Much Marcle

Tags

ark, Blanche Mortimer, dove symbol, Jairus daughter, Much Marcle, Noah, tomb effigy, Tyburn, wood pigeons

Brassica sighed, When will this rain ever stop?  I feel like

Noah’s wife, looking out the window of the ark, willing a dove

to return with some symbol of meteorological hope.

You’ll be lucky, I laughed.  Doves are an endangered species

now.  They’ve been superseded by b*** great wood pigeons.

We were trying to make the best of yet another grey morning.

There was no chance of a walk as the bridleways have been

churned up to quagmire status by numerous bike tyres.

At least it is cosy in the cafe.

Did you read online that the remains of Blanche Mortimer have

miraculously been found in her tomb in Much Marcle, after over

600 years? Brassie ventured, somewhat ironically.

Well, where else would they be?

Oh, apparently remains were often buried in the ground

underneath these tombs, rather than actually IN them, she

explained.

I remember going there last year, to see the famous beautiful

tomb effigy, I remarked, but when we got there, the cupboard was

bare.

What do you mean?

They’d taken the tomb away for restoration.

That must have been a disappointment.

I hate it when Brassie practises her counselling reflecting speak

on me.  You know, like interviewers saying: So, how did it make you

feel? when it is patently obvious.  Still, it is supposedly a conversational

indication that someone is actually listening to you, so I let it pass.

It was like the disciples going to the tomb and finding that the body

wasn’t there.  All the more ironic as we visited at Easter! I replied.

So was your husband annoyed that you’d driven all that way for

nothing?

There she goes again!

Probably. I didn’t ask him.  Anyway, I wrote a poem about it.

We haven’t had one of those for a while, Candia.

I’ll e-mail it to you as an attachment.

Gosh!  Can you do that?  I have to ask Cosmo to do all that computer

stuff.  Of course, the twins are whizzes at IT.

Don’t worry your pretty little head! I smiled.  He can open it for

you later tonight.

Miracle in Much Marcle

It’s Good Friday: we are driving eastwards

through drifted fields, where ewes have lost their lambs.

Arriving early at the church, its latch

gives mercifully and so we enter,

stumbling into a chancel of pure light.

Attention is diverted to others

who lie in a petrified majesty:

a metaphysical conceit in stone.

Where is the wimpled beauty, tight-buttoned

sleeve?  We want to gaze on serene eyelids.

We’d like to witness Jairus’ daughter

miraculously wake before the end

of Time. This childless spouse, unknown daughter,

took to sleep, shutting out her father’s death

at Tyburn; his treachery with a queen;

his complicity in vile regicide.

Unprepared for absence’s disclosure,

we’re disappointed- not as disciples

who found a luminescent gardener.

There’s no grave mole-catcher to interview.

She has risen; there has been a Rapture.

We see that her heraldic tomb has gone

in the twinkling of an eye and no cloth,

no folded linen’s there- just vacancy,

where Blanche, her sins as white as snowy wool,

blank as a virgin, slept in innocence.

We read she has gone for restoration;

but surmise transfiguration took place

almost a millennium ago.

Centuries have tolled through her long fingers,

each bead once a prayer for deliverance:

for ours; not hers, that having been achieved.

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Immortal Memory

Tags

Auld lang Syne, caber, Clyde, Cutty Sark, First Lady, Gay Gordons, haggis, Holy Willie, Immortal Memory, John Barleycorn, Red Rose, Sassenach, Selkirk Grace, Sevres vase, soor ploom, Steinway, Strathspeys, Strip the Willow, Tam O' Shanter, tea clipper

Aye, hullo there!  It’s Candia again, dear devotees.  I’m

just recovering from delivering The Immortal Memory speech at

the PTA Burns Supper at St Birinus’ Middle School.

And what a night it was!  Snodbury did fairly well as Master of

Ceremonies, considering he’s a Sassenach.  The School Chaplain

stuttered over The Selkirk Grace, but by then he’d already had a

wee dram.  Or two!

I sat on the top table, next to the School Secretary and Diana

Fotheringay, who seemed to be the partner of The Acting Head.  I

don’t know how she knew him. She seems to be rather an efficient

social climber.  She may have been discomfited by the secretarial

attentions directed at her beau during the evening.  However,

they were probably professionally-motivated.  (Perhaps that’s

the excuse Hollande gave to his First Lady before she took herself

off to hospital, allegedly smashing a Sevres vase or two on the way.

Anyway, Snodbury looked like a floribunda between two thorns.

One of the Junior Masters got up on his hind legs and sang A Red,

Red Rose, to continue the botanical metaphor.  He was accompanied

on the school Steinway by the choirmaster.  It was quite a poignant

rendition and the tenor seemed greatly affected until he had difficulty

with the top note and blushed at his underachievement.

Consequently the choirmaster could not help his facial expression,

which was akin to that of a disgruntled man who had just peed

on a thistle.

Frankly, he should have transposed the key for an amateur performer.

The local publicans had been grouped together on The John Barleycorn

table and members of the clergy were drumming their toasting glasses

on their Holy Willies table.  By the time they were hauled up to their

feet by Sixth Form girls who had waited on their table, to tapselteerie

some Strathspeys, they had managed to steady themselves, under

the vigilant gazes of their soor ploom wives.

I enjoyed stabbing the haggis, though I shall be sending the school

my dry cleaning bill.

Tam O’ Shanter went down well and at least everyone now knows that

Cutty Sark is more than an eighteenth century tea clipper built on The

Clyde.  The Sixth Form girls adequately demonstrated this sartorial

point in their dress code for the evening.

I observed a flash of seamed stocking in The Bluebells of Scotland.  The

School Secretary was ubiquitous and strategically placed herself next to

Snodbury for Auld Lang Syne.  It annoys me when people ignorantly add for

the sake of  to a perfectly crafted line.  Still, they don’t know any better.

Curiously, Diana Fotheringay didn’t seem too concerned.  Mind you, with

legs like that on display, I could see the attraction would wear off. I’m

referring to Snodbury’s hirsute limbs, of course.  Cabers don’t come into

it!

Poskett, the choirmaster, walked out at The Loyal Toast.  He fancies

himself as a Republican!  Or he just fancies himself, full-stop!

I saw that he had to be partnered by the songster in The Gay Gordons,

but I doubt this had any sexual significance.

Well, Rabbie, we did you proud.  The staff didn’t seem to fraternise with the

parents over much, however.  One father seemed very much out on a limb

until that rather heavily-jowled Housemistress from St Vitus’– no doubt

released on good behaviour for the evening, scooped him up to Strip the

Willow. He wasn’t a bad looking chap.  I sneaked a look at the name on his

place card- it was Maxwell, or Boothroyd-Something.  Maybe he’s responsible

for that infamous troublemaker in Castor and Pollux’s class.

The last sighting I had of the deflated songster was of him hanging around

the fringes, like a knotless thread on a tartan travelling rug.  His eyes were

fixated on the Housemistress as she whirled around the floor with Poskett,

the choirmaster.

I should think that he has no chance and no worries regarding Poskett.  Her

gaze was continually resting on that Maxwell fellow.

Diana’s Diary 2

Tags

Burns' Night, chicklit, e-book, Elvis, Flower of Scotland tartan, ghillie brogues, Heath and Safety Officer, Heavyweight kilt, Izaak Walton, Juniper, Pele Tower, Phytophora, Presleys of Aberdeenshire, Prince Charlie jacket, PTA, skean dhu, trout fishing

I mustn’t look back now that I have re-located to Suttonford.  I can

hardly believe that it is almost Burns’ Night.  Wonder what my ex,

Murgatroyd, is doing?  Probably having a ceilidh in his converted Pele

Tower in the Borders.  No, don’t go there..

Called in to meet another of Sonia’s friends last night.  She was quite

an eccentric old lady in her nineties and, although it was very early in

the evening, she insisted on pouring us very large measures of

something hideously like fire-water, which she referred to as Dewlap’s

Gin for the Discerning Grandmother.  There was very little tonic in it.

There followed a monologue about the decline in juniper plants in the

South of England.  Apparently rabbits are eating them and No. 3

London Gin is subsidising the protection of the few remaining bushes in

Sussex.  They seem to be succumbing to a disease called Phytophora

austro-something or other- the plants, not the rabbits.  The old dear

was quite distraught at the thought of her little tipple being affected.

Not so little, actually!

We were talking about the PTA Burns’ Supper and Ginevra, for that

was the old biddy’s name, was surprisingly informative about where

Gus could hire a kilt and all the gear.  She used to live in Scotland too,

nearly a century ago.

Apparently there is a place in Southampton that sends the whole outfit

out, if you book it on-line.

The Health and Safety Officer at school has vetoed the skean dhus,

though.  Says they could be construed as dangerous and menacing

weapons.

I e-mailed Gus later from Ginevra’s, to pass on the information and to

say that I would come along as his guest.  Ginevra is quite au fait with

the internet and so on and even showed me her latest e-book!  It

seemed fairly racy.

She called it Broilerlit and, when I queried the term, she explained that after

chicklit came henlit, and finally, broilerlit, written by authors of the Third Age.

Much later, when we finally dragged ourselves away, so that Magda, the old

lady’s carer could put her to bed, Gus actually phoned me on my mobile.

He told me that there is to be a band and caller and the School Secretary has

organised an auction, with prizes, such as a day’s trout fishing with tuition

which will tickle the gills of any budding Izaak Walton.

She- The School Secretary-I don’t recall her name-had already ordered

ghillie brogues, a Prince Charlie jacket and Heavyweight kilt in the Presley

tartan for him, seeing as Gus has no clan connections.  So, she must be

quite efficient, after all.

However, he didn’t fancy the Elvis theme, in spite of the Presleys being

genuinely originally from Aberdeenshire.  So she swapped the cloth to

Flower of Scotland, which certainly sounds more traditional, though it may

be universally worn, with no affiliation required.

Sonia is going to lend me her long, bottle green satin dress and a tartan

stole, if the moths haven’t got into it.

I’m a little worried about Gus’ legs and I can’t bear to speculate as to

whether he will, or won’t be wearing anything underneath.

Let’s just hope that it is not a windy night, in any sense of the adjective.

I’m glad he opted for the Heavyweight!

Cheerio for now, as they say!

Diary of a Lax Mistress

Tags

Bradford on Avon, Burns Supper, Calais, clairvoyant, cliche, Dalrieda, diaspora, estuary, Heraclitus, Immortal Memory, lacrosse, Mary Tudor, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, New Year Resolution, parsing, Robert Burns, St Vitus, straightjacket

Not ‘lax‘ in any moral sense, you understand, Dear Diary.  Just an

abbreviation for that energising and energetic sport which I once

taught all those years ago when I was a fresh-faced sports

mistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, that

educational establishment now served by my one and only

daughter, Drusilla.

Lacrosse, how indebted I am to you for my trim figure in late

middle- no, change that-early middle age.

My New Year Resolution was to record in your pages an unfolding

record of my life as I turn my back on Bradford-on-Avon and return

to Suttonford, or environs thereof.  I could castigate myself by

declining to add a preposition in the final position of a sentence,

but, Dear Inquisitive Reader, I am not allowing such an intrusion

into these highly personal pages. I can assure you that ‘thereof’

is actually an adverb.  So, Parse that! as my primary teacher used

to say to me.

Apparently all that pedantic wrangling and linguistic strait-jacketing is-

new hate word- ‘prescriptive‘, so we can write what the ….we like!

Having spoken to Sonia, my old friend, ex-colleague and godmother to my

child, I was persuaded to come and lodge with her while my cottage is on

the market.  Diana, she urged, Feel free to stay as long as you’d like.

So, here I am in Royalist House, 3 3/4 High Street. Suttonford.

Will this new chapter of my life include Augustus?  I should ask Sonia; she

claims to be a clairvoyant.

Gus has frankly been a bit of a bore recently.  We were all three en famille at

Christmas and our pre-festivities Turkish trip was delightful, but since he

assumed this Acting Head harness, he has shown a distinct lack of

delegation. I don’t know what he expects his School Secretary to do.

Well, maybe I don’t want to know, Dear Diary!

Last night he was moaning on the telephone about the fixtures list having

been published on the Calendar he inherited. Apparently, he has been left

to fill in the subtle logistical details.

The Fundraising Burns’ Supper for the PTA is a current example.

He hasn’t even booked the speaker for The Immortal Memory yet.

Did I know anyone who could deliver it?  I ask you.  I’ve only just arrived

in the community.

Why should I?

It all leads me to question our compatibility.  I am not that burbling stream

that he once paddled in and which scarcely covered the ankles of his

gumboots.  No, the mighty river of my post-menopausal personality would

probably engulf his emotional waders, to continue an aquaeous metaphor,

and would sweep him off his feet, into a tidal estuary.

Maybe his Classical learning has influenced my subconscious and transmitted

some Heraclitean analogy concerning never being able to step in the same

river twice.  We have both moved on, I fear.

We emerged from the house into the street and immediately were almost

knocked over by a child on an aluminium scooter.  Sonia didn’t see that

coming.

Our physical evasion led us to bump-literally-into a neighbour of Sonia’s,

namely an interesting looking woman called Candia Dixon-Stuart.  She was also

on her way to the infamous Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe, in order to

meet a friend, and so we fell into step.

Her Jacobite surname, albeit hyphenated, led me to the most serendipitous

idea.

I asked her if she knew of anyone who could give some readings of the Bard’s

works at an impending Burns Supper.

She immediately replied, I can, of course.  Although I live in Suttonford, you

may detect a hint of the Caledonian in my genetic code.  Prick me and do I not

exude a few drops of blue blood from the Kingdom of Dalrieda?!

I took this as an affirmative and she drew my attention to a clan badge that

she wore on her lapel.  I did not know if this indicated an invitation to

remove it and plunge its pin into her soft and yielding flesh.  I did not

doubt that, eviscerated, her remains would bear the motto: Nemo Me

Impune Lacessit just as indelibly as that other Mary had the word:

Calais stamped on her heart, or running right through her like a stock

of seaside rock.

Over a couple of cappuccinos, she introduced us to her friend, Carrie,

who turned out to be half Italian and half Scottish.  Gosh, these Scots

certainly had some diaspora and spread their seed around like some

blown thistledown.

Carrie told me that her mother- Morag!- a stereotypical name- would have

come down had she not been performing at various Masonic associations

and venues north of the border.

Very kind, but somehow I think Candia is our woman and she will ‘step up

to the plate‘ to re-circulate a current, over-used metaphor: isn’t that a cliche?

I gave her Gus’ number and am half-inclined to allow him to take me along as

his guest of honour.  There are bound to be some spare tickets and, frankly,

this new acquaintance intrigues me.

Laughter: the Best Medicine!

Tags

biltong, Brocklehurst, Disney princess, Harrods, Jane Eyre, latte lounger, Liverpool Pathway, Madwoman in the Attic, marshmallows, Mcdonalds, primrose path, tiara

Brassie and I are in danger of becoming latte loungers– you know,

like those Koreans who hang around McDonalds, sharing a bag of

fries for hours on end.  Only we don’t eat chips.  We daren’t.

Another problem is that we don’t want to spend money on sweet

things which will make us fat.  It doesn’t take long to drink one cup

of anything.  Then each is thinking, I must go!  But we have a lot more

to say and we keep on talking.  We wouldn’t hang around if there

was a queue for a seat and table, but we are aware that we

probably overstay our commercial viability.

What have you been up to recently? I was asked.

Oh, just re-reading some Bronte novels.  What about you?

I’ve just been to the GP, remarked Brassica.

Everything okay?  I asked her.

Oh, just a couple of things I wanted to have checked.

Whom did you see?  I was feeling pedantic!

The first one I could get an appointment with, she replied.

Dr Brocklehurst I think it was, but they’re all the same.

The name sounds familiar, I reflected aloud.

None of them wants to actually lay a finger on you and you can

see them counting up their hours on a claims sheet. They can’t

wait to turn their backs on you and log on to their computer.  You

can see them typing Caps Lock-‘M’ for ‘Mad Woman.’

You need to wake them up by inserting a key word like ‘depression’,

or ‘meaninglessness,’ I suggested.  They really like something that

can be ticked in a box.  They are quite disappointed if you refuse

antidepressants and stubbornly insist on having an antibiotic, or,

even more outrageously, ask for a blood test.  But, anyway, what did

he say?

He said, Do you know where patients with your symptoms end up?

I replied, I think they go to hospital eventually.

And what might you mean by a ‘hospital’? he urged.

A unit where you might be abandoned on a trolley, dehydrated until you

resemble biltong and then perhaps put on the primrose path to the

everlasting bonfire, aka The Liverpool Pathway, I retorted.

I was surprised at Brassie’s vehemence.

Well, would you like a referral? he asked grudgingly.

No, not on your life, or on anyone’s.  Brassie was adamant.

So, how might you prevent this?  Brocklehurst interrogated.

I must keep in good health, not eat sugar and avoid coming here,

avowed Brassie.

That’s odd, I broke in.  This dialogue reminds me very much of

something I read in ‘Jane Eyre’.

What?  Are you typecasting me for a role as Madwoman in the Attic?

Brassie queried.

Only based on what I was told yesterday, I teased.  I heard that,

as pack leader, you’ve been indulging those pugs of yours in some bizarre

scheme which just might undermine any claim to sanity that you had left.

Well, at least I didn’t treat my daughter to a Disney Princess experience

at Harrods! she exclaimed.  Parting with £1,000 for that would be insane.

But you don’t have a daughter, do you? I pointed out.

Well, if I did…she excused her gaffe.

Don’t look now! I advised.  I could see in the reflection of the metal coffee

machine a woman coming in with a child dressed in a pink tulle dress with

a plastic tiara on its head.

Hi, Susan, Brassie greeted the woman.  Hello, Tallulah!  Are you not at

school today?

The scowling child banged a wand on the table and demanded

marshmallows on her hot chocolate.

She’s been suspended, confessed Susan in a whisper.

But she’s only eight!  Brassie was shocked.

Tiaras contravene the uniform code apparently and she won’t take

it off.  Susan looked at the end of her tether.  She thinks she really

is a Princess and has a Divine Right.

But only married women wear tiaras and only after dark, I said loudly.

Anyone with blue blood and of a royal house knows that.

I sneered at the child behind her mother’s back.  So last year! I

added.

Tallulah scraped the foam from the bottom of her mug and licked the

spoon. Then she snatched the plastic coronet off her head and broke

it in two.

I’m really bored now, she advised her minion, I mean ‘mother‘.  Let’s go

back to school.

And that meant that Costamuchamoulah wasn’t quite so crowded, so

Brassie and I didn’t feel pressurised  to place another order.

We hadn’t even begun to update ourselves with the latest on Suttonford

residents’ previous weekend activities and were warming up to an in depth

analysis.

But then Dr Brocklehurst came in with his laptop and squeezed into the seat

at the corner table.  We thought it was time to go.  So much for the

damnation of the white stuff- sugar- I mean: his hot chocolate was laden

with mini- marshmallows and liberally dusted with sprinklies.

Maybe Costamuchamoulah pays him in complementaries to come in and

clear the regulars!

Barking!

Tags

Alpha male, Blackberry, Deputy Dawg, Dogtanian, DOGTV, Hound of the Baskervilles, mobile app, separation anxiety, sheepdog trials, SmartDog, stress medication, treat dispenser

Carrie had been giving directions to a woman who asked her where

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe was.  While she was indicating its

location to the caffeine pilgrim, ie/ that it was right behind her, the

woman was gazing fixedly into her Blackberry and was only half listening.

She clearly distrusted any information unless she could verify it from

her phone.

Okay, darling.  Love ya, she called off.

Semi-exasperated, Carrie said:  Look, I’m going there myself. 

Just follow me.

Minutes later she was regaling this to me as we settled into our

corner for a couple of lattes and a natter.

What’s up? I asked her.  You look a bit stressed.

Oh, it’s just that I’ve been worried about the pugs lately.  We seem

to leave them alone for ages at a time.

But your au pair, Magda, is around, isn’t she?

Not really.  Now that the kids have gone back to school, Magda

is more and more occupied round at Gyles’ mother’s.

But they have each other for company, surely?  I tried to appear

concerned.

Yes, I suppose so, but Brassie was saying that when the boys

went back, Andy, the Border, was going ballistic being home alone. 

He chewed Cosmo’s Christmas present from Castor- an astronomy

book.

He’s always been difficult, I pointed out.  Alpha male and all that.

Hmm..maybe the dog is mimicking his behaviour.

I meant the dog, silly!

Oh.  Anyway, Brassie told me that she’s been watching a programme

about the secret lives of Man’s Best Friend and it showed what dogs

got up to when their owners are out.  They’re psychologically disturbed

and have separation anxiety.

The owners? I was trying to be funny.

Both, I suppose.  It’s mutual.  Well, Brassie has enrolled Andy in a kind

of doggy creche where he receives stimulation and activities.

I bet he likes milk and biscuit time the best, I laughed, but sobered up

when I considered whether owners would receive tax breaks or

vouchers from the government.  She must have more money than

sense, I concluded.

I suppose you won’t approve of me either. Carrie looked somewhat

shame-faced.

Why?  What have you done?

Don’t tell Gyles, but I’ve ordered a device called ‘SmartDog’ which

incorporates a web camera, microphone and treat dispenser.  I’m

going to mount it on the kitchen wall and, using the mobile app, I will

be able to see the pugs, even when I’m out and about.

I don’t believe this!

Candia!  Please!  I’m going to record a message and then I can speak

to them.  There’s even a sensor which means that they can call me.

Right, I remonstrated.  So, what you’re saying is that when you’re

having a conversation with me, your dog or dogs can interrupt and can

receive instant gratification and attention?  It’s bad enough being put on

hold in the real world by people sidelining you while they chat to their

children or friends, who just cut in on your quality time with a real

presence.

It improves interaction, Carrie continued, less confidently.

Not with your fellow humans, I insisted.  I mean, whatever next?!

Oh, DOGTV, Carrie carried on, ruining my rhetorical device.  It’s

24/7 and encourages dog playfulness.  It reduces the need for stress

medication.

In whom?  I bet that there will be a dogfight when the twins come home

if Andy has the remote.  Or will they all watch The Hound of the Baskervilles

together?  Or maybe repeats of Dogtanian, sheepdog trials, Deputy Dawg

cartoons, or A Hundred and One Dalmations?

Oh, you’re so cynical, Candia!

We heard a mobile phone ring.  The woman whom Carrie had shown in

answered it.  Yes, sweetheart, I know.  Poor Diddums.  Mummy won’t be long

Do you want a treat?  You do?  Okay, lovey.  See you very soon.  Lots of love.

She’s obviously got SmartDog. Carrie’s eyes dilated with awe and envy.

Maybe that’s why she’s on her own, I speculated.  This is a genuine case

of the dog wagging the tail, and not the converse.  Personally, I think

she’s barking!

.

Pastoral Care

Tags

allotment, Bourbon biscuit, child benefit, Cincinnatus, dibbling, harrowing, in loco parentis, internecine, open question, Pastoral Care, ploughing, Polar vortex, Protestant reformation, seamed stockings, smallholding, spyware, toga, Type 2 diabetes, William Morris Willow Bough Minor, work ethic, yoke of oxen

 

Gisela Boothroyd-Smythe and her newly ex-husband, Maxwell,

sat at opposite ends of the William Morris Willow Bough Minor

upholstered sofa in Acting Head, Augustus Snodbury’s study.

He had called both warring factions into school for a review of

their delinquent son’s Autumn term.  The emotional temperature

in the room reflected the physical Polar Vortex being experienced

elsewhere.

Snod opened the large file on his desk.  Gisela rubbed her heel on

the rug, exacerbating the hole which had been initiated many

parental meetings before.  She twisted the wedding ring which she

now wore on her right hand.

Maxwell sat with his legs splayed, trying to make himself appear

bigger.

Attendance…hmm..almost perfect.  Maths and Science very good.

Arts subjects: ‘a facility with words’, as his form teacher, Mr

Milford-Haven has so succinctly put it in his summative report.

Everything seems to boil down to John’s problematic attitude to

authority and his lack of empathy towards his peers.

He is a bit of an individual, Maxwell broke in and his ex-wife scowled

at him.

I understand that both children are now boarding, Snod re-directed.

He felt that this was one of those open questions, couched in a

declarative which might open up discussion.  He was surprised to

hear himself employing the technique.

Ye Gods Above! I must have been inadvertently listening at the last

Training Session, he silently marvelled.

Gisela cleared her throat.  Em, yes.  Juniper feels that she has more

freedom at school.

That’s because you set up spyware to find out what she was up to,

interrupted Maxwell.

Maybe, but you didn’t have to inform the Child Benefit people that she

was not with me sufficiently to merit a payment, recriminated Gisela.

Now, let’s stick to the point, Snod intervened.  He had almost added

‘children’.  Both offspring seem to have become more calm with the

schools being ‘in loco parentis’.

Gisela and Maxwell forgot their differences to exchange an

uncomprehending glance.  Neither had studied Latin.

I think, concluded Snod, that participation in the school concert

definitely improved his co-operative skills. Life is all about teamwork

(What a load of old jargon, he admonished himself.)

Of course, individuation can be a positive.  After all, it led to The

Protestant Reformation.  It’s all a matter of cultivating the work

ethic.

Personally I hate teams, he admitted to himself.  Unless, of course,

they are of the cricketing or choral varieties.  In every other realm I

prefer to calculate my own decisions and work out how to achieve my

own goals.

He recalled the image of one of his personal heroes.  There had been a

pen and ink drawing of Cincinnatus wearing a shorty toga and perhaps a

laurel wreath, depicted in Gus’ own boyish Latin textbook.

There he was, the great dictator, minding his own business, in an agrarian

backwater, furrowing a field in retirement, when he was called upon to

leave the plough and to govern through the crisis of an invasion of three

intercenine tribes.

Imagine how pointless it would have been if Cincinnatus’ governance skills,

finely honed through harrowing, had been hampered by him having to drag a

yoke of useless dead oxen after him! Snod opined to himself. No, sometimes,

it is better to just get on and do things yourself.  Certainly in this line of

business it’s the case.

He quickly re-grouped his thought processes, releasing his

linked fingers.

Well,  I won’t detain you, knowing that you are both Very Busy People.

Flattery could get you everywhere.

And he stood up, remaining behind the desk, because he had seen

his GP do the very same when he wanted to terminate a consultation.

Snod then shook their hands.  Gisela had to stretch over the ring binder,

as her arms were shorter.  She didn’t shake hands with her ex-husband

and barely inclined her head to him.

The School Secretary showed them out and Snod reflected that he had

been advocating attributes which he had never developed himself. Did this

make him a hypocrite?

Hmm, she’s wearing high heels today, he observed. You know, I could

have sworn that she had seamed stockings..

He was fixated on the hosiery of his PA.

The door opened once more and the question was resolved.

I’ve brought you your tea and some biscuits, she announced.

You probably need a sugar fix after seeing those two.

On the contrary, I feel remarkably refreshed, he commented, glancing

down at her heels as she left the room.

Mmm-two sugars and two Bourbon biscuits.  Diana restricted his biscuit

portion to one.  She was always banging on about Type Two Diabetes.

She ought to leave a man alone, he cringed.

Mr Snodbury, sir!

He jumped out of his reverie and spilled his tea into the saucer.

It was Milford-Haven.  Snod hoped this wouldn’t be a lengthy session.

He bit into one of the Bourbons to mark his territory.

Yes, all this power was heady stuff, but he, like his Classical hero, would

return to civilian oblivion once his task was over.  Maybe he would try to get

an allotment?  His pension might not run to a Roman smallholding.

He wondered if the secretary liked horticulture.  He wouldn’t mind

watching her bend over as she did some dibbling.

Are you all right, sir?  I mean, is that all right?

Yes, Caligula- I mean, Milford-Haven, do as you think best.  Show some

initiative.

And Nigel stood up, grabbed the other biscuit and said, Cheers!

Snod supposed that was what was called being an individual.

Letting Go

Tags

Bath stone, Cavalier, clairvoyance, dv, engagement ring, foreknowledge, foreordination, lacrosse, Memory: Cats, Mother Shipton, noun phrase, poltergeist, Tarot, wedding band, Zen

Diana Fotheringay had removed her rings and was having the stone

in her engagement ring re-set and her wedding band was in

meltdown.  She was now seeing herself as a Free Woman.

In fact, she had made the New Year Resolution to sell her cottage

in Bradford-on-Avon and to move much closer to her daughter and

erstwhile lover.  Consequently her home was now on the market

and had been appraised by a rather posh, but dim representative

from an estate agency.

She could have written the schedule herself and could see immediately

that the description of her home was off-beam and would be guaranteed

to deter any prospective purchaser.  She had to proofread a document

which she was paying someone else to generate.  A sign of the times,

she sighed.  I mean, what is it with the breed that they have to construct

inordinately long noun phrases?!

She read: An absolutely charming, exceptional, sought after, deceptively

spacious, smartly-appointed, versatile, detached Bath Stone, character

cottage…

Could this be her property?  She hardly recognised it.  The lenses of

the camera had made it seem as if it had curved walls- which, in all

honesty, it had.

The vase of lilies on the dining room table looked good and covered the

redcurrant sauce stain which simply would not wash out of her antique

tablecloth.  Really, Augustus was a very messy eater.  It must be that his

table manners were being corrupted by his professional habit of dining

with children.

At least Dru’s harp was no longer in the way and the alcove in the hall

could just about justify its description as an additional study/bedroom.

Anyway, there was no turning back.  It was a good time to sell and she

could put her hand on her heart, like all sellers, and swear that she had

the most wonderfully quiet neighbours and that she had never had a

single altercation with them, not even when their son was learning

the drums.

Now that his pupils came to the house, it was remarkable how there was

always an available parking space.

If the cottage sold in one open weekend, as was being suggested, she

would simply put everything into storage and would go and see her ex-

colleague, Sonia Peascod, in Suttonford.  They’d exchanged Christmas

cards religiously since Sonia’s retirement as Deputy Head at St Vitus’,

which had also been the year of Diana’s confinement.

Sonia was Diana’s daughter’s godmother.  Our vendor felt that

she would be welcome to stay for a week or two until she got on her feet

in a new county.  Sonia was rattling around in that huge Royalist House,

so she would probably welcome some company.  She was getting on and

maybe Diana could take her shopping, or help with the housework.  If

the legalities took longer, she could always offer her some rent.

Sonia had once reminded Diana:  I always foresaw trouble when you

married that picture framer chap.

Diana had snapped:  You didn’t need to be Mother Shipton to see it

coming!

But they hadn’t fallen out over it.  And, in retirement, Sonia had

progressed in her skills of clairvoyance.  At least she thought so.

She even took up Tarot reading.

Diana opened her address book and, just as she was about to contact

Sonia, her phone rang and she nearly knocked over the vase of lilies in

her rush to answer it.  Maybe it was the estate agent!

Sonia here!  Happy New Year!  Long time; no speak.

You must be telepathic, Diana began, before realising that she, of course,

was, in her own opinion, at least.

Of course I am, Sonia laughed. Listen, I haven’t seen you for ages, so why

don’t you come and spend a few days with me? We could go to the new cafe

we have in the town.  That is, weather permitting and DV.

Oh, it’s okay,  Diana reassured her.  I haven’t had that bug.

What bug?

The diarrhoea and vomiting one.

I didn’t suggest that you had.

I thought you said ‘d and v’?

No, replied Sonia, puzzled.  Oh, no.  I meant DV -deo volente.

As a lacrosse teacher, Diana hadn’t required a qualification in

Latin.

I think there was interference on the line, Diana excused herself.

I couldn’t hear you.

Well, can you hear me now?  If you can make it through all the floods

and fords, drive up and stay.  I’ve always got the attic room free

because people are too pathetic to cohabit with the ghost.  But I know

you don’t mind sharing a bed.  You’ve met our resident Cavalier before,

haven’t you?

Diana was not phased by occult presences.  After all, she had coached

a team of weapon-wielding teenagers who were capable of behaviour

which would have made the activity of your average poltegeist seem like

a single Zen hand clap.

There was only one drawback: Diana may have been accustomed to

Sonia’s foreknowledge over the years, but she didn’t want to be the

subject of her fore-ordination.

As for the phantom fugitive from The Battle of Suttonford, sleeping with

him couldn’t be much worse than having to share a bed with Murgatroyd

Syylk.

She replaced the handset and started humming Memory from Cats.  Yes, a

new day had begun.

AOB

Tags

Albion, AOB, archaic language, Baptism rite, Birinus, Captain Mainwaring, Coatbridge, Dad's Army, David Cameron, Eastenders, exophoric reference, Hercules, league tables, Nick Clegg, Pegasus, Pike, Scaevola, second person pronoun, Sisyphus, Spotted Dick, teachers' planner, tuning fork

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, indicated that

he wanted to speak by waving a rolled up cone of music manuscript

paper. There had not been enough time for his pressing item in the

previous Staff Meeting.

Permission to speak, sir?  He addressed The Acting Head, Mr Augustus

Snodbury, who wondered if the music master detected any irony in his

exophoric reference to Dad’s Army.

It was in the hiatus between a discussion on educational theories and

their implementation, or otherwise, and an expression of subject-specific

discontent with timetabling difficulties connected to The Music

Department and its long term practice of throwing a tuning fork into

the well-oiled, or reasonably well-oiled, machinery of the school day.

Yes, Poskett. Out with it.  We haven’t all day.

The School Song, sir…I think it is a little outmoded.

There was a collective gasp of shock and disapproval.  This had

nothing to do with the view being expressed, but had more to do

with the perceived threat of lunch being delayed for the second time

in a week.

Well, sir, even the C.of E. is changing the lexis of its baptismal rite, to

attract the kind of congregation, or customer, who usually views

Eastenders and suchlike.

Snod looked as if he would explode, but Poskett carried on obliviously.

You see, children and parents today cannot relate to such phrases as

‘soaring Pegasus’; ‘the Herculean task before us’; Scaevola’s flaming

hand of courage and ‘Sisyphean persistence’.

And with what do you propose to replace these time-honoured phrases,

Poskett?   Snod looked at him as if he was a First Year who had

forgotten his pencil case.

Geoffrey unrolled the paper and cleared his throat.  I have taken the

liberty of re-writing our battle-cry and, if you care to listen, it will only

take two minutes to appraise you all of my new draft.

Taking a liberty just about sums it up, whispered a Sports master,

who, having been outside all morning in a howling gale, was naturally

fairly ravenous and just wanted the discourse to be concluded asap.

He couldn’t have cared less about vocabulary, unless it was an

unparliamentary variety on the pitch and then, unless it had been his

personal utterance, he noticed it very much and usually inflicted penalties

of runs around the circumference of the field, the number of circuits directly

relating to the grade of linguistic objectionality.

Spotted Dick! Snod agonised.  The blasted boys will descend on it like

locusts in the First Sitting.  Would locusts eat sponge puddings?  This

thought troubled him, so that he barely heard Poskett begin his big sell.

It’s to the tune Old Suttonford, the  choirmaster enthused.  He held his

tuning fork to his ear and began to sing:

Our loving saint we’ve come to venerate

once reached the parts of Albion’s coast none else

would ever care to circumnavigate

and of our links to him we proudly boast.

Should our awards go into the minus,

we can always call on dear Birinus.

He blesses our results and should we slip

down league tables, he saves our sinking ship.

All laud and honour be to thee our saint

and may our praise to thee be never faint…

The lunch bell rang and woke several masters.

Nigel Milford-Haven automatically lifted his Teachers’

Planner and register from the floor.

Snod thundered:  The bell is for me; not you lot.  I will

determine when this lesson- er-meeting is over.

Nigel blushed.

The thing is, Snod spoke decisively.  Apart from the fact that

the scansion leaves a lot to be desired, may I say that I happen

to like archaic language.  This wasn’t a question.  It gives us a sense

of tradition.  Poskett, the whole ditty is riddled with ancient second

person pronoun forms and Latinate polysyllabic verbs, to boot.  It

would be even more challenging for those parents whose education-if

we could term their studies such- took place post-Seventies. Who

nowadays has a concept of veneration?

The only Albion the masses- he did not say ‘plebs’-recognise

is a football team from Coatbridge.

And ‘Sinking ship’ I find a cliched metaphor unworthy of this school.

Poskett’s head seemed to disappear into the ghastly non-sartorial

collar space where a tie should have been.

(Snod blamed this fashion faux pas entirely on David Cameron and Nick

Clegg.)

And, since society was making inroads into the basic standards for which

St Birinus stood, the Acting Head showed a little mercy, not entirely

blaming the choirmaster for all of Britain’s ills.

Let’s put it to the vote, he declared.  Who prefers this version?

Nigel felt obliged to raise his hand feebly, out of misplaced loyalty, since

he had discussed the re-write with Geoffrey on their holiday in early

December.  He looked around furtively.  No one else had voted.

Snod looked at him in the same way that Captain Mainwaring regarded

Pike.  Only he did not say, Stupid boy!  At least not aloud.

While most of the others gently stampeded out of the staffroom, all

Poskett could do was to direct his crumpled manuscript toward the bin

in the corner.  And, at least his face was minimally saved, as the scrunched

missile met its target in one smooth and accurate trajectory.

The Sports Master, who had been impeded in his exit by a scrum, observed

this impressive hand eye co-ordination and invited him to take part in a

staff/ pupil basketball game in aid of Anacondas in Adversity.

But Geoffrey was too drained to make a commitment.

Staff Meeting

Tags

acronym, arrythmia, Bourbon biscuit, correcting fluid, Daily Mail, faggots, gender fluid, Hippocratic oath, Jammie Dodger, Jeremy Paxman, libido, testosterone, University Challenge

Augustus Snodbury, Acting Head of St Birinus Middle School, looked out

on his assembled staff.  It was the first meeting of 2014 and he felt

uncomfortable in The Headmaster’s chair, amid so many grumpy men.

He nodded curtly to Geoffrey Poskett, relaying an unspoken message

which underlined the transmission that their coincidental holiday

encounter was, in no way, to imply any kind of partiality or informality

now that they were back in their normal routine.

Yawn! Yawn!  There were the usual parental missives, if not missiles,

informing staff of snowboarding fractures.  Then there were Boys To Be

Discussed.  This provoked an excited background hum and Snod had to

lay down the law firmly:  One of you may buzz, I mean, speak.

The School Calendar had been printed at the end of the previous term,

but was now distributed.  Usually each fixture had to be gone over in fine

tooth detail, but Snod pronounced: Well, you can all read, I suppose, so, in

the manner of Jeremy Paxman at the start of University Challenge, I will just

invite you all to crack on.

He eyed young Milford-Haven who was about to snaffle his own favourite

Bourbon biscuit from the trolley.  However, when the young puppy felt the

elder educator’s gimlet gaze bore into him, he eschewed his first choice

and opted for a Jammie Dodger instead.  Very wise as a future career

move.

No conferring! Snod emphasised.

He glanced at dates for the end of term and mused:  Oh, why does Easter

have to be so late this year?  If it is a moveable feast, then why can’t it

be shunted closer to release us all from scholastic torment?

Nigel Milford-Haven put up his hand.  As John Boothroyd-Smythe’s form

teacher, he felt compelled to put one and all in the picture re/ behavioural

issues and their mitigating causes.  One of these was that B-S’s sister had

apparently ‘come out‘ recently as being gender fluid.

I’ve heard of correcting fluid, remarked ‘old school’ Snodbury, but never the

sexual variety.  Pray, clarify.

Several know-it-alls who had been paying attention at the previous in-

house training on Psychosexual Proclivities and the Learning Process came

to attention and tried to contribute to the allegedly open forum.

One of you may answer! boomed Gus.  Well, fascinating though the subject

promises to be,..His olfactory sense had just radared that the first sitting

of lunch was a possibility.

Who is on Lunch Duty today? he asked.

Poskett, always poised for a hasty getaway, was crouching near the door.

I am, sir!  He bowed his head and fled.  He had known that they would

never get round to the pressing matter on his agenda.  Maybe next week!

he muttered.

A final notice, Snod declared.  The smell of faggots was making him lose

concentration.  You may be wondering how The Headmaster is.  The good

news is that he has not suffered a stroke.  Not even a TIA, to use a medical

acronym.  His wife assures us that he has only been experiencing mild

arrythmia, brought on by an arduous Autumn term, combined with an

overindulgent celebration on Christmas Eve.  And, if you have been reading

The Daily Mail lately, which, God Forbid any member of this illustrious

academic establishment would..

Here the aroma of hot beef olives, to use a more polite culinary term, was

really distracting..

…Where was I?  Oh, yes, apparently the acme of journalistic achievement

has suggested that some men d’un certain age develop irrational anxieties,

heart palpitations and alter their personality through low levels of

testosterone. (He stroked his new leather jacket in a spontaneous gesture

of subliminal self-awareness.)  They can even lose their..

Libido, supplied an earnest Milford-Haven, who was probably the only one

in the staffroom attempting to follow his drift.

Suddenly thirty two pairs of eyes widened and their owners ceased to

dwell on stuffing and onion gravy.

Snod coughed.  Aaagh, whatever! he agreed. Anyway, to cut a long story

short, his wife has persuaded him to combat excessive grumpiness by a

course of hormone injections, which should render him more..

Subservient! Milford-Haven nodded.

Compliant! re-stated Mr Snodbury, glaring at the exhibition of impatience

shown by the Junior Master.  He recognised a desire to conclude proceedings

in the worthy cause of nutrition.  But the boy should know his place.  He had

to restrain himself from awarding the member of staff an order mark and

detention.

So, not a word of this confidential information is to pass beyond these walls,

stressed The Acting Head.  He then had to watch everyone else exiting the

room before himself, which probably meant that he would have to go to the

second sitting in the dining room and there would be no faggots left.

Meanwhile, in a mockery of the Hippocratic oath, The Headmaster’s wife was

discussing her husband’s alarming symptoms in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe, over two lattes, with the GP’s spouse, who was going to relay

the absorbing details to multiple caffeine addicts in the weeks to come.

cafe