In the Doghouse

Tags

Alliance Francaise, Bernard Ingham, Black Bun, Crunchie, Dewlap Gin, doghouse, Hogmanay, Jumelage, Maggie Thatcher, Memory foam, multum in parvo, NASA, Pet Nappers, Richter scale, Sherpa Bone pillow, shortbread, Slumberland, snorterino, Top Paws Fashion pillow, Tupperware, Ugg boots

Pooh-Bah, Algy and Humbug, the Brewer-Mead family pugs, were

snoozing on their new Tempur-pedic loungers and nothing was going

to persuade them to move for a post-Christmas waddle through the

churned-up byways of Suttonford.  Once they had settled on their

Memory Foam, it would have taken something about point seven and

above on the Richter Scale to displace them.

Santa had been over-indulgent.  They had their Top Paw Fashion

Pillows (chewable-resistant) and the odour of polyurethane was

already fading.  They should have thanked NASA for their new-

found comfort.

Mrs Hatch-Warren, the femme-de-menage, as Carrie called her was

on her two week break, so Gyles was clearing up in the kitchen while

his wife and sister, Victoria were hitting the sales.

Victoria had travelled over from The Charente, where she ran a

reclamation business, but had been stuck for sixteen hours on a ferry

which couldn’t berth.  She was stocking up on items which were difficult to

find over there and was seeking next year’s Christmas cards, in particular.

She would sell them to expats at Alliance Francaise parties next December

at 100% profit.  Sante!

Gyles checked his ninety plus mother who was ensconced in the sitting

room, finishing her e-book.  Her carer, Magda, was visiting her predecessor

in Normandy.  Ola had bagged the remaindered widower on the Jumelage

Exchange between Suttonford and Bric-a-Brac.  Magda wanted to see their

new baby, Georges, born at the same time as The Little Prince.

Ginevra, Gyles’ mother was awaiting the visit of her old friend, Sonia, from

High Street.  When she arrived they could progress through the Maggie

Thatcher spectrum of drinkies as reported by Sir Bernard Ingham-ie/

opener, brightener, lifter, tincture, large gin and tonic without tonic; snifter,

snort, snorter and snorterino.

Tiger-Lily walked into the kitchen.  Hi, Dad, she smiled, uncharacteristically.

Take those muddy Ugg boots off before your mother goes ballistic, Gyles

cautioned.  I’ve just washed the floor.

Chillax, Tiger muttered.  She balanced one hand on the edge of the granite

island and tried to kick an Ugg off.  Dad, in despair, came to the rescue and

tugged.

Three yapping pugs leapt out of their Pet Nappers, discarding their faux-fur,

ultra-plush throws and formed an excited circle round the extended limb.

Gerroff! Tiger shouted in an extremely unladylike fashion, which only

encouraged them.

What’s to eat? she addressed her father directly.  She started to open tins

and Tupperware containers.

The boys finished the Christmas cake, I’m afraid.

Great!  I didn’t even get any, she complained.

Well, Grandma Morag sent us some shortbread, but Mum’s keeping that

for New Year.

Hogmanay, corrected Tiger, who knew the difference.

Whatever, said her father,  And don’t eat the Black Bun.  She’s keeping

that too.

Tiger surreptitiously helped herself to a Crunchie from her brother, Ferdy’s

Selection Stocking.  He’d never notice, she reasoned.

Go and speak to your grandmother, Gyles suggested.  She’s in the sitting

room.

Do I have to?

Gyles threw her a meaningful glance, so she went.

Ah, Tiger!  Would you like a Dewlap Gin? her grandmother asked

immediately.

I’m not allowed.

Oh, I forgot.  Well, could you top my glass up, darling?

Tiger hopped back into the kitchen, still wearing a single Ugg.

Humbug! she yelled.

A naughty pug crawled out of her fleecy boot and leapt back onto

his monogrammed coverlet, putting his little head onto his Sherpa Bone

pillow.

Tiger retrieved her Ugg and found it curiously heavy.  She turned it upside

down and a mass of black currants and pastry crumbs cascaded onto the

clean floor.

Dad! she screamed.  Dad!

But Gyles had retired to the marital Slumberland mattress which was

more than a decade old and considerably less supportive than the

deep dish slumber divans on which the pugs reclined.  He was fast

asleep and snoring like one of his brachycephalic pets- or like all three of

them together.

There was nothing for it but to sweep the remains of the Black Bun into the

wheelie bin and she just hoped that her mother wouldn’t notice.

Tiger!

Drat! Coming, gran.

She took a little swig of the Dewlap Gin for Discerning Grandmothers.

Yuck!

And through the haze of the unaccustomed fumes, she saw her grandmother

in a new light.  They said that owners sometimes began to look like their pets

and, to be sure, Ginevra was very wrinkly, short-muzzled, not to say, stubborn

in character.  Tiger had read that the breed were often described as multum in

parvo  and, thanks to her GCSE Latin. she knew that this indicated that

one got a lot in a little package.  Certainly Ginevra had a

remarkable personality for her size and, though lovable, like the pugs, she

was definitely high- maintenance and attention-seeking.

Actually, that sounded very like the implications in Tiger’s summative end-of-

term report from Miss Fotheringay.  Golly!  Maybe she was inbred!

Drrring!

Oh no!  That must be the other old biddy.

DRRRRING!!!

Yip, that must be Sonia.

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Acting Head

Tags

A&E, Acting Head, Bradford on Avon, cook one's goose, Ding dong Merrily on High!, fardels bear, Madeira, redcurrant sauce, St John's Ambulance, University Challenge, wishbone

Augustus Snodbury settled himself into position in the carver chair at

the head of the table.  He had only just made it to Bradford-on-Avon,

his prostate appointment having been cancelled and the queue in the

butcher’s having receded.  He had battled through floods and gales to

bring-not the bacon, but the poultry- to his erstwhile lover’s cottage.

I’ve cooked your goose! Diana announced.

In more ways than one, he mused.  However, he sharpened the knife

and set to, the stupid paper hat falling over his eyes.

Dru held out her plate and it was plenished with succulent breast.

She adjusted her cleavage and leaned back.

That’s plenty! she cautioned.

Diana gave the toast:

Here’s tae us.

Wha’s like us?

Gey few

an’ they’re a’ deid!

Gus and his daughter pulled the wishbone and he won, but

coyly declined to reveal his deepest desire.  Diana observed

privately that it might connote with him having a backbone too.

Wasn’t that the weirdest thing?  Dru announced. At the looks of

incomprehension, she clarified:  I mean seeing that Poskett chap in

the middle of our trip.

Well, I suppose these cultural breaks self-select, her mother

hypothesised.  It’s a niche market.

I wonder how the other poor chap is? continued Dru casually.

Can’t have been much fun being hors-de-combat in the hotel.

Oh, Milford-Haven will be perfectly all right by now, opined Gus.

He’s probably gone off to be looked after by his mother in Cornwall.

Duchy of.

Dru inhaled and some sage and onion stuffing went down the wrong

way. She downed some water as a distraction, in the manner of a shy

University Challenge contestant after he or she has finally answered one

question correctly.

Cornwall, she voiced inwardly.  She fingered the gold harp on its chain.

So, it had been from Nigel after all.  Ding Dong Merrily on High!

The phone interrupted their table talk, ringing insistently.

Typical!  said Diana.  Ignore it!  Let the machine take it.

However, they could hear the rather desperate message, pronounced

by someone who sounded very like the school secretary to Snod, who

happened to be nearest to the handset.

He leapt up, spilling the redcurrant sauce over the antique linen

tablecloth.

Oh do be careful! scowled Diana.

Gus pressed re-play and, to his horror, the tale of tragic woe played itself

out.

Apparently the Headmaster had attended the Midnight Service at his local

parish church and he had keeled over before the seventh Lesson.

At first everyone, including his wife, had thought that he had merely been

prematurely carried away by the spirits of the season, but a member of the

St John’s Ambulance Brigade had detected a tell-tale sign of lopsidedness in

his expression and, before the congregation could snatch a subterfuge

and unmusical breath between ‘verily the sky‘ and ‘is riv’n‘, the Head had

been stretchered out between the pews and was on his way to A&E.

Ashen-faced Augustus sat down on the whoopee cushion.

What’s going to happen?  Dru asked.

Yes, re-formulated Diana.  What’s to be done?

I’m to be Acting Head, replied Gus.  That’s what’s happening

and I wish it wasn’t.  Oh, joy to the world!

Be careful what you wish for! Diana teased, but she wiped her lips with

her napkin when she saw his expression.

Balancing himself by gripping the edge of the table he recited with an

orotundity that matched the profundity of the occasion:

To die, to sleep-

…and by a sleep to say we end

The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks

That flesh is heir to…’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

And thus the Native hue of Resolution

iIs sicklied o’er, with the pale cast of Thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With regard their currents turn awry,

And lose the name of Action..

Dru found herself appalauding, but he continued:

No, who would fardels bear

[I’d rather}..bear those ills

Than fly to others that [I] know not of..

Here!  Diana thrust a glass into his hand.

Have some Madeira, m’dear!

And so the spell was broken, along with his dreams of a

downhill, easy progression towards his retirement.

Repeating History

Tags

agapanthus, Bosphorous, Bradford on Avon, Caracas, City of Eternal Spring, dianthus, Dux, emporium, entomology, flying carpet, grandiflora, Istanbul, Iznik tile, Jesse Tree, kelim, National Trust, Panama, Simon Bolivar, Turkish Delight

Great-Aunt Augusta unwrapped the Turkish Delight as she sat

in her velours recliner in the private area of the Recreational

Room of her Care Home.

Now, are you sitting comfortably? she addressed her great-niece,

Drusilla Fotheringay.

The exophoric reference wasn’t entirely lost on Dru, so she nodded

and gave the signal for the old bag to commence on the veritable

Jesse Tree of the family genealogy.

(Jesse Tree Chartres: Wikipaedia)

Now, your great-grandmother-also Augusta-was a bit of a goer, or

a flibbertigibbet, as I told you before.  She bounced around the

Bosphorous with her rug seller for a number of years, before settling

down in Istanbul and establishing a kitten sanctuary, once her partner

had flown off on his flying carpet, to that large emporium in the sky.

Your great-aunt Berenice, my elder sister (God Rest Her Soul!), was a

bit of a gadabout too.  In the genes, clearly.

She used to go to parties almost every weekend, in big, country

houses.

In Turkey?  Dru looked confused.

No.  We had both been sent to boarding schools over here.  She used

to frequent the Wyvern Estate and that was her downfall.  She GOT

INTO TROUBLE.

Difficult in these days, no doubt.  Dru sympathised, as well she

might, given her own personal history.

Not difficult at all.  It happened all too easily. They were pressurising

Berenice to get rid of the ‘problem’.  They offered her a lot of money and

a contact in Knightsbridge.

‘They’?

The family of the alleged father, of course.  Augusta looked at

Dru as if she was somewhat dense.  But I persuaded her to have

it- your father, I mean.

But who was..?

No proof, but someone with an interest in entomology.

Ent..?

Yes, Berenice was a social butterfly and he netted her.  But he couldn’t

pin her down!  None of us could.  She wanted her freedom and so our

mother took the baby for a while, but she felt her own style was being

cramped, so eventually I arranged for your father to start prep school over

here as a full boarder, at St Birinus.

So, Father has spent his whole life at St Birinus?

Except for when he was at University- yes!  He’s completely

institutionalised.

What happened to Berenice?

We don’t know.  She’s one of the disappeared.  The last we heard

of her she was in Caracas, City of Eternal Spring.  El Libertador

was one of her heroes.

El..?

Simon Bolivar.

Ah. Dru’s South American historical knowledge was rather

vague. Who paid Dad’s fees?

The Wyvern Estate and, once my mother passed on, her demise

hastened by an infected feline scratch, I inherited all the antique

kelims and sold them off, as and when, along with some Iznik tiles,

to cover his ‘extras’.

Fascinating.  Did Berenice ever reveal the paternity of her son?

Not exactly, but she did take Gus to the estate very early on,

before she ran off, to meet some gardener or other.

Gardener?!

He lived in a converted stable block at Wyvern Mote.

But that’s National Trust, surely?

Ah, yes, but I suspect that it was grace and favour ‘accommodation’,

in both senses of the word.  He wasn’t much of a horticulturalist; didn’t

know his dianthus from his agapanthus, from all accounts.

Maybe he was a natural son of the old duke?! Dru’s eyes burned with

revelatory fire.

Peut-etre, surmised her great-aunt, who now looked more favourably

at her visitor.  Look, she said, rummaging in a shoe box.  Oh no,

that’s your father aged six months, lying on a sheepskin in his birthday suit.

Dru averted her gaze.

No, here it is!  Augusta produced a faded sepia image of a man remarkably

like Gus.  He was reclining in a striped deckchair, wearing a Panama hat and

he had a glass in his right hand.  There was a large mansion behind him.

So this is possibly my grandfather?  Dru scrutinised the photo. I wonder what

his name was.

Oh, I call him Eamonn Teabag Grandiflora, Aunt Augusta scoffed wickedly.

All these men in Panama hats look the same- ie/ better when they wear

one.  Compare that Kermit MacDulloch who presented a ‘History of

Christianity’ and then the latest posho who is following him around,

probably with the same camera crew.  They visit the same graffiti and

make identical comments. They are all clones!

Grandiflora?

Well, Seaweed Millefiore, or Hymen Montezuma.  Whatever.  Anyway, your

possible ancestor, whom I call Grandiflora, almost certainly spread his seed

around.  Perhaps like the old duke himself.

So perhaps I have links to aristocracy?

Well, Miss Grandiose, I’d let bygones be bygones, if I were you.

But may I ask you one final question?  Dru was conscious that a storm

was predicted and that she had a long journey back to Bradford-on-Avon.

Fire away! replied the elderly one, nibbling on a cube of Turkish delight and

not offering to share any from the box.

What boarding school did you and Berenice attend? Dru asked.

St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, of course.  But in those days

it was just St Vitus’ for anyone who could pay the fees.  My name is on the

Dux Board over the main stairwell.  Surely you have seen it?

Strange.  ‘Augusta Snodbury’.  Why had she never noticed it? And was there

something in her own genes that constrained her to repeat history?  She

hoped not.

And the way things were going, there may be a future titular amendment

to the establishment at which she earned her crust:  St Vitus’ School might

end up as an Academy for the Academically-Challenged.  Qui sait!

In Disgrace

Tags

Border Terrier, Christmas tree, dog in manger, fairy lights, Noble Fir, Stollen, Youtube

Andy, the Willoughby family’s Border Terrier, was in

disgrace.  That was a pity as he had been the star of their

video card which had scored thousands of hits on Youtube.

But Brassica had caught him in the act of cocking his hind leg

against her Noble Fir, non-shedding Christmas tree and he had

already stolen their Stollen before the shopping had been put

away.

Brassie wished that she could put him in the garden for a while, but

after his recent expensive ingestion of discarded elastic bands,

probably dumped on their drive by a litter lout of a postman, she

decided that the ensuing vet bill would not be worth the moments of

relative peace.  How she wished that there could be a kind of canine

creche, so that he could be a dog in the manger, in keeping with the

spirit of the season.  Failing that, there was always the twins’ old

playpen, but Andy could leap over its sides.

Oh no!  He had spotted the postman coming through the gate and he

immediately leapt onto the forbidden sofa with its new festive throw,

pulling threads with his claws.  He put his front paws on the back and

tangled his rear legs in the flex of a string of fairy lights. He barked furiously

and then Brassie heard the crash of breaking glass and she rushed into the

sitting room, only to discover a Border-shaped hole in the bay window.

The postman had fled down the path and the twins were ordering their

pesky pet to come to heel, a request which he was ignoring as usual.

Brassie, against all her principles, threw the menace a festive chew and

he instantaneously diverted his focus to the treat.

Mum!  Did you see that massive leap?  It was a-ma-zing? Castor enthused.

Pollux added: He didn’t cut himself; he was so fast that he went clean

through it.

Andy looked as if he expected to be congratulated.  He rolled over for

his tummy to be tickled.  The bulbs attached to his back legs were

flashing.

Don’t touch him! she ordered.  You’ll probably be electrocuted or ripped

to shreds by slivers of glass.  Oh, where am I going to get a glazier just

before Christmas? she despaired.

In the local magazine, Castor suggested.

But the local magazine’s latest issue  was lying in the mud along with

a batch of Christmas cards further down the lane.

What is the Subtext?

Tags

Blighty, Bradford on Avon, Caligula, Edward Pevensie, fauns, Laocoon, Lapland, Narnia, Queen of Narnia, sheepskin rug, Turkish Delight, White Witch

Drusilla was back in Blighty after her week in Turkey.  Now she

had to post last minute cards and mark a load of mock papers.

Thank goodness her mother was doing all the Christmas cooking

down in Bradford-on-Avon.  She was enjoying being looked after by

Diana, and her father, Augustus, would arrive for Christmas in a few

days, bringing a goose, apparently, as his festive contribution.

Added to the seasonal burden of activity, she had to make a visit to

Great-Aunt Augusta in Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

She had let her father off the hook, as far as accompanying her,

as he had a prostate appointment, but the demanding self-appointed

materfamilias really preferred to have a one-to-one session with her

new-found female relative, Dru suspected.

Dru telephoned the care home beforehand, to check that the old

battleaxe was still in the Land of the Living.  No use in wasting petrol.

She spoke to switchboard and was connected to her aunt’s room

straight away.

Aunt Augusta?

Yes, dear.  Did you get that money?  I never trust postmen nowadays..

Yes, thank you. I’ll be down on Tuesday afternoon.

You bought the Turkish Delight I asked you to get me?

Of course.

Good.  Edward Pevensie’s favourite!

Who is Edward..? (Maybe it was some old codger she played

at Bridge.)

Haven’t you read the Chronicles of Narnia?  her aunt broke in.

I give sweet things to the staff here.  That’s what The White Witch

did.  Good for controlling minions.

Drusilla began to have serious doubts that she should have indulged

the old bat’s whims, especially if she was going to be manipulative

with the spoils.

Like The Queen of Narnia, her great-aunt had no children of her own

and was probably making a move to adopt her grand-niece.  Great-Aunt

Augusta seemed to share the evil child enslaver’s regal propensity for

focussing on the negative aspects of others’ characters and playing

down any faults of her own.  But the aged relative was actually openly

admitting to corrupting others by creating sugar cravings.

Dru realised that she was genetically linked to a witch!

The next thing will be that she starts to blame lying fauns for her

detected wrongdoings, Dru mused, while the old fiend rattled on.

I’ve looked out all the old photos, Aunt Augusta continued.  There’s

one of your father lying naked on a sheepskin rug, aged about six

months.

Can’t wait, lied Dru.  Oh, someone’s at the door.  Must go!  See you

on Tuesday.

She wasn’t lying.  A member of the allegedly untrustworthy Guild

of Hermes was holding out a contraption on which she had to inscribe

an identifying mark.  He was standing in a veritable Laocoon of elastic

bands.

Merry Christmas, love!  he smiled, holding out a padded envelope which

should have been able to have been slipped through the letterbox. He

was lingering just a fraction too obviously, in keeping with the time of

year.  Ah no, to be fair, it required a signature.

Thanks! replied Dru.  Same to you.  And she shut the door somewhat

distractedly.

For once, the package was actually addressed to her and wasn’t for

the neighbours. It had been re-directed from the school boarding

house.  Gosh!  The office staff must still be working.

What could it be and who was it from?

At least the postperson hadn’t put one of those wretched cards

through the letterbox, necessitating a scurried trip to the office to

collect whatever it was.

She took a creased fiver from her purse and hurried out in her slippers.

He was easy to spot in his luminous waistcoat.

Merry Christmas!  She tipped him just before he chalked some esoteric

symbol on their gate post, which would have meant that their mail

would possibly have been permanently re-directed to Lapland.

Cheers! he grinned, dropping a couple more elastic bands on the path

in his adrenalin rush of greed and pushing his trolley into the lane.

Oh well, Aunt Augusta’s over-generous paper flourish had come in handy

after all. Yet, every gift seemed to be a bribe of one sort or another.

She looked at the sender label on the back of the package.  Cryptically it

only read: “Caligula” and was postmarked as having originated in Cornwall.

She ripped the padded envelope open.  A little black velvet pouch with

drawstrings was revealed.  She pulled the knotted strings and a fine gold

chain with a tiny gold harp slid into the palm of her hand.  A card

accompanied the gift and it said:

To My Angel xx

What is the subtext? she asked herself.

Dru!  Who was that?

No one, she lied.  Just something for the neighbours.

Gut Ache and Heartache

Tags

Classic FM, dirty dancing, Eczane, Fonz, Imodium, leather jacket, melatonin, mid life crisis, Myra, non-U, recessive gene, silk leather, St Nicolas

Augustus Snodbury climbed onto the tour coach.

He was wearing a new ‘silk leather’ jacket (one size too

small) which he had purchased at the factory outlet

they had visited the previous day.  All the men had bought

one, slicking their receding hairlines back in a Fonz-like mime

of an attitudinal stanceattitudes they had never adopted,

even all those decades ago.  It was all down to the dirty

dancing from last night’s tourist show, no doubt.

Diana regarded him with scarcely masked distaste, as she

thought the garment made him look somewhat reptilian and it only

trumpeted his denial of being in a late-mid life crisis.  She mentally

bracketed leather jacket with woodlouse, or Sugar Daddy Long-legs.

No doubt the gyrations of the belly dancer the day before, aimed

specifically at those men in the audience who looked almost neutered,

had stirred the final glowing embers in a camp fire which had been

almost extinguished.  It now seemed that their gas was at a peep,

after all.

Horrid thought!

You’ll never guess...he began, addressing his daughter

and her mother, dragging the pockets down in a vain attempt

to look casual.

Geoffrey Poskett, interrupted Drusilla, getting it in one.

What is he doing here?  Is he stalking us, or what?

Gus looked crestfallen.  His coup de foudre had been

effectively conducted to earth and rendered impactless.

Apparently he and Milford-Haven responded to an advert for

an Anatolian trip, which had been placed in a music publication,

he began to explain.

Not that Classic FM magazine? Diana shuddered.

Gus ignored her and carried on.  They saw it just before half

term.

Milford-Haven?  Is Nigel here too?  Drusilla blushed.

Yes and no, Gus replied, somewhat cryptically.  He ate the

salad last night and forgot to clean his teeth with bottled water,

so he is resting at the hotel today.

Diana ate a pumpkin seed and looked less than riveted. So,

where are they, I mean their group, going next?

Oh, they’re off to Myra to see the the seat of Bishop Nicolas.

After Milford-Haven took the eponymous role in the school

concert he became fascinated by the character and decided to

follow in his footsteps. Odd that they didn’t mention their intended

trip in the staffroom.

Well, did you mention that we were coming here? Diana lobbed

him this query as fast as one of his Junior spin bowlers.

Eh, no.  I don’t recall that I did.

There you are then, she pronounced, spitting a seed into her

handkerchief. Typical man!

Drusilla watched the other coach drive off in a cloud of dust.

Horrors!  Poskett was waving and he blew her a kiss.  It had

been bad enough being under his baton in the concert, but

she had no intention of coming under him in any sense in the

future.  Egotistical little…

She hoped that Nigel would not contract hepatitis, or anything

sinister.  Poor love!

Drusilla!  Her mother bludgeoned her way into her reverie.

What?

Pardon? her mother corrected her.  She was wrong, but Dru let it

pass.  It was the same with napkin and serviette.  So non-U!  But

she had to admit that she was not a Mitford.  A Milford– maybe…but

she drew back from that sociological precipice.  A teacher marrying a

teacher.  It was like two recessive genes intermingling and would

probably result in a freckled offspring, with too much melamine.  Or

was it melatonin?  Whatever, as her boarders said. Anyway, any kid

they might have would look like a bird’s egg.

Eczane, her mother stated. Like Imodium.  That’s what he needs.

I bought some at the pharmacy yesterday, just in case.  We could

have sent him some via Poskett.

But Dru knew that Nigel would require something stronger to

restore his well-being once Poskett had blabbed that he had

missed seeing the angelic harpist who had tugged so endearingly

at their heartstrings in the concert. And all because he was lying in a

bed of sickness. (Horrible metaphor!)

Homage to Cappadocia

Tags

amphitheatre, Aspendos, Ataturk, Britten, Cappadocia, dervish, evil eye, feral cat, minaret, Pigeon Valley, pomegranate, Taurus mountains, Turkey

A crescent moon hangs over the airport,

its smoky aura a faded flag

unfurling to greet weary travellers.

The sun rises on fierce Taurus mountains,

while an orange seller opens his stall,

ready to squeeze any thirsty tourists,

dud Ataturk coinage at the ready.

Jewelled pomegranate juice is bitter:

Bitte schon, bitte schon, the fervent cry.

From the coach window slim minarets pass,

jabbing upward like propelling pencils,

whose secret calligraphy is noting

Islamic history on the skyscape.

In a field a lone cotton-picker wears

a balaclava-benign terrorist.

His eyes meet mine for a second’s fraction.

In the amphitheatre at Aspendos

a pseudo Roman centurion climbs

purposefully up the marble ledges,

kisses my hand; claims we’ll be together

forever, because he wants a photo

which he can charge me for, striking a pose.

Rebuffed, he then looks ready to crumble

like the masonry and retreats backwards,

dropping a five lira note in his wake,

sad confetti for a failed love affair.

I disentangle myself from a scarf

draped round my neck by a woman who knows

how to persuade me that her gift is free.

A straight-jacket of guilt ensures her sale.

Blue, glass evil eye is pinned to my chest,

but fails to protect me from bargaining

for a fine silk carpet I did not want.

A feral cat stretches over roof tiles

and a sandy dog curls up in the sun.

Soon the call to prayer will be ascending.

The dervish will rotate one final time,

realising his tomb is not on Earth,

but in the hearts of the enlightened.

How can I ever be his resting place

when all I see is from a moving pane?

Mum, that’s really good.  You should publish it online when

we get back, encouraged Drusilla Fotheringay who was

looking over her mother’s shoulder as she wrote her

perceptions down in her diary.  Show it to Dad.

They were sitting in the sun at Pigeon Valley, having some

apple tea before going on to The Fairy Chimneys.

No, your father would correct it with red ink and would give me

a mark out of ten.  Once the teacher..

Mum, are you two going to get together, do you think, or….?

She looked around for her father, but he was standing looking

out across the chasm and appeared to be deep in conversation

with someone from the other tourist coach.  The same company

was shifting various groups around the sites in a different order,

but today they seemed to have their charges in synch.

Both men were wearing cotton hats and very similar long shorts,

their look completed with orthopaedic sandals and dark socks.

It was then that she noted that they wore identical t-shirts

emblazoned with Britten Concert Dec 2013, St Birinus Middle School.

The face of the other conversationalist seemed familiar.

Mum, Drusilla whispered.  Don’t look now, but it’s that conductor guy-

you know, the one from the school concert.

Mr Poskett? replied her mother.  Oh, what a bore!  What’s he doing

here?

I don’t know. Your evil eye amulet doesn’t seem to be

working!  You should ask for a refund!  Look out!  Here he comes!

Dona Nobis Pacem

Tags

ballista, ballistics, Bitcoin, catapults, Conservation Area, Cowes, Damascus Road, Evilbay, guillotines, gun emplacement, Jim Davidson, Mons Meg, No Man's Land, patio heater, Philistinism, pocket artillery, Royal Yacht Squadron, solar panels, Solent, sphinx, trebuchets

Carrie was livid. What’s up? I enquired.

Oh, is there no peace nowadays?

Not for the wicked, I joked, but she threw me a warning flash.

I discovered Nutwood Cottage fifteen years ago and we chose to live

there because it was in an area of outstanding beauty, in a Conservation

Area, she elucidated.  Now I feel like selling up and going to live in one of

those gun emplacements out in The Solent.

You can’t afford a helicopter, I cautioned.  And anyway, No Man’s Land,

as I think one of them is called, is now a luxury hotel.

Well, I feel as if I am under siege where we are, she went on.  If it’s not

foliage encroachment, it is trampoline torture; screaming from swimming

pools; asphyxiation by barbecue and aural harassment by barking pooches.

No wonder I want to live somewhere fort-like which would probably only

be susceptible to nuclear attack.

Yes, I conceded.  It is irritating having to bag other people’s leaves… 

..And having one’s sight lines obstructed by ugly garden houses

constructed of a melamine-like material is equally annoying,

she continued.  I mean, why do we seek planning permission to

maintain mellow brickwork with lime mortar to give the vulgarians

a subtle view, when they are hell-bent on foisting their nouveau taste

on us?

’tis a mystery..I consoled her. I too have been rendered temporarily

sightless like Paul on the Damascus Road, by glare from solar panels

and have been deafened by the mosquito-like whine from turbines.

But what can one do in this age of Philistinism?

Pocket artillery, she pronounced.

What are you talking about? I asked her. Are you referring to

something like those twenty two cannons they fire at The Royal

Yacht Squadron at Cowes?

Yes, and no, she said, Sphinx-like in her expression.  Actually,

I saw some mini cannons to end all mini cannons on Evilbay.

Evilbay?!

Yeah, she clarified.  You can load the muzzle and they pack quite

a punch with a firework fuse.  You can pay for them with Bitcoin.

You don’t need wadding and the range is about one hundred yards- enough to

blast the charred sweetcorn from anticipatory gobs.

Carrie!  I was shocked at her language- less so at the concept, though

I suspected the practice might be illegal.

Actually, maybe you could send me the link?

They have trebuchets, catapults, ballista and guillotines as well.

Golly, ballista?- I thought that was a waiter in an upmarket coffee shop,

I admitted. Only kiddin’, but hmm..no, the cannons should suffice.  Do

they have-say- any in Mons Meg sizes?  Maybe too over the top for an

urban garden, though?

I’ll investigate and let you know.  Ha ha!  Light my fire, you losers!

She was getting carried away! I don’t think you even need a licence

if they are pre- 1939.

Wow! Watch out, urban bullies with a taste for hacienda life, no doubt

acquired by too many Andalusian jollies in the 1970s, when you brought

back ceramic house number plaques along with your straw donkeys, later

expanding your aesthetic horizons to take in mosaic garden furniture and a

smoking chiminea, which you sit alongside, warmed by patio heaters and

becoming progressively sozzled in the cool night air of an English Indian

summer, cackling mindlessly at some stale Jim Davidson jocularities

recounted by an idiot, signifying nothing.

Trust you to rant in Shakespearean lingo, Candia!

So, it’s backyard ballistics then? I was running out of rhetoric.

It’s the only way to fire them a broadside, she stated firmly.

But you will apply for planning permission before you mount

weaponry on your gateposts to propel some roast potatoes to

complement their al fresco menus?

Of course, she scowled.  What do you take me for- a barbarian?

No comment, I replied.

Sole Legatee

Tags

Antalya, belly dancer, Bosphorus, Britten, Cappadocia, caravanserai, chick peas, Damien HIrst, dervish, Early Church Fathers, For The Love of God, pacemaker, palazzo pants, pomegranate, Stansted

Drusilla Fotheringay had excelled herself in the end of term

Christmas concert.  Her performance on the harp had

charmed the audience of parents, staff and pupils and

had deeply impressed Geoffrey Poskett, the choirmaster

of St Birinus Middle School.

Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master, had been fully supported

in his Britten solos and could see that this could be a partnership

made in Heaven- possibly a marriage planned in Paradise.  He had

only taken his eye off the conductor’s baton once, in order to beam

encouragement in Dru’s direction and consequently earned himself

a deep frown and a strong downward beat from his tense colleague.

Now Drusilla was looking forward to a trip that she and her parents

had organised earlier in the term.  It involved some Turkish delight

in the wintry sun of Cappadocia, so they were flying from Stansted to

Antalya forthwith.  They were going to view some strange geology and

Augustus Snodbury had been revising the theology of the Early Church

Fathers.

Dru opened yet another congratulatory card -this one from Juniper

Boothroyd-Smythe.  She knew that she had scored a hit in settling the

potentially delinquent student into her boarding house.  The card showed

a not particularly cheery image: it had a Damien Hirst For the Love of God

skull on its front, but Juniper had super-imposed a Santa hat which hung

down in a somewhat louche manner, over its glittery sockets.

Other less original pupils had sent her a robin with a standard wish that

she would have an a-ma-zing time in Cappadoccia, Capadoccia, or in other

orthographically challenging destinations.  Why did they never bother about

spelling?  In her day..Oh well, it was the end of term, so why should she get

her palazzo pants in a tangle?

She wondered if they would be warm enough for a hot air balloon

trip.  They had been packed and unpacked several times, but she

felt, on the whole, that they would preserve her dignity if the landing

was less than smooth.

She gathered up the wrapping paper and boxes which contained last

year’s unwanted toiletries which had formed the basis of some of the

girls’ presents, no doubt cobbled together by their mothers.  These could

go straight to Help the Ancient charity shop, if they had not derived their

origin from hence.

But, hold on!  What was that letter that was sticking to some clear plastic

wrapping by static?  Someone had forgotten to stick a stamp on it, but the

postman must have delivered it in a spirit of goodwill, or because he received

a tip at this time of year and didn’t want to jeopardise the custom. At any

other time, there would only have been a card with a sticker instructing her

to pay a pound if she wanted to come and collect whatever it was.

Dru tore it open impatiently and a grubby five pound note fell out of a

letter. It had come from Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry

and the calligraphy was somewhat shaky.

She read:

Dear Grand-Niece, (spelt correctly, she noted)

It was good to see you and your father recently.  I do hope that you

will both manage to fit in a visit in your copious free time and will

endeavour to remember not to leave bottles in the car.

The chocolates were slightly past their sell-by date, unlike moi, I can

assure you.  I off-loaded them on the auxiliary staff, who having lost their

bloom didn’t mind devouring the chocolate variety.  They disappeared in

a twinkling.  The chocolates I mean..

Thank you for the letter which informed me of your holiday plans.

Don’t drink the tap water and eschew all salads, there’s a good girl.

Believe you me, I have suffered on several caravanserai trips in my

girlhood.  If it wasn’t my camel allergy, it was those blooming chick peas.

To this day, I refuse to clean my dentures with anything other than gin.

I suppose you’ll be whirling around like some dervish, packing your clothes.  I

thought I’d enclose a little something, but don’t spend it all in one bazaar.

And remember to take a toothpick.  Those pomegranate seeds used to give

me the pip.

Thank you for your photograph.  I can see the family resemblance:

the Snodbury jowls prevail.  My mother has evidently influenced your

DNA.  Mind you, we always suspected that she had had a fling with a

carpet seller in her days of gallivanting round the Bosphorus.  Still, it

saved us all a mint in suntan lotion.  A swarthy complexion can be a

problem in wearing certain hues, though, darling, and so I just give you

a little hint: yellow is not your colour.

We actually had a belly dancer here last week, arranged through our

cultural programme in the Activities Room.  One old boy had to be lifted

out as he was immobilised at the conclusion.  No doubt he enjoyed the

gyration of the nubile, if not so youthful, genie, but most of us

would just prefer the bottle.  They were able to re-set his pacemaker,

fortunately.

Forgive my rambling.  Must go and investigate why the drinkies are late.

Look forward to hearing all about your travels on your return.

Who knows? If we continue to get on so well, I just might make you my

sole legatee.

Merry Christmas.

Your Great-Aunt Augusta.