell at break.

There was only time for a coffee, or for visiting the little boys’ room.

Avoiding chatty colleagues was a necessity for the implementation of

good time management at the interval.

However, just as he was about to exit the staffroom, he collided with a whey-

faced loon in the shape of young John Boothroyd-Smythe who had been

knocking on the door.

Is this a query which could be addressed in lessons? barked Snod,

practically wetting himself.

Well, sir, I’m not sure.. B-S stammered.  It’s just that Dad gave me this letter

to give you.

Back to lessons! shouted Gus, hurrying down the corridor and pocketing the

envelope for future perusal.

It was only at lunchtime that he remembered to take the missive out of his

Harris tweed jacket pocket and then he read the parental complaint.

Apparently he was being accused of having told B-S’s father to ‘*** off’

the previous evening.  Snod was confused until he recalled that one of

Shaw’s characters had similarly misunderstood the Major’s name and had

uttered the immortal interrogative:

A Pet what?

(To which the immortal reply should have been: a Petkoff.)

Snod muttered the well-known aphorism: Never apologise; never explain,

to himself. 

But he knew that he would have to try.

No wonder B-S had problems when his father was so dense!  And B-S,

wasn’t that some kind of intestinal problem which had been mentioned on

the comprehensive leaflet which he had been given at the clinic?  It was

related to stress and Snod was having bucketfuls of that experience every

day.  Perhaps he should have that possibility investigated at the same time

as his prostrate, or whatever it was called.

Crumbs Under The Table

Tags

Animal Farm, Christ, Communion, Gentile, German Shepherd, marmoset turn-taking, Prayer of Humble Access, St Peter's Anglican Church, Syro-phoenician, Terry Mattingly

I saw something rather moving this morning, I remarked to Brassica.

What?  At Church?

Yes.  In the cathedral.  We had just taken Communion and I was reflecting

on the prayer of humble access we had just voiced before going forward.

You mean, ‘we are not worthy..’?

Yes. (Brassie should study the latest marmoset research on turn-taking)

..to gather up the crumbs under your table, I expounded.

I suppose that means we are all unworthy, but God is merciful, she elucidated.

Right. Sort of.  But I started to think of the Syro-Phoenician woman who

countered Christ’s challenge, proving her faith, when she said that even the

dogs could eat the crumbs that fell from their master’s table.

Oh.  Well, that was all about the inclusion of the Gentiles, wasn’t it?  Gentile

dogs and all that..

Yes, but then I looked up and there was a lady being led by a guide dog, right

up to the communion rail.  She knelt down and the dog sat beside her.

What happened?

The bread came round and then the chalice.  But I was disappointed.

Why?

The chalice bearer passed over the dog.

But you can’t give holy things to dogs, can you? Isn’t that from the Bible

somewhere?

Apparently, in Toronto, a German Shepherd called Trapper attended-

can you say that a dog attends?- a service in St Peter’s Anglican Church and

the lady vicar gave it some of the consecrated host.  Parishioners complained

to the bishop.  A guy called Terry Mattingly has written all about it from some

Washington Centre for Christian Colleges and Universities.

So, what did you expect the chalice bearer to do? Brassie religiously enquired.

I thought that they might have patted it on the head and blessed it.  St

Francis would have, I’m sure.

Well, maybe next time they will have had a chance to bring the subject up

at a Chapter meeting, suggested Brassie.

Yes, I mused.  Maybe like in Animal Farm where there is a vote cast as to

whether rats are comrades, or not.

Hmm, countered Brassie.  But you know what happened then.  Those who

thought that they were superior in the chain of command didn’t behave too

well themselves. 

That’s why we humans can all avow sincerely that we are no better than

dogs, I nodded.  Thank Goodness that we have the same Lord!

Not Proven

Tags

arsenic, Blythswood Square, Bridge of Allan, Damocles, genealogy, High Court of Justiciary, Lord Handyside, Madeleine Smith, Mary Magdalen, Mt Hope Cemetery, Not Proven, Pierre L'Angelier, Prussic acid, Rhu, Rossetti, Sauchiehall Street, The Glasgow Sentinel

You’ve been very quiet these last few days, Candia, remarked

Clammie. What have you been up to?

Oh, this and that.  Digging about in my genealogical tree.

Found any murderers?  she laughed.

Actually- yes and no.  My great-aunt times goodness knows what was the

best friend of Madeleine Smith, the alleged arsenic poisoner of Victorian

infamy.  She gave evidence at her trial, though she was innocent of any

involvement.  She had been with Madeleine when she bought the poison.

Her name was Mary Buchanan.

Interestingly, the Lord of the Court of Session was Lord Handyside,

someone else on my father’s tree- related, but not so closely.

Wow! So what have you written about all this?

The following, I said, passing over my typewritten sheets.

NOT PROVEN

I was glad that I had chosen to wear my straw bonnet, with the pure white trimmings, the one which sits at the back of my head and which enhances my profile so effectively.  As I passed through the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh, the crowd parted and I felt the vibrations of the verdict: Not Proven, ringing in my ears. The glass phial of smelling salts, which I had had no recourse to during my nine day trial, fell out of my purse and it smashed.  I disdainfully ground it into

powder beneath my heel.

So, I had been “cleared” of the attempted murder of my erstwhile lover, Pierre Emile L’Angelier and I had ousted the Indian Mutiny from the pages of the press. Taking my brother Jack’s arm, the only relative who was willing to be seen in my presence, I turned on that same heel and, returning Lord Handyside’s stare with compound interest, stepped into the street.

At least I would not be returning to the gloomy gable ends and gaslight of Glasgow, nor the over fervent protestations from my nervous fiancé. Now he has stated honestly that he wishes to withdraw his former proposal.

It was the ninth of July, 1857 and I had been supposedly cleared of guilt.  However, even my legal defender had joked, in rather poor taste, I felt, that he would rather dance than dine with me.

It does not seem so long ago that I was gossiping with Mary Buchanan of Cardross, my best friend, at Mrs. Alice Gorton’s Academy for Young Ladies, near London.  Then we exchanged confidences, remedies for depilation and recipes for whitening our complexions.  We had vowed to be each other’s bridesmaids.  I wonder if Mary will “cut” me now.  Will she be amused by the press describing me in titillating fashion as a “burning passionate Juliet of decent society, fresh from the school-room”?

Yes, I suppose we were indulged, but my father was trying to be the architect of my destiny, as well as pursuing that literal profession throughout his working week.  I was wilful and headstrong, I admit, but how can I be blamed for falling for the flattery of romantic avowals of such passion and intense devotion?

Emile seemed exotic to me then, albeit entirely unsuitable socially.  Papa was planning a match for me and was furious that I was engaged in a correspondence with a warehouse clerk, let alone keeping clandestine appointments with him.

Naturally, prohibition only fanned the blaze of our desire.  You would not believe the initiative and Machiavellian scheming that I employed in order to smuggle Emile into our house in Blythswood Square, after dark.  Our middle-aged neighbour, Miss Perry was drawn into the preparations for our assignments, but, to tell the truth, the cunning machinations eventually proved to be more stimulating than the relationship itself.  I sought to extinguish the ardency of our torrid affair.  The embers reduced to ashes and should have been swept up efficiently by our housemaid’s dustpan and brush and have been scattered unceremoniously on some unhealthy rose garden, to strengthen the weaker horticultural specimens.

My self-esteem had been nourished sufficiently by then and the older man who was being presented to me was the more attractive option- especially financially.  I decided to drop Emile.  I may have deceived my family, but I could no longer deceive myself.

It is said that Adam was deceived, but Eve bore greater guilt, because she was clear in her decision to yield to temptation.  I would say that we shared our blameworthiness.  Emile unreasonably refused to return my letters and I admit to a certain lack of tact in my request:  “as there is coolness on both sides, our engagement had better be broken.”

When the post-mortem revealed eighty-two grains of arsenic in Emile’s stomach, I volunteered the information that I had acquired such a substance as a cosmetic enhancer, though I confess that I had lied to the apothecary. I had informed him that I wished to employ it for rodent extermination.  My parents would never have permitted me to utilise it for vanity’s sake and my sister, Bessie, would have told tales.

Bessie would not support me in court.  She has always been envious of me, ever since we met Emile together in Sauchiehall Street.  She probably told Papa about our rendezvous, the little rat.

Emile always preferred me to her; he thought her choice of dress and headgear vulgar and her personality vapid.  She was happy to pay calls with mother and to simper for Papa’s merchant friends at interminable supper parties.  Emile and I had a lot in common: we were both the eldest of five children and longed for adventure.

Ah, Emile, was it your very white fingers that attracted me- so elegant and unlike the reddened, horny, calloused knuckles of those podgy colleagues of Papa’s?  Eventually those pale digits metamorphosed into worms that insinuated themselves into the core of my being, thrusting with greed to possess, not only my body, but my birthright itself.  Your avarice for Papa’s approval was the torsion that twisted into your own guts and not any concoction of mine.

For a time I was your slave, and I tried to improve my temper, just to please you, silly jade that I was!  Yet even “The Glasgow Sentinel” suggested that I was the seducer as much as the seduced.”  It had the impertinence to imply that once my veil of modesty had been thrown aside- and from the first it had been a flimsy one-I then revealed myself as a woman of libidinous passion, an abnormal spirit that rose up to startle and revolt the general public.  Still others have wondered whether I am the most fortunate of criminals, or the most unfortunate of women.

The judge was repelled by my candour regarding our shared embraces. Small wonder that Papa refused to leave his room and was driven to sell our beautiful house in Rhu, to avoid scandal.  What happened to my little pug?  I do miss it, though I used to provoke it intentionally on many occasions.  The nasty “Examiner” said that if the trial had been for poisoning a dog, my indifference could not have been greater.  What do they know?

I was frank with my lover, telling him of my courtship with Mr. Minnoch and how he accompanied me to concerts and suchlike.  I repeatedly confronted Emile with the fact that he no longer loved me.  It was to our mutual convenience that he should honestly bow out.  Yet he would not release me from our situation and I entered a period of emotional turbulence and vacillation.  I felt Papa’s wrath as an impending Dies Irae, or a sword of Damocles hanging over us.  I had supped with horrors long enough.

If I had premeditated Emile’s demise, then why would I have sent a messenger, quite openly, to make the purchase of some Prussic acid and why would I have signed The Poison Books on subsequent occasions, with my own name?  I appeal to you, dear reader: am I the most unfortunate of women, or the most fortunate criminal?

The powder I purchased was stained with dye and the physician who performed the autopsy did not detect any such colouring agent.   Odd that I should later take up with someone who made their fortune through the manufacture and processing of such dyestuffs!  All of this after my ex- fiancé disentangled himself from what was considered to be my Black Widow embrace.

Emile, your self-dramatising was impressive.  Death by cocoa.  How very enterprising of you to blame your end on the corruption of such an innocuous beverage!  You were eager enough to drink the laudanum-laced potion provided by your careless doctor and no one knows what you might have ingested in Bridge of Allan, though I grant that the Poison Books there bore no trace of your signature.

So I sat for nine days, as unresponsive as I had been when discovered in the summerhouse, staring out to The Firth of Clyde.  Edinburgh broiderers pricked out their sewing in the gallery, like Madame Defarges before the guillotine, yet the feeling in the east was more supportive of me than in the west, the Glasgow/ Edinburgh opposition even evident in court.  Fifteen jurymen could not come to any consensus.  The foreman kept clearing his throat, as if something was choking him. I kept thinking of the hundreds of written proposals of marriage that I had received in the East Jail.  Later in life I had to turn down offers from Hollywood to take part in films of my supposed life.

I watched those women sticking in their needles and later I joined Janey Morris and her circle in many sewing bees.  Rossetti even depicted me as Mary Magdalen, but I only played the penitent in paint and remained true to myself as Madeleine. My faithful brother came to my wedding and scattered white grains of rice over us.  He visited our home in Bloomsbury; he adored our children, Tom and Kitten.

When that union was over, I was a veritable widow and I married a much younger man in the United States, remaining an enigma to the end, with my puzzling death certificate.  The spider had spun its own web for nearly a century.  I was buried in Mt Hope Cemetery, they say: a triumph, or a travesty?

When winter comes with a vengeance I think of Pierre Emile L’Angelier, my angel/ demon and the soft caresses of snowflakes remind me of our sensual lovemaking.  Then I say to myself: “I do not regret that-never did, and never shall.”

Democracy Has Bad Taste

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Bentham, Charles Saatchi, Damien HIrst, Dan Snow, Ernest Hemingway, FT, Grayson Perry, List of Reith Lectures, Manet, Nigella Lawson, Olympia, Proust, pushpin, Richard Hoggart, sociology, springer spaniel, transformation, Trinny Woodall, Uses of Literacy

Brassica could hardly hear herself speak for the frothing of the coffee machine

and the screech of a toddler.

Yeah, it’s that bloke in a frock who’s giving The Reith Lectures, she informed

me.

Who?  Grayson Perry?  Suddenly I was interested in what she was saying.

Yip.  I liked his tapestries on class but I admit that I used to think they-

the artists, I mean- actually made the stuff themselves.

What?  You thought that Damien Hirst went out and caught his own shark,

like Ernest Hemingway?  I was somewhat surprised.

Well, I thought they would weave the tapestries, or, say, Henry Moore

would cast his own bronzes in his back yard.

Right.  Before the scrap metal guys nicked them.  Brass, you’ve just got

to understand the difference between craft and art.

Which is?

Some philosophers have described it as the difference between pushpin

and poetry.

Pushpin?

It’s like shove halfpenny. I tried to clarify the analogy.  Look,

I addressed her.  Read the front page of the Life and Arts section of the

FT.

I reached up and took down the pink pages of a grease-stained

newspaper from the wall rack.

You see, I gestured, take a look at the artwork in this cafe.  I think it comes

from The Suttonford Art Society’s Annual Show.  You be the judge.  Is it art?

If it goes by financial value, then I’d say not, she deliberated.

Emmm, yeah.  Not many of them have a reserved sticker.  I suppose that

they could come under therapeutic, or popular art categories.

Some of them could be improved by more sympathetic

presentation, she decided.

Yes.  Proust wrote that we can only see beauty if we look through a

gilded frame, I expanded on the theme.  I wonder what Charles Saatchi

is collecting now..? Certainly not portraits of Nigella!  Maybe Trinny

Woodall woodcuts?  Skinny Trinny as Olympia.  Not a good look!

My granny used to commission oils of sunsets to match the colours in her

swirly carpets, Brassie mused.

(You could never accuse Brass of being a snob.)  She was reading the

front page by now and she came out with:

Are individual works of historical significance, or do they exhibit aesthetic

sophistication?

No, I replied quietly, looking carefully round the room for any paint

stains on clothing.  There is an acrylic over there which shows the oldest

pub in the town, though.  It all comes down to Bentham’s pushpin/ poetry

distinction again.

But, endorsement is surely part of it?  I mean, if we placed a label under that

unconvincing representation of a Springer Spaniel and it announced that it was

by Dan Snow, would it change our perception of it? Brassie probed.

No, but it would change my perception of him, sadly, I replied.

Brassie began to show enthusiasm for this debate.  Didn’t Richard Hoggart,

who incidentally lived not too far from here, discuss some of this in his book

on popular culture, The Uses of Literacy?

Yawn.  Early sociology, I said dismissively.  Mind you, he made some good

points.

Brassie pushed on, paraphrasing as she read: Apparently, what the’ lovely

consensus’ agree on is seriousness.

Mmm, some of these are seriously bad.  I tried to be generous and failed. Okay.

Who is going to validate them?

Brassie brightened up.  I expect their mummies, grannies, aunts, husbands

and wives might rescue them from ignominy.  They’ll probably buy them.

So, laying aside meritocracy, they will be saved for posterity by love? I

ventured.

The greatest ennobler, breathed Brassie.  The Art of Human Understanding.

Compassion. An act of grace.  Love for the unlovely.  Transformation!

 

Thought For The Day

Tags

aigret, Bad Hair Day, Barbara Cartland, davenport, dawn chorus, evil eye, fallaid, Farming Today, hammer drill, Harper Beckham, insomnia, John Humphrys, Land of Nod, lemming, Lionel Blair, Lionel Blue, Mary Wollstonecraft, Monty Panesar, Monty Python, murrain, National Anthem, Prayer for the Day, Rip Van Winkle, Sailing By, sauna, Shipping Forecast, struan, terminal moraine, Thought for the Day, World Service

(Mary Wollstonecraft: Wikipaedia.)

Carrie wandered into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe just as I

was ordering.

What’s that you are having?  she asked.

Struan nouveau, I replied.  Do you want to share?

It rings a bell.  What’s in it?

Cranberries, bilberries and caraway seeds.  It’s traditional-from

Scotland, you know.

Oh, it’s that thing the eldest daughter used to have to bake in the

Hebrides.

I’ll have a piece myself. Hi! I’ll have what she’s having.

(The latter was addressed to the baristress, who tried not to

laugh.)

What about fallaid? Do they serve that?  Carrie followed the counter with

her eyes.

No.  That was the meal leftovers which were put into a footless stocking

and flicked over the flocks to ward off the murrain.

Murrain.. Such a pretty name.

No, Carrie.  Don’t get broody now that you have got them all off to school.

Anyway, murrain was a kind of plague.  It was an animal disease.  In fact,

etymologically, it meant death, literally.

Like terminal moraine?  We did that in geography many moons ago.

Yes, well, fallaid also helped to protect you from the evil eye.

It would come in handy when you have to run the gauntlet of collecting your

kids from the school yard, Carrie remarked.  Actually it sounds like some kind

of subjunctive of the French verb falloir.  You remember: il faut etcetera?

Actually, I can’t think very clearly at all just now, I sighed.

What’s wrong?

Well, I am not sleeping.  Once I waken at about four, that’s it.

Do you get up?

I used to listen to The World Service and half doze off, but now they have this

really annoying clattery jingle thing before the news items.  It is so

raucous and repetitive.  It gets into your brain like a hammer drill.  I don’t

get back to sleep sometimes until Farming Today.

They should realise that nocturnal listeners are just wanting to have a gentle

white noise to lull them back into the Land of Nod, agreed Carrie.  Do you get

off to sleep all right when you retire?

Oh, The Shipping Forecast is brilliant for that.  I don’t like Sailing By and

 The National Anthem is a bit military, but you kind of respect that and it gives

you a Pavlovian emotional closure, I dare say.

You should write in and complain about the awful racket.

Well, I like Thought for the Day and Prayer for the Day and somehow, when

you wake up to John Humphrys, you feel soothed, even as you fall off a fiscal

cliff along with all the other lemmings.

I bet his wife doesn’t feel like that, retorted Carrie.

What? Like a lemming? She doesn’t have to see him first thing in the

morning, so it probably saves their marriage.  He looks like the antithesis of

Rip Van Winkle- ie/ as if he hasn’t slept for seventy odd years.

Thought for the Day represents people from all the different religions,

doesn’t it? Carrie said.

Oh yes.  (I am beginning to sound like that Churchill dog)  They had Lionel

Blue, Muslims, Hindus and Sikhs too, I confirmed.

Hmm, I used to like Sikhs until that Monty Python guy, the cricketer,

urinated inappropriately.  I think he was a bad role model, though I think

those turbans would be brilliant for a Bad Hair Day.

Panesar. Don’t overgeneralise, I cautioned her.  We have had Black Swan

conversations before.  Anyway, I agree that the turbans might have their

uses.

Yes, agreed Carrie.  They’re very now.  Celebrities put them on their babies.

I bet Harper Beckham has quite a few to choose from.

I don’t think they’d suit me, I reflected.  Too Alexander Pope-cum-Mary

Wollstonecraft.

But you remind me of her, Carrie said.  Actually, turbans were very

Barbara Cartland too.

Well, I am not about to attend an Assembly Room any time soon,

complete with nodding aigret feather, swaying to the beat of a

chamber orchestra.

You, or the feather?

Oh, shut up!

So, what have you got against turbans?  I thought you could wear one and

cultivate that dreamy, faraway look, sitting poised with a quill in your hand,

composing a proto-feminist treatise at your davenport.

Well, it’s not my headgear of choice, ever since I came across an old dear in a

Leeds sauna, saving on her central heating and sweating it out, stark naked

except for her turban.  She actually accused me of sitting on her heart pills.

It was probably a shower cap, anyway.

And were you?  You know, sitting on them? Carrie enquired, a tad

aggressively, I thought.

No!  I’d have felt them under my folded towel, surely?

Depends.  If you were a princess, or not.  Also if you were less pneumatic

than you are now.

How very dare you! I swatted her with a Suttonford Weekly.

Anyway, Carrie laughed, surely the World Service is preferable to your

husband’s snoring.

Just give me the dawn chorus, I agreed.

But not too many aigrets, Carrie quipped.

Precisely.  I haven’t heard Rabbi Lionel Blair for a while, come to think of it.

Blue, corrected Carrie.

I can’t think straight.  It’s my insomnia, I yawned.

Head of Cosmic Intelligence

Tags

Alex Salmond, Bake-Off!, Billy Connolly, boutique gin, DeborahMeaden, fallaid, Ginevra, James Bond, Michaelmas, quern, reeve, Sean Connery, sloe, South Sea Island cotton, spaewife, struan

Carrie dropped in on her mother-in-law, the gin-swigging nonagenarian,

Ginevra Brewer-Mead.

So, what is my son up to at the moment?

Your son, Gyles?

Is that his name?  Ah, yes, him.

He’s filling out some tax forms.  He said he feels like a reeve.

Reeves used to have to do the accounts before Michaelmas Day

and, if there was a shortfall, they had to make it up from their own

resources.

I expect no one wanted that job, pronounced the sharp old lady.

I didn’t want this job, muttered Magda.

Candia sent you some sloes, for your boutique gin, said Carrie,

handing a bag to Magda, Ginevra’s Eastern European carer, along

with a pot of Michaelmas daisies.

How you do? said Magda.

I think we’ve met, Magda, Carrie replied, puzzled.  She thought the

girl’s English had improved recently, but..

No.  How you make?

Ah- thirds.  One third gin, one third sugar, one third sloes.

You’re supposed to wait until the first frost before you pick them,

complained Ginevra.

Oh, I didn’t know that, Carrie sighed.

Weel, ye ken noo, as the Scots Worthy famously said.  Sit ye doon,

commanded the old curmudgeon, patting the sofa beside her.

Carrie connected with something hard and cold which had been secreted

under a cushion.

Candia and I were discussing folklore to do with St Michael, Carrie began

as a conversational opener.  I used to think that he was the patron saint of

underwear, as his label was on the back of my vest and South Sea Island

cotton knickers when I was at school.

Ach no.  He’s the Head of Cosmic Intelligence, stated Ginevra.  A kind of

angelic James Bond.  The Real One. Sean Connolly.

Sean Connery; Billy Connolly.

Aye, well don’t get me started on him.  He needed a good haircut.

I bet you don’t know some of the Scottish versions of the folktales, Ginevra

cackled, like an old spaewife.  Your grandmother- Jean Waddell, as she was

before she married into the Pomodoro family, could reel all the old tales off,

nae bother, as she used to say.  God rest her soul!

She shifted the tartan blanket over her knees and tried to conceal the

aluminium hip flask under it.

Is that a new tartan? Carrie asked.

Trust you to notice.  Magda got it for me on that Internet thing. It’s ‘Made in

China’ actually.  It’s the same tartan as that fishy guy, Alex Salmon, ordered

at the taxpayers’ expense when he forgot his trews, or breeks, as your granny

would have called them, for some function over there.  He had them made

up.

Like his policies, Carrie thought, but did not continue the metaphor, rich

though the ore of satire might have been.

Magda came in with a wee cuppa, as she had learned to call refreshments

other than the alcoholic ones.

Your grandmother was a dab hand at making the struan, Ginevra continued,

her eyes searching for shortbread.

Struan- what was that? Carrie was intrigued.

It was a cake which had to be ground in a quern-

Quern? asked Magda.

I’ll tell you later-in three equal parts-of bere, oats and rye.  The eldest

daughter had to make it and woe betide her if it broke in the baking.

Quite a responsibility then? sympathised Carrie.

More than in yon Bake-Off rubbish, said Ginevra.  This could be Life and

Death.

Changing the subject and getting back to reeves, directed Carrie, did you watch

Strictly?

How does that link to reeves?

Well, I was thinking of financial wizards and wondered if you liked Deborah

Meaden?

Not as much as Robbie, her partner, Ginevra pronounced.  I suppose he’s like

St Michael.  He’s taming the old Dragon!

And yet again, Carrie was impressed at the old biddy’s mental acuity.

Have you seen my winter fuel allowance? Ginevra asked.

She means this, said Magda, holding the hip flask out of reach.

It isn’t winter yet, said Carrie firmly.

But the nights are drawing in, protested Ginevra.

I’d better be off, Carrie said decidedly.  I’m meeting Candia in

Costamuchamoulah, for a coffee quite soon.

Cheerio! Ginevra trilled, quite happy as Magda had handed over the flask.

I’ll tell you all about fallaid next time.

I can’t wait, replied Carrie, exiting right, but thankfully not pursued by a

bear.

Negative Discrimination

Tags

archangel, Catch a Falling Star, daucus carota, discrimination, Domhnach Curran, Hebrides, John Donne, Last Judgement, mandrake, mattock, medieval wall paintings, Michaelmas, root vegetable, Uist

Of course , you’ve left something out, said Carrie.

What do you mean? I replied, ordering a refill of my previous

drink.

Well, you’ve rabbited on about blackberries and Michaelmas, but you

didn’t mention Domhnach Curran, Carrot Sunday.

Are you having me on? I asked suspiciously.

No-not at all.  My Scottish granny told me all about the traditions in

the Hebrides where the wild carrots were gathered on the Sunday before

Michaelmas.

And…?

..and the carrots were brought in on the Eve of St Michael, having been dug

out of triangular holes, representing the shield of the saint, by three pronged

mattocks, making a reference to the Trinity, or in pagan times to the three

stages of womanhood.

Who brought the vegetables in- the men?

No, the lassies, who tied the bunches up with red thread.  If they found

one with a forked root, it was considered lucky.

A kind of fertility symbol?

I suppose so.  Remember the poem ‘Goe and Catch a Falling Star’ by John

Donne?  We studied it at Uny.

Oh yes: ‘get with child a mandrake root’.  I suppose root vegetables can

be rather phallic.

Yes, hmm… Anyway, there is a special carrot on Uist, the daucus carota..

Look, why am I getting into all this?  You can Google it on www.

carrotmuseum.com….The women would chant something about their progeny

being pre-eminent over every other progeny.  It reminded me of the

belligerently aspirational yummie mummies around here.

The ones who only want carrots for their kids, but no sticks?

The very ones.

  That sort would probably hope that St Michael would oversee their little

darlings being weighed in the balances and would ensure that they were not

found wanting, I laughed, remembering having seen medieval wall paintings

on a similar theme.  They’d probably start arguing with the Archangels of

Heaven and Hell, wanting favourable outcomes for their special offspring. 

They’d complain to God Himself if they didn’t get their way.

Yes, Carrie grinned, enjoying the scenario.  But the angel from Hell leaned on

the scales to tip the balance in his favour.  Negative discrimination!  That’s

why St Michael had to supervise the operation of the Last Judgement.

So, cheats never win! I cheered. Well, maybe next year I can write a poem

about all that.  By the way, I like the look of that cake you just had.  What

was it?

Carrot, said Carrie.  I hope it doesn’t promote fertility.

No.  In that case, I’ll have the courgette and lime slice.