Hypogonadism

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Bourbon biscuit, Carpe Diem, cojones, Eliza Doolittle, Gobi Desert, Harley-Davidson, Humber, hypogonadism, John Humphrys, Larkin, Low T, Marvell, Mastermind, Sarah Montague’, Stephen Colbert, Today Radio 4

Hypogonadism, Snod read.

So, The Head”s not coming back, he said to himself.

‘It means he needs to have continued treatment for the condition.’

The Headmaster’s wife added that her husband had self-prescribed a

Harley-Davidson and a trip through the Gobi Desert with a friend who

had been similarly challenged.  Apparently she seemed very happy

about the outcome, as he should be away for some weeks, if not

months.

Virginia came into Gus’ office quietly and put his rolled tie on the desk

and left him his tea tray, before exiting like a shadow.

He had removed the said garment at her house the previous night, but

had not removed much else and he had left ( in the early hours it must be

admitted.)

Being of the old school, he had not stayed the night chez Virginia.

In the morning he had nearly been late for the first time in his career, as the

only tie he could find was one that Diana had given him, which bore a tiny pig

and the initials MCP.

He thought that had been a joke.  Had it?

He looked in the mirror in his private loo.  He had felt an old rush of

testosterone last night.  He knotted his favourite tie and smoothed his hair.

He looked younger; his skin looked fresher than John Humphrys’ and yet

that old dog had scored in later life.  What did the presenter have to be

grumpy about? He was raking it in from Mastermind, no doubt.  Mind you,

he had to work with Sarah Montague on the Today programme.

So, the job advertisement would have to be published in order that interviews

could be held in May.  Would he apply?  As Eliza Doolittle nearly said:

Not By our Lady Likely! ( Snod always censored himself, even in quotations, which

amused his pupils.)  But was that adjustment blasphemy instead?  Hmm..

He sat down to drink his tea and eat his Bourbon biscuits- ‘Back to two now’,

he noticed.  Well, Lent was over and the flesh was operational again.

And how!

He typed ‘hypogonadism‘ into Google.  Yes, he had been tired recently.

Apathetic, even.  Grumpy?  Well, he had been irritable for years.  Pupils- he

would not use the term ‘students’ for boys in L5-9- such as Boothroyd-Smythe

had been grit in his oyster for decades.  No wonder he was a little impatient.

What didn’t kill you made you stronger, however.

He read a comment from a comedian called Stephen Colbert who quipped that

Low T, or a dip in manly hormone, was ‘a pharmaceutical-company-recognised

condition affecting millions of men with low testosterone, previously known as

getting older.’

Was that why he had bought the leather jacket in Turkey?  It didn’t look the

same in this cold Northern light.  Maybe he should get it out again?

Smiling to himself, he thought that he would ask Virginia to High Tea at

Bradley Manor some time.  It was a seduction technique that would

overpower most women, he suspected, never mind any age-related

inevitabilities of Low T.

And he was getting to be such an expert on women. Anthony Revelly’s genes

were still spiralling around his son’s DNA, like moths round a guttering flame.

Anyway, if Life was Too Short to Stuff a Mushroom, as he had read

somewhere, and goodness knows, he had never felt a desire to perform

such an activity, one’s mortal coil was definitely too short to allow his

vegetable love to grow vaster than empires yet more slow, or however

Marvell had cavalierly put it.  He should seize the moment- by the cojones,

if necessary.  Where had he learned that word? Carpe diem and all that.

He could even take up fly fishing. He didn’t have 30,000 years to appreciate

Virginia’s quaint honour.  (He was uncomfortable with the etymology of this

adjective, but no matter..)  No, they would make the sun run.

Complaining by the side of Humber he would leave to miserable poets, such as

Larkin, so he would serve out his time as Senior Master only.  Let others take

up the accursed mantle of Headship; he was going to take up his life-and walk,

nay gallop!

He may even apply to be on Mastermind.  Maybe it was the moisturiser he had

taken to using recently, at Diana’s insistence, but-yes!- he definitely had fewer

wrinkles than the Today presenter.  It couldn’t be attributed to post-coital

relaxation, as the activity had not yet taken place.

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Land Girls

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Angouleme, carpet bag, Cinderellas of the Forces, Circuit des remparts, Concours d'elegance, Delahaye, Freedom of Information Act, General Registrar, Her Majesty's Passport Office, Istanbul, Land Girls, National Trust, Ouspensky, perjury, Pierre Loti, release certificates, Rumi, Russell Square, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, Sufi, T S Eliot, theosophical, Women's Land Army

Sonia said, Yes, I’ve heard of Ouspensky.  He was theosophical, was he

not?

I died a mineral and became a plant

I died as plant and rose to animal

I died as animal and I was Man.. 

-sort of Sufi-inspired Rumi concepts..

Something like that, said Dru.  She had dropped in at Royalist House

to see her mother and to discuss the latest proceedings.

I had a look at some newspaper cuttings which were in the envelope that

Bunbury, Quatrefoil and Quincunx, Solicitors gave us.  There were some

leaflets for a series of lectures that Ouspensky gave at Lady Rothermere’s.

I think that Augusta- she of the Bosphorus- attended when she came over

to London to arrange the birth of her first child.  It was all the rage to go

and hear him at the time. I think T S Eliot and other literary figures went

along.  Augusta had heard him first of all in Istanbul.

So, Diana tried to keep on track, she gave birth in London to Augusta 2?

Yes, said Dru. She had  taken a room in Russell Square, near to

Ouspensky’s lodgings.  Lord Wyvern arranged it.  I think it was in his

town house.  Some of her letters were on his notepaper.

Lord Wyvern?  How did he come into it? asked Diana.

Well, she had had a fling with him a good few years before, but they had

parted amicably, before he married Aurelia Tindall.  Augusta’s baby wasn’t

his; it was definitely the rug seller’s; his name was on the birth certificate.

She popped Augusta 2 into a carpet bag and bounced back to the Bosphorous

to live the female equivalent of a Pierre Loti dream.

How had they- I mean Lord Wyvern and Augusta1- come across each

other?

I think Aurelia’s mother and Augusta worked on the land during

World War 1.  Lord Wyvern’s first wife and Aurelia’s mother had been

friends at a London Finishing School. The Land Girls used to hang about

The Red Lion Pub, spending some of their 18/- a week.  Because Augusta

1 used to nostalgically talk to her daughters about the rural idyll that was

Kent, they developed a fascination for it and, after Augusta 2 left St Vitus’,

having been Head Girl, she went to join the WLA, as one of the Cinderellas

of the Forces and headed for the hop-picking. She didn’t want to live in

Istanbul.

WLA? queried Diana.

Women’s Land Army, Sonia butted in.

She wrote to Berenice and told her what larks she was having and

Berenice got herself expelled and, once she was seventeen and a half,

she signed up too.  Wearing breeches appealed to her. She had an

affair with Anthony for a couple of years.  Of course, her mother hadn’t

given her any moral compass.

So, that’s why he recognised the family resemblance in Augusta 2 in

Snodland Nursing Home?

Yes, I suppose so.  The sisters were alike.

When did he take up with Aurelia?  Sonia was a stickler for detail.

Oh, not till about 1948 or 1949-after he rescued Peregrine.

And Gus was born in 1950, added Diana.  She had always

remembered his birthday, if only to supply him with socks.

Correct.  Aurelia paid Berenice to pretend that the baby was hers,

but Berenice took Father to Istanbul.  Her mother wasn’t interested

in him and so Augusta 2 eventually arranged his enrolment into St

Birinus’ pre-prep department, Dru explained.

And Berenice took the money and ran off? Sonia frowned.

..to Venezuela, to follow romantic dreams about Simon Bolivar, taking

after her vagabond mother, Dru clarified. The sisters had received

their release certificates from the WLA in 1950.

But Berenice was born in Istanbul? Diana probed.

In 1923. Lord Wyvern married Aurelia in 1934 when he was

fifty-four.

How old was she? Sonia asked.

About eighteen, Dru looked disapproving. Some of her girls in the

boarding house were of a similar age.

And when did he die? Sonia was analysing every detail.

Well, the boys were born in 1935 and 1936..

Lionel and Peregrine? Diana checked.

Yes, in quick succession! But Lord Wyvern died on his way to the

Circuit des Remparts, in Angouleme, in 1939.

Angouleme?  Sonia couldn’t quite place this French city.

‘Monaco without sea’, as it was known.  In the Charente.

He was travelling in a Concours d’Elegance and he got a flat

tyre. He jacked up his Delahaye, but it collapsed on top of

him and crushed his chest.

So Lady Wyvern had been a widow for six years when Anthony

arrived to tutor the boys?  Sonia was on the ball.

She was thirty-six when Father was born.  By 1955 she was dead and

the house and estate given over to The National Trust.  Except for

grandfather being allowed to remain in the stable block apartment

until his decease, by special arrangement.  Lionel had gambled away

most of his inheritance.

What I can’t understand is why Berenice, or the others, were not

prosecuted for perjury on the registration document? said Diana.

Mum, there may be a warning about criminal offences and falsification

on the certificate itself, but no one has been prosecuted for the last

thirty-five years for faking parentage.  Under The Freedom Of

Information Act, I checked all this from her Majesty’s Passport

Office.

So, there isn’t much incentive to tell the truth? remarked Sonia.

‘The Registrar General does not routinely investigate the

circumstances in which erroneous information came to be given

at registration’ were the exact words, as I recall, said Dru.  And,

anyway, there is a time limit of three years to report suspicions

to the police.  You would need DNA from all involved and Anthony

and Aurelia are dead, as is Berenice.

So, the records are not likely to be changed?  Diana said.

You’ve got it! replied Dru.

 

Coffee?

Tags

baobab, Bedouin, Bentley, Beuys, Bourbon biscuits, felt suit, Freudian slip, Gertrude Jekyll, Gold Blend adverts, National Trust, Piper Cherokee, rehydration techniques, St Exupery, Tate Modern, The Little Prince, Timex

Would you like to come in for coffee?  Virginia asked Snod, just before

jumping out of the driver’s seat of his car and handing him his own

keys.

He really needed to get home to work on some feedback documents,

but, since he had not had such an invitation in over thirty years, he

said: What the heck! to himself.  Emm, well, yes, why not?  Just a quick

one.

Virginia gave him an odd look, but led the way nevertheless.

Lay on, Macduff, he joked, to hide his slight unease.

Oh, I thought it was ‘Lead on..’  She rummaged around in the bottom of

her handbag for her keys.  Then she blushed.  She didn’t want him to

think that was a Freudian slip.  Coffee was such an embarrassing

invitation nowadays. When she invited someone in for coffee, she

meant just that.

It was all the fault of that series of Gold Blend adverts in the 80s.

Some men in the past had been rather surprised when she had

shown them the door after one drink.  Not even a biscuit.

Snod sank into Virginia’s comfortable sofa and looked round the room

while she filled the kettle.  Interesting old fireplace.  He had almost said

‘foreplace‘.  Why was that?

There were some photos of children- presumably her nieces and

nephews.  There was a faded wedding picture.  He would have liked to

go over and take a closer look, but Virginia came in and put two coasters

down on the coffee table.  She moved a large Gertrude Jekyll Gardens

book.

She returned with two National Trust mugs.  They featured Wyvern Mote.

So, she must have visited on some occasion.  He’d ask her about that later.

Sorry, no Bourbon biscuits, she apologised.

He was strangely touched that she had remembered his predilection.

Eh, how long have you been here?  he asked, sipping his drink.  He’d

have preferred tea, but no matter.

We bought it in 1987, she said.  It’s too big for me on my own, but useful

when the family come over.  And, of course, I love the garden.  William

loved the outbuilding.  He kept his old Bentley in there. He was away a lot,

so, he decided that he didn’t need a house on his own. We bought this place

together as a joint investment.

William? Snod looked faintly puzzled.

My elder brother, she replied, going over to the mantle-piece and taking

down the wedding photo.  Sadly they got divorced. He died of pancreatic

cancer in the 90s.

The groom looked very like Virginia.  Good-looking bride too.

I’m sorry, said Snod most sincerely, but oddly glad that William hadn’t been

her husband.  After an awkward pause, he continued.  And do you have any

other siblings?

Well, my sister who lives in New Zealand.  She tries to come over every

few years so that I can see the children.  That’s when this house comes

into its own.  And, of course, I love the garden.

I see.  Snod noticed that she still hadn’t mentioned a man in her past.

He picked up a little book before placing his mug down on the coaster.

The Little Prince, he smiled.  It was one of his favourites.  Augusta had

given it to him one Christmas when he was nine.

Yes, Arnaud gave it to me.  He was a pilot.  He crashed his Piper

Cherokee when we had just been married a year or so.  Some Bedouin found

him, but even their rehydration techniques failed.

So, now the tragedy was out.

Yes, what St- Exupery says is true: one characteristic can recall your

love and pain.  The colour of wheat evokes his hair.  He was only twenty

nine when he died.  I suppose that I have been widowed almost as long

as he was alive.

I rate this house because of the garden.  I don’t care about its financial

value.  When I smell the roses that we planted together, my heart fills

with sweet pain, if that makes sense. There’s no point in allowing the

bitter experiences to destroy you.  You have to feel the pain and

embrace life.

Snod remembered that Exupery had said one must root out the seeds

of the baobab.  They must be destroyed immediately or they would take

hold.  He decided to remove one little seed of resentment against Diana

and her lack of amatory interest.  Here, on the other hand, was a woman

who would recognise a drawing of a boa constrictor digesting an elephant

and wouldn’t, in a matter-of-fact way, put it down to being a side elevation

of a hat. Here was a potential soul mate who did not talk about golf, bridge

or politics.  She understood primeval forests, stars and she might appreciate

a sunset.

But the mythology of her life was striking him very powerfully.  A husband who

had parallels to St-Exupery and even that artist chap whose work he didn’t

make much of- Joseph Beuys, wasn’t it?  That awful school trip to Tate Modern

with the disappearing Boothroyd-Smythe!

Hadn’t Beuys come down in a desert too?  Or had he made the whole thing up?

Maybe Boothroyd-Smythe had his particular facility for mendacity encouraged by

contact with the work of such modern cultural role models?

The only thing Snod could relate to had been Beuys’ felt suit and he wouldn’t

have minded getting a tailor to run up a similar one for himself.  Apparently it

had been a symbol of social isolation and imprisonment.  But maybe he, Augustus

Snodbury, no longer needed such a layer of protection from the world- not if

Virginia..

He looked at his Timex.  Gosh, is that the time?  I’d better be going.  Thanks

for the coffee.

He shook her hand and as she opened the door to let him exit, she leaned

forward and kissed him very gently on the cheek.

Sleep tight, Gus, dear, she whispered.

He turned back and, before he could stop himself, they were locked in a

passionate embrace, indulging in what Boothroyd-Smythe et al would have

termed a snogging session.

Snod had snogged after thirty odd snog-free years.  He had forgotten how

good it was.  Mehercule!  So this was what was meant by coming in for

coffee.  It beat filling in feedback forms no end.

 

 

 

 

Skeletons in the Cupboard

Tags

Athos, Blackberry, Cloak app, curriculum frameworks, D'Artagnan, danse macabre, Machiavelli, management skills, model railway, Mt Athos, musketeer, oversea recruitment, Ring of Gyges, Sforzas, Sissinghurst, Stainer Crucifixion, telegram from Queen, White Garden

Augustus Snodbury, Acting Head of St Birinus’ Middle School, was on

his way to a Leadership Course for Heads, which sought to promote

excellence in Independent Education.  Virginia, his PA, thankfully was

driving.

He yawned.  He was going to have to endure lengthy sessions on

curriculum frameworks, public exams, charitable status, oversea

recruitment, admissions and pointers on how to inform parental

decisions.  Scarily, he had just thought that one informed the fee-payers

and then sat back to wait for the fireworks.

You didn’t even get a nice pub lunch any more.  A ‘working lunch‘

was provided, with curly edged sandwiches and carafes of lukewarm

tap water.  Appetising, not.  He needed something stronger in the

beverage line to face the ordeal.

Why, oh why could he not simply disappear into a chintzy wing armchair

in the staffroom until his lump sum came through?

As for this Blackberry thing, he could never get the hang of it.  His digits were

too podgy to hit the keys precisely.  What he needed was one of those Cloak

apps that would screen his doings from all and sundry.  Failing that, the Ring

of Gyges would come in handy.

Soon the absent Head would have to make a decision as to whether he

would be returning to duties, or not.

If the Head decided to take early retirement on the grounds of health, that

would mean that Snod’s present temporary position would have to be

advertised.

They’d probably get some idiot like Poskett applying- a man who couldn’t make

his beat clear to a bunch of trebles, let alone stage manage St Birinus with its

daily issues that would have challenged Machiavelli, or a whole family of

Sforzas.

For the honour of the establishment, Snod might have to engage in a duel

with the likes of the inefficient choirmaster.  He could envisage swords drawn

before dawn, with Milford-Haven as his ‘second.’  He nostalgically returned to

his days in the school fencing club.

As a boy, his nickname had been D’Artagnan.  Now he wondered if it should be

amended to Athos.  Nothing to do with Mount Athos, though he did live a rather

monkish life.  No, it was the name of the musketeer who was apparently immune

to romance.  Certainly, he shared some characteristics with him, to wit: only

allowing minions to speak in emergencies.

But there was always a danger in over-extending analogies, especially with the

literally-minded.  It was a fault whose influence could be readily demonstrated

in some exam responses.

No, Poskett should stick to his Stainer Crucifixions and other safe options.

Virginia was now on a clear stretch of dual carriageway, so she tried to initiate

conversation.

How was your Easter break?  Did you manage to have some time off?

Um- yes, we-eh-I mean, Drusilla and I went down to Kent for a couple of

days.

He did not mention his father’s death.

Oh, such a nice part of the world, enthused Virginia.  I love Sissinghurst.  You

know, The White Garden?  Do you like gardening?

Snod thought about this for a minute or two:  I wouldn’t mind pottering

around an allotment, if I had the time.  It would be even better if it had a

shed.

Ha!  Men and their sheds! she laughed.

Snod didn’t really know what she meant, but felt duty-bound to reciprocate

the interest shown.

What did you do, eh, Virginia?  He concentrated very hard on awaiting her

reply, to distract himself from a sheer black nylon knee which was

progressively being shown to advantage as her skirt rode up when she

depressed the clutch.

Oh, I just went to see my sister and the kids.

He hated the colloquialism.  ‘Children‘- he much preferred that collective noun

with its connotations of obedience, innocence and wonder.  He liked those who

were fast bowlers, good at declining Latin verbs and who comprehended

inflections and he was slightly fond of those who respected the model railway

layout and who didn’t knock the carriages off the track.  The rest could..  Mind

you, Dru had been a child once and he had missed out on her childhood.

Whose fault had that been?  Actually, the carpet fitter’s, in all probability.

If only his Valentine card and proposal had not gone between the carpet

and the underlay all those years ago.

But, those old embers had burnt out.  He and Diana were good friends now,

but that was it.  He hadn’t been stirred by a woman until… .That knee- very

provoking!

So, I take it you didn’t go to Sissinghurst then?

Ah, yes.  I mean no.  Not this time.  We are going to take our aunt there next

time we visit her at her nursing home.

Oh, bless. How old is she?

About a hundred.

Wow!  She’ll get a telegram from the Queen.  You’ll probably have the

longevity genes too.

Not necessarily, Snod replied.  You see, she’s not really our aunt.  It’s a

long story.

Oh, do tell. I love stories.  Especially ones about skeletons in people’s family

cupboards.  We’ve all got them.

Really? said Snod, encouraged that he wasn’t the only one.

Virginia slowed down so that she could concentrate and laughed:

Do take them out and let them have a danse macabre.  And then she

patted his knee.  I’m all ears.

No, you’re all woman, he thought.  Well, recently there’s been a lot

happening, especially since Drusilla came out of the woodwork, so to speak..

And though Snod was to learn about leadership, he could certainly have

taken a leaf out of Virginia’s book of management skills.  He was putty in

her hands. And that was even with both of her hands being firmly on his

driving wheel.

He spilled the beans..

 

Smarter than Your Average Bear

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assessment objectives, Bethesda, Bluebeard's Castle, Boo-Boo, chatelaine, Chicxulub, Clegg, cojones, Cro-Magnon, Esau and Jacob, faggots, flat, Flat Earth, Granny Smith, Harris tweed, herbivores and Carnivores, How weary, I Pagliacci, infinity pool, Knock! Knock! Who's There?, metaphor, Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, mitrochondrially, Munn and Dunning, my friend., Neanderthal, Orwell, Paglicci caves, patter songs, Permafrost, Rusalka, Send me roots rain, simile, Spotted Dick, stale, synapsid, taxonomy, teachers' planner, Those Were the Days, Vesti la Giubba, woolly mammoth, Yogi Bear

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ Middle School, opened

the ring box in his filing cabinet and looked long and hard at the heart-

shaped diamond ring that had lain snugly in its hiding place for over thirty

years.  He placed it on the tip of his little finger. Its white gold band was

obviously for a digit much slimmer than his own- as slender as the chance

of it ever finding a female finger to ornament.

He sighed, put it back in place, covering it with a pile of obsolete worksheets

and locked the drawers, rattling his key-ring which contained

as wide a selection of redundant keys as the chatelaine of Bluebeard’s

Castle had carried about her waist on a- well- chatelaine.

The bell was late.  Post-prandial indigestion had struck. He opened his

Teachers’ Planner wearily.  Gone were the days when one simply scribbled a

vague lesson plan on the back of an envelope. Then spiral-bound aide-

memoires had been unnecessary and the lack thereof led to spontaneous

combustions, Krakatoa-like performances on the apron stage of the classroom

crucible of learning.  These were fervent, tangential and memorable

expositions on (say) the metaphor:

What’s a metaphor for, Boothroyd-Smythe?.

How do you spell ‘simile’? (covering orthography as well as figurative language)

What’s the ‘therefore’ there for?

Such probing, intellectual dissection was eternally branded on impressionable

minds, on students– daft word (at their age they were pupils)- such as

Boothroyd-Smythe, who would thereafter reflect on such ingested material for

the rest of his proverbial.  Such acolytes would ever after be able to decline

Latin verbs and translate useful phrases such as ‘the farmers will have prepared

tables for the soldiers’. Such was the efficacy of the time-worn, but

time-tested approach and the analogies were more time-resistant than the

concepts they were endeavouring to illustrate.

But now tailoring the module content to individual needs and ticking off

assessment objectives was the order of the day.

No longer were masters to be found puffing away in faded chintzy staff rooms

with saggy seating- and that not restricted to their shiny trousers.  No longer

did they exchange information on crossword clues, cricket scores, nor barter

seedlings for their allotments.

No longer was a knock at the staffroom door considered  a vile intrusion

and an impertinent interruption worthy of some kind of suspension from

school, not literal, one hoped.

Shakespeare summed it up as usual:

How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world..

Snod looked at the planner again.  Five hours to go- in theory.  Monday. 

Another four whole days-28 hours for the sake of argument. Saturday morning

coaching: three at least.  Sunday- supervising the junior forms on their way to

Mattins.  Call it another three. Was that 41 hours?   Multiply by how many

weeks in the term?  How many sessions till pensionable retirement?  I didn’t

factor in marking and preparation.  Not that I do much of the latter

nowadays.

Red pen or not?  Out of ten, or A-C?  Add stars, pluses and minuses or not? 

Give bribes, or not?  Take bribes, or not? Efficacy of lines? A learning

experience?  Well, they learn that if they waste my time, I will waste

theirs. Corporal punishment?  ‘Best not to go there’, as the wet-behind-

the-ears brigade would say.

Classroom management?  Tables of six, pairs, rows?  Have the blighters run

all over open plan space with clipboards?  No fear.  Blow that for a game of

tin soldiers! Free expression?  Hold your tongue, you scallywag!

So, retrospectively-speaking, had he wasted his life?

He had counted out his days in coffee spoons.  He was as good as

anaesthetised upon a table.  And what about the mermaids?  Yes,

what about them?  He hadn’t heard so much as a police siren for

decades.

Here he hummed a few bars from Rusalka’s Song to the Moon.  No time

even for his beloved opera.

As for a peach!  It wasn’t that he didn’t dare to eat one; it was just that

the staffroom bowl never contained anything other than blackening bananas

and tasteless Granny Smiths.  (The latter also being the moniker of an elderly

French teacher, coincidentally.)

How was it all going to end?   Not with a bang, that was for sure.  More with

a whimper.

O Lord, send my roots rain! he implored.

What did you say, Sir?  A member of staff passed the open door and stuck his

head into the room.

It was that effervescent and intensely annoying Milford-Haven, the Junior

Master. A stirrer of the pool, if ever there was one.  And not necessarily an

angelic one at that.  What he failed to recognise was that Senior Masters,

such as Snod, who had paralytically lain for years by the Bethesda pool of the

staff study, had no desire to be moved out of their comfort zones, by helpful

jejeunes into a maelstrom of extra-curricular activity.

Cricket was one thing, but wading out of one’s depth and abandoning the gentle

eddies and zephyrs of poolside life for the spas, jacuzzis and whirlpools of

‘extras‘ would be merely a revelation of one’s misunderstanding of the

etymology of the abstract noun: ‘revolution.‘  It only required a cursory

knowledge of Orwell- ‘George’? they would ask- to enlighten them to

the ultimate futility of trying to successfully introduce anything, novel,

or to channel anything educationally on trend.

Ghastly phrase!  He hadn’t out-lived Munn and Dunning to get on that

creaking theoretical treadmill.

No, let them slip over the edge of their infinity pools of educational

speculation.

He was no believer in a Flat Earth; he did acknowledge far horizons and

boundaries, but, more often than not, what went around had an unerring

habit of veering back and slamming you on the back of the head when you

were least expecting it.

That’s why he had never, in his entire career, fully turned his back on a class,

having mastered the art of writing on a blackboard in a somewhat oblique

fashion.

But, just look at Milford-Haven! He walks the walk and wears the Harris tweed,

but he will never fit in.  He is a Neanderthal among Cro-Magnons.  The hand

may be Esau’s, but the voice is Jacob’s, he inwardly articulated. (Snod had

been teaching RS before lunch.)

Personally, he felt that he, himself, was Cro-Magnon, mitrochondrially.

He had a nice, solid body and wasn’t a chinless wonder like that

nincompoop of a Junior Master.  He had what Miriam Gonzalez Durantez,

Clegg’s other half, called cojones. He enjoyed learning new vocabulary,

especially from the Romance languages, as he was sure Nick did too.

He felt himself smarter than your average bear.  More like Yogi than

squeaky clean Boo-Boo.

It would explain why he liked I Pagliacci.  Cro-Magnons were associated with

the Paglicci Caves and he assumed there was a link.  He knew some of the

staff thought he was a bit of a clown, but they recognised his talents in

renditions of opera buffa patter songs in the school concerts, so there!

He really must ‘go‘ before the bell.  His prostate was not what it used to be.

Vesti la giubba was ringing in his ears, as he reached for his academic gown

from the hook on the door.

But, if the previous anthropological metaphor could be extended without mixing,

or diversified without confusion, he considered that he might be a woolly

mammoth, frozen for aeons in permafrost, but only recently thawing out, owing

to that debatable global warming the kids were all obsessed with, or with which

they were all obsessed. (The pedant in him was still very much alive.)
No, the Chicxulub impact that killed off the dinosaurs had somehow passed over

him, like an Angel of Death and, as in some unusual space collisions, his biological

components had been miraculously preserved, as had his cojones.

He could predict that those at the forefront of research would be mesmerised by

his exotic vulnerability and rarity.

By Jove!  Scientists would probably stuff him and analyse the contents of

his stomach. And what would they find?

His digestive processes reminded him.  Faggots and Spotted Dick.

His favourites.

No lunchtime coaching was going to deprive him of those. That was why he

had substituted an after-school detention for Boothroyd-Smythe.  He would

waste his time.

And if he, personally, was a woolly mammoth, what was Milford-Haven?

A Synapsid.  The answer came easily.  He had read something even that

day about juvenile transitions from carnivore to herbivore, and, judging by

the tong-fuls of greenery Milford-Haven heaped on his plate, Snod could

easily slot the Junior Master into the taxonomy.

He hated self-service.  Oh, for the days of yore when Mrs Stevens served

you and remembered that you liked seconds.  There was a song about it:

And they called it cupboard love..

Even the music has degenerated, he thought.  Those were the days, my

friend, lalalalalala.  But have I lived the life I chose?

Knock! Knock!

Who’s there?

Can this be Love that’s calling?

No, it was Milford-Haven.

Sir, the bell’s not went.  It’s Period Seven.

‘Gone’, you imbecile, he muttered to himself.

And through the door he took his solitary way.

Fauxberge

Tags

A La Vieille Russie, Alexander III, curate's egg, Faberge, fauxberge, Grey Gowrie, muzhik, nephrite, Octopussy, Peter L Schaffer, souk, Soviet Fine Art Repository, Tam Dalyell

Faberge: Wikipaedia

Drusilla regretted that she had called Murgatroyd ‘odious and oleaginous‘.

She didn’t regret having said that he was trying to live the life of Grey

Gowrie, or Tam Dalyell, without having the accompanying political acumen.

She didn’t regret saying that because it was true.

She had sent him an Easter card to symbolise a resurrection in their

relationship and hoped to go and visit him in his pele tower at Whitsun.

When are you going to open that present from Aunt Augusta?  her mother

asked.

Yes, do open it.  We are both dying to know what it is, said Sonia.

Again, Dru thought that if Sonia was a competent clairvoyant, then she

should know what was inside the wrapping.

Oh, all right.  Aunt Augusta said not to get too excited.

She went upstairs to fetch it.

They watched round the kitchen table as she tore off the greying

bubble wrap and gasped as a small egg almost rolled over the edge.

Careful! cautioned Sonia, catching it and thereby revealing a reflex

somewhat quicker than the others’, perhaps indicating foreknowledge.

That’s a surprise, said Diana.  I thought it would be some cheap bauble,

but it looks for all the world like...

a Faberge egg, supplied Sonia.  Maybe it is one of the missing ones.

…worth $20 million, scoffed Dru.  I don’t think so.

No, but if you look at it closely, Sonia persisted, it has a little portrait

on it..

..which looks remarkably like Gus- if he had a beard!  He did grow one

when he was younger and..

What do you think it’s made of? interrupted Dru.  Alabaster?

Some kind of nephrite, perhaps, postulated Sonia.

Let’s Google missing Faberge eggs, said Diana.  One never knows!

Ever the optimist, sighed Dru, picking up her tablet.  She typed in

‘lost Faberge eggs.’

Oh my goodness!  she screeched.  Read this.  She passed the tablet

over to her mother.

Where? What?  What bit do I read?

Look!  ‘The lost Emperor Nephrite egg with its golden base decorated

with diamonds and medallion portrait of Alexander III..’

Let me see!  Let me see! Sonia pushed in.

I’m reading about Alexander III, Dru held her off.  It says that he was

an amateur musician and a patron of ballet.  He lacked refinement, was

gruff and had a straightforward way of expressing himself.

Sounds like your father, Diana nodded.

He had something of the muzhik about him..Dru went on.  Known as

‘The Peacemaker’, he fought no wars, though he had a weighty burden of

responsibilities.

Just like your father in that school, Diana agreed.

‘He could give a look as cold as steel’..I’ve seen him do that in a classroom

situation, continued Dru.  Especially when faced with that Boothroyd-

Smythe boy.  And-wait for it!- he reversed the liberalisation of his

predecessor, saying that the best means of averting war was to be

prepared for it.

Who said that?  Sonia was confused.

Alexander III, Dru clarified.

Hmm, well it’s a pity that NATO is not paying heed to his wisdom, said

Diana.

‘Dithering’ is le mot juste.

So, Sonia wanted to understand the situation, this was picked up by your

grandmother in a souk in Istanbul?

Not my grandmother.  We just thought that she was.

Nevertheless, it was found before 1920?

Apparently.  She must have given it to Augusta.  It’s probably Fauxberge.

What’s the difference? asked Diana.

About $20 million!  Dru was feeling cynical.

So how did it end up in a souk?  Sonia looked puzzled.

It was probably stolen from a Soviet Fine Art Repository, Dru

said in exasperation. How should I know?

You’ve been watching Octopussy, Diana criticised her.  There are fakes,

but there is probably on-line advice as to what to look for.

That’s what I’m searching for, replied Dru.  Yes, here’s a site that

mentions A La Vieille Russie.  A guy called Peter L Schaffer says some

of these finds can be like a curate’s egg- good in parts, presumably.

Who is he? asked Sonia.

A New York business specialist, read Dru.  He says it shouldn’t be too

good to be true.  Tatyana Faberge, the grand-daughter, authenticates

them.  ‘Beware of lasers which can trace real marks onto fake pieces,’

they advise.  There shouldn’t be any rough edges and the diamonds

should be single cut..  The real hot pink is unique.

So, if it is a fake, will it be destroyed like that Chagall painting that was

submitted for authentication in Paris? Diana asked.

They don’t seem to mind so much, Dru read on.  Some can still be worth

$15,000.

Do you know who might have contacts that would help? said Diana

suddenly.

Murgatroyd, replied Dru.

Exactly.  Maybe you should go up and see him and take it with you.

I was going to say that, lied Sonia.

Maybe at Whitsun then? suggested Dru.

Why not?  Whitsun would be a good time. She already had her train ticket.

 

 

 

Balls

Tags

Cadbury's Creme egg, Call the Midwife, Cato, coronet, De Agri Cultura, Discovery Trail, Easter Bunny, gastropod, Gladstone bag, Istanbul, Judas, kelim, Laetare Sunday, Mary Berry, marzipan, mollusc, onesie, Paralympian, placenta, plakous, plebeian, Simnel cake, souk, Thornton's chocolate, Tortoise and Hare, Wyvern Mote

Great-Aunt Augusta was ready and waiting for them.  She was

ensconced in her usual corner of Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry and the tea trolley had been parked beside her little

enclave.

Her gimlet eyes had already detected the Thornton chocolate egg that

Drusilla was bearing.  The old lady smiled broadly and greeted them with

an invitation that could not be refused:  Go on- have some placenta cake.

It’s that time of year.

Snod sat down in one of the institutional high-backed chairs.  What did

you just say, Aunt Augusta?  I need to have my ears syringed.

Placenta cake.  One always has it from Laetare Sunday onwards.

Oh, I see.  You are drawing an analogy with that plakous cake so beloved

of the Greeks?  But I thought that was made with dough, cheese, honey and

was flavoured with bay leaves.  Wasn’t there a recipe for it in Cato’s De Agri

Cultura?

Possibly, replied Aunt Augusta, but people have linked it to our Simnel cake

and Matron has allowed us to have one for afternoon tea.  So, you be

mother, she directed Drusilla.

Dru looked relieved that she was not going to be faced with something

slithery from Call the Midwife.  It looked fairly innocuous, but shop-bought.

It’s to a recipe from that youngster Mary Berry, Augusta informed them.

Ah, simila, meaning ‘fine flour’, Snod pontificated.  It was going to be a

long afternoon.

And you know all about the balls?  Augusta interrogated Dru, distracting

her while she was pouring, so that she slopped some tea into the saucers.

Balls?  Coronets had them and now simnel cakes.  They were ubiquitous. 

Balls? Dru repeated gormlessly.

Gus looked a little red-faced.

They represent the Apostles.  Minus Judas.  But when I baked mine, I

always used to add him in. After all, he did repent.

Hmm, mused Dru.  I’ve been thinking about that during Lent.  I would like to

be inclusive in my attitude too.

You see, Augusta said.  I knew we think alike.  So, assuming that you don’t

have one of those dreadful tramp stamps, I can now give you an Easter

present.  Fair exchange, as I see you have brought me a Thornton’s

chocolate treat.  Just something mother picked up in a souk in Istanbul,

or somewhere.  Don’t get too excited.

Dru looked puzzled as Aunt Augusta opened a kind of Gladstone made

from a Turkish saddle-bag. Or maybe it was Anatolian.  Dru wasn’t an

expert.

This is for you.  Don’t open it here.  I’ve been hiding it ever since I came in

here, in case one of the inmates took a fancy to it.  I was going to give it to

your father, but he has had the proceeds from quite a few of Mother’s kelims

in the past, so now it is your turn.

She picked off a marzipan ball and popped it into her mouth.

Like a hole in one, Snod thought.  Not much evidence of a significant

handicap.

Dru thanked her and together they managed to wrap her up and wheel

her out for the afternoon.  Of course, they went to Wyvern Mote, where,

I am afraid to relate, Aunt Augusta whirled her wheelchair around a

children’s Discovery Trail, as if she was a Paralympian, and bagged

all the Cadbury’s Creme Eggs which had just been secreted by a giant

Easter Bunny in a ridiculous Onesie.

Sugar is very bad for you, she justified herself.  I heard it on the news. 

It doesn’t matter at my age, but I am saving the little ones from future

health problems.

And she stuffed a whole one into her mouth, much as she had done with

the marzipan ball, leaving a trail of slivers of silver paper behind her, like

an orienteering trail, or the shiny slime from a sweet-loving snail.

(I was going to write ‘toothed’ instead of ‘loving‘, but the metaphor didn’t work

for gastropods and molluscs.)  Tant pis, as the escargot race are wont to say.

Once she had been delivered safely and they had driven off, Dru raised a

subject that she had been saving for a private moment.

I had a letter from someone whom I haven’t heard from for quite some time,

she said to Snod, after they had reached a straight section of road.

Oh, who was that? Gus asked, only mildly interested.  Get out of the way,

you plebeian!  It’s 30mph, or can’t you read?  It’s the hare and the tortoise

all over again!

Someone had cut him up and it wasn’t a policeman.  He reserved the

right to use the term, as a long-standing Classics scholar.

Mum doesn’t know, but it was from Murgatroyd.  He wants me to go up and

stay for a couple of days.  To see what he’s achieved in the restoration of his

house in the Borders.  Allegedly.

Indeed, remarked Snod.  This was a useful word which he employed to

good effect in difficult parental interviews.  Why do you say ‘allegedly’?

Because I think he misses me. He was in loco parentis for my first

formative years.

And I wasn’t, I suppose.  The latter was not expressed with any hint of

bitterness.

There was silence for a few minutes.  Then Snod responded.

In the light of our conversation on Judas, I can only say that we might as

well think of Murgatroyd as an extra ball.  He may not be the icing on the

familial cake, but he probably needs to be included.

Father, that’s generous of you.  It makes no difference to how I feel about

our relationship.

What about your mother?  Do you want me to keep the lid on this for the

moment?  She’s moving house and perhaps that is enough stress for her

at present.

I will think about how to tell her, but for now, it’s what I feel I have to do.

Snod dropped her off at Royalist House in High Street.  She was

exhausted.

Here!  You forgot your present! shouted Snod, handing her the parcel out

through the driver’s window.  It was quite heavy for its size.

He wasn’t going to come in.  He had some work to do for the new term

and he was so behind.  Would he change his name, or leave things

as they were? Decisions, decisions..

 

Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil

Tags

anaphoric reference, Cafe Moroc, Camelot, codicil, Deus quem punire.., Fusion food, Guenevere and Lancelot, Japanese oak, kelim, kofte, Kundry, Latin Verse Speaking Competition, meze, Morgan Le Fey, Parsifal, Pele Tower, Pit Bull, Pliny, quatrefoil, Quincunx, Ridebis et, Simon Bolivar, Vickers machine gun, Wagner

Sitting in the offices of Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil Solicitors

in Rochester, Dru was digging her metal-tipped heel into the Japanese

oak parquet, which was irritating Mr Bunbury Junior considerably, though

he tried to remain professionally impassive, only occasionally clearing his

throat, like a Pit Bull on a restraint lead.

With his monogrammed handkerchief – BQ&Q- he mopped at

excessive saliva, which her small time act of vandalism was

provoking...so the stirrup cups are endowed to the museum, but

I have some personal papers for you.  He handed over a brown

envelope to Gus.  Can you initial for receipt, please?  He then

reached down and lifted a few school magazines bound with a

perished rubber band from the floor.

Gus immediately recognised back numbers of St

Birinus Middle‘s annual publication, from the 60s.

They seem to cover 1955-62, Mr Bunbury explained.  Your father

apparently treasured your team photos.  He asterisked the year when

you captained the 1st XI.  He has annotated the Prize-giving List for

1961, when you took the Classics Cup for Latin Public Speaking.

I remember that, said Snod, flicking through the yellowed pages.

I had to memorise and deliver some Pliny.  Something along the

lines of Ridebis et licet..

..rideat, supplied Bunbury Junior, who had come second in his prep

school’s Latin Verse Speaking Competition with the very same passage

and had his defeat bitterly imprinted on his memory forever.  Pliny the

Elder.

You will notice a communication from Lady Wivern, your mother,

which outlines the financial arrangements she made with Miss

Snodbury over your welfare and protection, when she released you into

her care.

Mehercule! Snod ejaculated. Deus quem punire uit demerat.

What? said Dru, digging her heel into the floor even more deeply.

Whom God will destroy He first makes mad, supplied Mr Bunbury,

eager to show his linguistic prowess.

Pliny the Younger, Snod stated firmly with an anaphoric reference

which Bunbury was incapable of tracing.

Instead the solicitor cleared his throat, glared at Dru’s foot and

continued, The codicil clarifies her wishes and we have drawn up

instructions as to how you may gain access to the bank vault and its

contents. We will send you further details along with your-ahem!–

(here a further glare at Dru’s heel).. with a note of our charges.

And a bill for repairs to the floor, he wanted to add.

He burbled on in a factual manner for a few more minutes.

Snod and Drusilla retired to The Cafe Moroc– a ‘fusion of Regency

decadence and Moroccan chic’, according to its advertising blurb.

Gus had had enough decadence for one day, so they concentrated

on twelve different meze dishes (to share) and a lamb kofte.

I don’t understand, whispered Dru.  What’s been going on?

Snod was in deep shock, but it didn’t prevent him from demolishing

eight out of the twelve dishes, which Dru thought was somewhat

unfair, especially as he went for her favourites with a vengeance,

adding yet another stain to his, thankfully, polka-dotted tie.

Berenice was not his mother; Hugo de Sousa was not his half-brother;

Aunt Augusta was not his aunt, nor Dru’s great-aunt.  The other

Augusta who had run wild in the Bosphorous was not his grandmother,

nor Dru’s great-grandmother, though the sale of the inherited kelims

had paid for his music lessons and ‘extras’..

Dru could see the carrot of being Aunt Augusta’s sole legatee

vanishing as rapidly as the meze.

So, she slowly worked it out, Anthony Revelly, the toy boy tutor, had

an affair with the widowed Lady Wivern.  The Vickers machine gun accident

didn’t knock the balls off his potential coronet then.

Coronet?

Okay, I suppose it was Lord Wivern’s then.  Or was the title in her family?

I don’t know, Snod said wearily.  They clearly did not marry.  Mmm.. I

suppose Lionel and Peregrine were my half-brothers.  I may be entitled to

pre-fix ‘The Honourable’  to my name.

But the boys are both dead, aren’t they?  And they didn’t have any family?

Not as far as I know.  There’s nothing mentioned in the paperwork.  Oh,

really, it’s all too much.

You mentioned your name, Drusilla persisted.  But you may have been

given the Christian name ‘Augustus’ to help to recreate your identity.

She refused to use the PC term ‘forename’.  In that she was her father’s

daughter.

Yes, apparently Lady Wivern called me Arthur Parsifal.  Snod looked

abashed. I’ve never really liked Wagner.  Too narcissistic.

The Honourable Arthur Parsifal Revelly?  Dru choked on a chick pea.

Ah, like Kundry, you are the first to address me by the name my mother

gave me.

Kundry?

In the opera. ‘The wound, the wound, it burns within my heart’

Right.  Dru didn’t know what he was rambling on about. What was Lady

Wivern’s name?

Aurelia Tindall, according to all this bumf.  Of Coquetbrookdale.  Her ancestors

had owned a pele tower in the Borders.

Oh, I’ve always wanted to live in a pele tower, breathed Dru.  Murgatroyd, he

whose name must not be spoken, is renovating one up there, according to

mother.

Well, we won’t be inheriting a domesticated fortification either.  It was in ruins

and so it was unsaleable and couldn’t alleviate her insolvency or save Wyvern

Mote from being left to the nation.

So, Berenice dumped you after she received payment to take you on as her son?

She tried to foist you off on her mother and then her sister took charge of the

whole sorry mess.   All that in spite of having been paid a fair whack,

no doubt.

Enough to cost Aurelia Wyvern Mote; but enough to pave Berenice’s way to

decamping to the land of her hero, Simon Bolivar.

There’s a detail that you’re missing, Dru pointed out, quickly mopping up

some sauce with a torn corner of pita bread.

Only one? Gus sighed.

You are Arthur, King of Camelot.

So, in that case I must forgive Guenevere and Lancelot if life is to go on.

Guenevere?  Lancelot?

Anthony and Aurelia, I suppose, Snod nodded.  Oh, you’ve finished all the

chick peas.

Yes, I have you greedy old.. She checked any outward expression of her

inner turmoil. And Aunt Augusta?  Shall we still take her out?  she asked

instead.

Morgan le Fey!  But at least she didn’t plot against me, so we shouldn’t

punish her, though she’s no water sprite, that’s for sure. No, let the healing

begin!

And he tossed her the envelope and its contents.  Some of this applies to

you.

 

 

Sleeping Dogs

Tags

Big Ben, Bishop's Move, Camelot, How To Handle a Woman, I Loved You Once in Silence, If ever I would leave you, Lancelot, non-PC, Royal School of Church Music, sleeping dogs, The Lusty Month of May, Timex, Today programme

Diana, Dru and Gus sat in that hostelry which was run by a dyslexic

landlord, namely, The Running Sore and digested their two course

meal.

It had been a special midweek offer: a discount if orders were taken

before seven pm.

They had slid into a corner table two minutes before the deadline, only

to be told that it was two minutes past.

Gus summoned mein host, who couldn’t tell the time anyway, but he was

soon persuaded that Mr Snodbury’s watch was regulated every morning by

Big Ben‘s chimes before the Today programme and that the school bell was

synchronised by this ancient timepiece- Snod’s Timex, that is.

Okay, okay, you can have the special offer, he conceded.  There was no

point in arguing with a bunch of teachers, or they who must be obeyed.

They were too used to getting their own way.

He clawed back the reduction by substituting a cheaper bottle of house

red and they didn’t notice.

Well, we’ve missed the funeral, sadly, Gus said.

Yes, but we can go down next week and make an appointment to see

the solicitors.  Also, Aunt Augusta wants to be taken out again, remarked

Dru, somewhat ruefully.

I suppose so.  She never even commented on me going to see him with

Berenice when I was little, Gus said a little bitterly.

She’s old now.  It was a long time ago and she’s forgotten, soothed Diana.

Better let sleeping dogs lie, she advised.

Mum, can you manage your removal on your own?  Have you got storage

arranged?

I’ve got Bishop’s Move- that removals firm that sounds like a chess

strategy. They do everything for you.  I’m going to put everything into a

secure barn near Suttonford. Don’t worry.  You go with your father.

The Royal School of Church Music, hmmm.  He was musical then.  I must

have taken after him.  Snod looked down.  He looked pensive, but he

had just noticed a soup stain on his tie.

He should have heard you take the lead role in Camelot, said Diana.  ‘If

Ever I should Leave you’-such a moving song.  He would have been so

proud of you.

‘Would’.  ‘Would leave you’. That was Lancelot’s song, Snod corrected her.

Yes, but you would have sung it even better.

He let it go.

It’s a blessing that Berenice is gone in a way, Dru observed.  What she didn’t

know didn’t hurt her.  I don’t suppose he remembered her in his will.

I loved you once in silence, said Diana.  That was anther good one.

And Snod looked down again.  But this time it was a tear that had stained

his tie.

The Lusty Month of May.. Diana began, but Dru signalled to her to shut

up. It was too much information and at completely the wrong time. How to

Handle a Woman didn’t even come into it.  Those were non-PC times and

Snod was still living in them.  He was one of the Old School.

Flying Low

Tags

Botox, cicatrice, cockatrice, flying low, Gestalt prayer, Ofstead 'outstanding', PTA event

Virginia Fisher-Giles, School Secretary, self-elevated to PA, answered the

telephone.

St Birinus Middle, ranked ‘outstanding’ by Ofstead….I’m afraid he is in a

meeting.

(Snod was in his private loo attached to the Head’s

Office.)

May I ask who’s calling?  His daughter.  I see. (It was that harpist woman.)

I’ll ask him to return your call.  Thank you so much and

goodbye.

‘Daughter!’  This must be one of his emotional scars, she reasoned.

In fact, she seems more like a cicatrice.  Or is it cockatrice? He will need

the equivalent of a course in behavioural Botox, or a Gestalt blowtorch

session to deal with any emotions stirred up by her. 

What was that prayer they had said in Assembly last week?  It was some

Gestalt mantra :

I do my thing and you do your thing.
I am not in this world to live up to your expectations,
And you are not in this world to live up to mine.
You are you, and I am I,
and if by chance we find each other, it’s beautiful.
If not, it can’t be helped.
She had intoned it to herself over the past few days, but it wasn’t

doing her any favours in the relationship department.  She had thought

of having a calligrapher make a version for her which she

could have framed and could hang it in her office.

She particularly liked the line about not being in the world to live up to

other people’s expectations.  She could hang it as a reminder in Snod’s

study instead…

And that daughter was certainly no oil painting when I saw her at the PTA

event.  Can’t understand Milford-Haven drooling all over her. Disgusting.

No finesse.  Either of them.

Wonder what she wants?

Snod came into her office.  Virginia wanted to inform him that his flies were

undone, and almost resorted to that time-worn cliche: You’re flying low!

but realised that the time was not ripe.

Instead she said, Your daughter phoned and would like you to return her call.

Snod took the post-it note and looked puzzled.  I thought she was teaching

this afternoon.  How odd.

He went back into his study and waited for the cistern to fall silent.  Virginia

held her breath and stood outside the door with a sheaf of papers that could

have waited a week for attention, but which gave her a rationale for

hovering.

Dru, what’s the matter?  No, it’s not a fault on the line, it’s just..Never mind.

Just tell me what’s bothering you.