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When Sonia woke up at lunchtime, the day after she had indulged herself

with a surfeit of snifterinos at Ginevra’s son’s cottage, she resolved never to

let a drop of that dreadful Dewlap Gin for the Discerning Grandmother pass

her lips again.

Ginevra, totally accustomed to downing the firewater, was more inclined

to chastise herself for not sticking to her writing schedule of 1,000 words a

day, on her work- in-progress, the e-book entitled ****in the Park with***.

This was not a x-rated title: it was just that it had been pointed out to her

that ‘Sunday’ had already been taken by Sondheim for a musical and ‘George’

had been used in the eponymous title.  So, Ginevra hadn’t quite decided on

the day of the week that her novella would focus on for its unity of action.

She was also toying with the forenames ‘Gregory’ and ‘Gordon’ for her

romantic hero.  Suddenly, on Hogmanay morning, she stopped swithering

and was resolute that it should be Saturday in the Park with Gregory.

(See 26th Nov 2012: Who Do I Think I Am? for link)

Meanwhile, in Bradford-on-Avon, on New Year’s Eve, Diana Fotheringay,

retired lax (lacrosse to the uninitiated) mistress from St Vitus’ School for

the Academically-Gifted Girl, was adamant that she would never again bring

out her family’s antique linen napery, to dress the festive groaning board,

as long as the head of the table was to be graced by the messy Augustus

Snodbury, who had spilled indelible redcurrant sauce on the pristine, nay

virginal, tablecloth.

Ribes rubrum2005-07-17.JPG

And, talking of intactae, Drusilla had determined that she was going to

visit Wyvern Mote, just as soon as The National Trust opened their

aestival portals, in a bid to resolve the mystery of her father’s

parentage.

She had discreetly opened the subject with her mother as they were

washing up – Gus had made himself scarce at this point, as many men do.

However, she had drawn a genealogical blank.

Frankly, Diana was looking forward to retrieving her own space.  She had been

terrified that she was going to catch Snod’s end-of-term cold- the one he

always succumbed to when the adrenalin level subsided.  He had kept making

the excuse that his sonorous sternutation was provoked by the resinous fir

she had decked in the corner of her tiny sitting room.  She remained

unconvinced and liberally sprayed the room with Tea Tree oil.

Gus resolved to return to school early, in order to adopt The Headmaster’s

mantle and Diana secretly was glad that her choice television programmes

would not, therefore, be disturbed by the school secretary’s frequent relaying

of 24 hour reports, in the manner of an insomniac news anchor.

Everything seemed to revolve around some troublesome boy called

Boothroyd- Smythe,  Drusilla recognised the name as she had his sister in

her boarding house.  She resolved to pay attention to how the seasoned

educator, ie/ her father, dealt with such delinquents.

She overheard him say: Don’t worry!  I’ll fix the little blighter good and proper

when I get back.  He may give his parents the run around, but he’ll have ME

to contend with in the Spring Term.

Drusilla made a point of trying to remain unsceptical as to any projected

behavioural success.  She must endeavour to be less smug in the New

Year.

And she must also be more tolerant of old people such as Great-Aunt

Augusta.  In fact, she should give the old bird a call, so long as the

residents of Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry hadn’t been

packed off to The Land of Nod by 8pm, for the convenience of staff who

wanted to follow the pyrotechnic displays from Dubai, London and Edinburgh

on the telly, without the inconvenience of having to change an incontinence

pad at the very moment when the fuse was ignited on Mons Meg and the

sparks began to fly to a discordant backdrop provided by The Pet Shop Boys

and a massed pipe band.

Drusilla supposed that the old biddies- she must stop referring to them as

such- would probably not know what day of the week it was, let alone

what moment of portent they were missing.  She reflected on the questions

that psycho- geriatricians ask aged people to determine their marbles’ level:

Who is the Prime Minister?  What date is it?

Actually, she herself often had difficulty in remembering what day it was in

the school holidays.  That was worrying!  What year was it again?

When she had been with Aunt Augusta in the Recreation Room, some

official had approached the old lady and asked:  Who is your visitor,

Aggie?

Augusta had waved the troublesome inquisitor away with an imperious

hand, such as the wife of some Indian Governor might have dismissed a

fawning minion in the days of the Raj, with a flick of a tasselled fly

swatter.

The name-badged auxiliary had persisted, nodding towards Dru, but

continuing to address the increasingly agitated one:  Do you know who

she is?

Augusta scowled:  Do you know who she is?

Of course, the young woman replied, somewhat puzzled.

Well, in that case, Dru’s Great-Aunt was triumphant, you don’t need

to ask me!

She returned her attention to her great-niece:  Ignore her, Doolally, or

whatever it is they call you.  Now what was I saying?

Drusilla resolved there and then, never to grow old.

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