Trick or Treat

Tags

Frankenweenie, garlic and crucifix, Ghostbuster, guising, Guy Fawkes, hallowe'en, John Milton, Mars Bar, Paradise Lost, pumpkin lantern, Trick or Treat, trug, Zombie

(A seasonal re-blog, folks. Enjoy!)

It was Hallowe’en and Carrie’s children were hyper-excited.  Tiger-Lily was in

charge of her siblings.  She had dressed as a witch and her brother, Ferdy, was

carrying a plastic trident and sported horns.

Ming had a black plastic cape and his smile was rather disconcerting as he

had managed to retain plastic fangs from a Christmas cracker in his mouth,

in spite of the additional dental obstruction of a brace.  The whole effect

was akin to Frankenweenie.

Bill was a white-faced zombie with fake blood dripping down his jaw.

Edward’s facewas green and he had a screw sticking out of his neck.

Rollo was a Ghostbuster.

All carried pumpkin lanterns and empty, be-ribboned mini-trugs, for the

reception of donated goodies.

Now be polite, children, and only visit the houses on High Street.  Ring the

doorbells once only and say thank you if anyone gives you fruit.  You

mustn’t accept money…

Edward looked disappointed.

I’ll wait round the corner in The Peal O’ Bells with the other mummies. 

Stay together and when you’ve finished, knock on the window.

Let’s go to Grandma’s first, said Ferdy. She won’t be scared of us.

Yes, let’s get it over with, said Tiger.

They rang the doorbell and stepped back politely.

Suddenly a white-sheeted figure with two black holes for eyes

opened the door and shouted: Boo!

Little Edward was terrified.  He seized his sister’s hand and dropped

his trug.

It’s only Grandma, silly, said Tiger, annoyed at the naughty nonagenarian.

Trick or treat, Grandma?

Ginevra pulled the sheet off and smoothed her hair.

We’re not having that American nonsense here, she lectured.  When your

daddy was small he had to do guising properly.  We’re a traditional family. 

So, who’s going to do the first turn?

Turn? quailed Rollo.

Yes.  A  recitation, dance or song.  You don’t get owt for nowt as they

used to say.

What’s a recitation?  asked Ming.

Come in.  I’ll show you, said Ginevra enthusiastically.  Ola! Have you put

the apples in the basin of water?

But Ola wasn’t there.  She had run off to Bric-a-Brac with Jean-Paul,

the widower from the twinning visit.  Ginevra had forgotten the new

carer’s name.

Sorry.  Magda, then.

They all trooped into the sitting room and Ginevra moved her case of

Dewlap Gin for Discerning Grandmothers off the sofa, so that they could

sit down.

She took a deep, somewhat juniper-scented breath and launched

forth:

Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought Death into the world and all our woe…

Sing, Heavenly Muse!…

Two hours later Tiger had to shake Edward awake as her

grandmother uttered the final words:

…through Eden took their solitary way.

Ginevra bowed with a huge flourish and pronounced:

Paradise Lost: now that’s poetry!

She then proceeded to help herself to a bag of Mars bars which

Magda had been instructed to purchase for the children.

Now…

Grandma, we’ve got to go.  It’s past Edward’s bed-time, said Tiger-Lily

firmly.

Oh, what a pity.  We didn’t get round to ducking for apples, said Ginevra,

disconsolately.

There’s always next year, replied Tiger, scarcely banishing a rather un-

grand-daughterly thought: If the old bag is still around.

Carrie was frantic:  Where have you been all this time?

Blame Grandma, said Tiger.  Give her any opportunity or a platform and

you’ll be there all night.

You should have taken the crucifix and the garlic, like I told you, said

Carrie, bundling them into the 4×4.  She’s always been a monster.

Even to Daddy? asked an exhausted Ming.

Especially to Daddy.  Never mind.  We’ll have good fun at Clammie

and Tristram’s Guy Fawkes Party.  Burning effigies is so therapeutic!

 

 

 

Ode to Autumn

Tags

bonfire smoke, car emissions, depression, Keats, lama, leaves on the line, light box, llama, Ode to Autumn, St Crispin's Day, stalactites, Wolford tights

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

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

don’t we?  Which way?

Fall back; Spring forward, I reminded her.

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

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

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

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

any three ‘l’ lllama.

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

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

talking about?

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

You sound a bit depressed, she stated bluntly.

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

opinion.

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

Brassie.

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

sheet of A4 in her direction.

THE FALL

Season of fogs, mouldy putrefaction,

enemy of the geriatric sun,

bringing depression, dissatisfaction,

blasting the mildewed fruit trees, one by one;

tainting blackberries with lead pollution,

eroding limestone buildings as the air

saturates with sulphuric solution.

Emissions from cars, whose owners don’t care

make children’s lungs bloat as they breathe exhaust

fumes more deadly than poppy opiates:

an inspiration of enormous cost-

harvest to be garnered at future dates.

Who has not seen them oft amid their stores,

stockpiling for Christmas, demented folk?

Those raking rotting leaves: of garden chores

the most thankless.  Resulting bonfire smoke

irritating neighbours, whose dank washing

is ash-specked.  Home-brew enthusiasts start

ineffectual sterilising, squashing

of elderberries….It’s then their wives depart

for evenings out, to let men watch the ooze;

they do lotteries with syndicate friends,

hoping for windfalls; drinking decent booze.

Who hears the songs of Spring?  It all depends

to what you are attuned.  If you have kids,

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

as children’s advertising makes its bids-

o’erwhelming, so no parent can resist

its importunities.  The dismal rain

fills gutters blocked by aforementioned leaves,

which de-rail, or delay the British train,

which sceptical commuter scarce believes.

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

outwith the fold, or a housing bubble.

Reaped fields disappear; crops, livestock we mourn.

Winnowing is gone- designer stubble

the only razing we can recognise.

Clearly Men and Nature are out of synch.

Seasonal disorders rise.

If Keats were here, whatever would he think?

I think that is SAD, said Brassie.

Sad?

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

box!

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

we wouldn’t have had all that marvellous poetry.

Interesting subject for a dissertation.

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

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

(re-blog from 2013)

Bug out

Tags

Apocalypse, armouredcockroach, Arne Dahl, Arto Soderstedt, Bear Grylls, bivvy bag, bug in, bug out, dehydrated snacks, Elastoplast, Enid Blyton, Fatty, hallowe'en, kirby grip, mushroom cloud, non-PC, parador, preppers, rhetorical questions, Sawyer Water filter, sizeism, The Secret Seven, zombies

(Bear Grylls photo by jamiegrayphotography.co.uk)

Augustus looked at his ex-lover, Diana Fotheringay-Syylk

and raised an eyebrow.

He then glanced towards his current enamorata, Virginia

Fisher-Gyles and she shrugged.

Murgatroyd was prevaricating as usual. They were all ready

to go out for a walk and he was fussing around with some

man bag, or other.

Surely you don’t need that?  Gus was good at rhetorical questions.

He very rarely had the opportunity to use them in teaching as they

were open, rather than closed questions.  He quite liked the control

they gave him, if delivered with heavy irony, but he had been

advised at his appraisal that sarcasm was out of fashion in current

classrooms. What a pity.

I won’t be a moment.  I just have to fit the Sawyer water filter in-

somehow.

But we’re going to the pub eventually.  We won’t need water, Virginia

pointed out, sanely.

You can’t tell him, groaned Diana.  But I draw the line at taking the

one man tent.  It is big enough for both of us, but, even in a

nuclear incident, I wouldn’t want to be so close to him!

Oh, bug off! Murgatroyd was becoming irritable, as he felt they were

laughing at his expense.

Diana was starting to enjoy teasing him when the others were giving

her moral support.  I don’t think there are too many zombies around

here, darling. Just some SNPs.

Zombies?  It’s not Hallowe’en yet, Virginia commented, perhaps too

freely, considering she was addressing her host.

No, zombies who would steal your supplies while you were bugged in-

before you bugged out after the mushroom cloud, replied Diana, who

knew the lingo.  Or after we’ve been forced to leave the Union.

I don’t fancy these dehydrated snack things you’ve got in there, said

Snod.  I thought we were going to have a pie and a pint.

Murgatroyd knew he was dealing with unbelievers and not his fellow

preppers.

Hang on! Snod said suddenly.  Maybe you could take the mosquito net

with us.  I bags it if we encounter a cloud of midges.

Don’t unwrap it! shouted Murgatroyd.  It took me ages to roll it up and

fit it in to my bivvy bag.

I used to read ‘The Secret Seven’ when I was a kid, reminisced Virginia.

Fatty advised everyone to have an emergency tin with a piece of string, a

safety pin, a folded up piece of paper, a kirby grip, an Elastoplast and a

coin for the phone.

What was the kirby grip for? asked Diana, while Murgatroyd struggled

to put on his boots.  His back was still bothering him after all the scything

he had done.

Well, it worked in conjunction with the paper.  You see, if someone locked

you into a room while you were doing your detective work, you could put

the paper under the door and knock the key out from the other side and

slide it towards you and, hey presto! explained Virginia.

I bet Arto Soderstedt hasn’t thought of that one! laughed Diana.

Enid Blyton meets Arne Dahl, guffawed Snod.  Oh, come on!  It’s

going to rain and you haven’t got a brolly in there, have you?

Just leave it! Diana ordered.  If you hurry up we will get a table

and if you are very good you can let them watch armouredcockroach

on Youtube this afternoon, for some light entertainment before

supper.  Come on, Bear.

You know, it’s a bit odd.  Dru hasn’t been in touch since they went

to the parador, remarked Virginia, who carried a mobile phone in her

handbag, like a good PA and considered that her main piece of kit

for any emergency, or unforeseen event.  I hope they are okay.

Well, I don’t think there has been an Apocalypse in Spain, or we’d

have heard about it, sighed Diana.  It’s more likely that Murgatroyd has

had his phone blocker switched on.  He’s very anti-government, aren’t

you, darling?  Anyway, it serves him right as he blocked an e-mail from

the pub about their two- pies- for- one offer.  Shame.  Personally, I feel 

you have to trust the zombies sometimes.

Two pies for the price of one?!  Snod was intrigued and enthusiastic.

Come on, Fatty, Virginia quipped, linking arms, but Diana thought she

might be going too far towards sizeism and the non PC.

Delta NC Wikipaedia

Schubert in Salisbury

Tags

Celebrate Voice, Jacob's ladder, lieder, Medieval Hall, Salisbury, Schubert, stage door, Steinway, Susan Bullock, Wagnerian soprano

So, you went to Salisbury at the weekend?

Yes.  To the ‘Celebrate Voice!’ Festival.

And heard what?

I sipped my Monk Pear tea.  Schubert.  Susan

Bullock, the Wagnerian soprano.  She was singing

lieder.  But I think that she was upstaged by the moon,

somewhat.

How so?

You can read my poem and decide for yourself.

Schubert in Salisbury

Our invisible feet traverse The Close

and we are shrouded in darkness.  It’s there:

luminous, transcendent, yet immanent,

its sculpted details sharp in the moonlight.

Together, on this frosty evening,

our hearts ache from Schubert’s yearning lieder:

betrayal, grief, regret and bitterness.

Oh, farewell to the world- let them feel love;

they may thank you yet – sooner or later,

but tearfully– and probably too late.

In the medieval hall she sang to us

and we were insulated by the warmth,

the spotlit dais; the shiny Steinway.

Elbow to elbow, we brushed each other;

applauded to show solidarity.

But, propped up, in the great closed porch, a lone

cold, shadowy figure, tightly cocooned

in damp, lumpy bedding, breathes not a word.

The stone finger of God points to the sky,

as if to seal the lips of the divine.

Before us lies a man who has no voice,

but merely craves some heat from God’s stage door.

The singer did not bow to him tonight;

he did not hear the piano lid come down.

He falls asleep and hears the angels sing-

the spire above, his ladder up to Heaven.

And we, like Jacob, rooted to the earth,

wrestle and wrestle with our own demons.

The moon vanishes behind a dark cloud.

She sang: Und finster die Nacht, wie das Grab!*

The frozen sleeper turns onto his side

and we hurry, before the gates are locked.

*’and the night dark as the grave.’

Que Gigantes??

Tags

Andalusia, Balm of Fierarbras, caballeros, castanet, Castilian, Cave of Montesinos, Cervantes, Coyote, duende, Dulcinea, Falstaff, flamenco, Golden Age, hidalgo, Jack Horner, Jeremy Corbyn, John McDonnell, Kindle, La Mancha, parador, paramour, Pele Tower, picaresque, Quixote, Sancho Panza, Serrano, Simon Russell Beale, Tony Benn

John McDonnell as Sancho Panza?

(Photo: Kolrobbie at Wikipaedia)

(Zaqarbal, Wikipaedia)

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master of St Birinus Middle,

grimaced at the Junior Master’s pronunciation.

Nigel had just informed his elder and better that he was taking

his paramour, Drusilla to a Ciudad Real Parador for the October

half term break.  They would not be joining Gus and Virginia at

the Pele Tower in the Borders.

On enquiring what Nigel’s- he refused to call him ‘Nige’- holiday

reading might be, he was given to understand that Cervantes was

on the agenda-or at least, on the Kindle, abridged, naturally.

Nigel, more or less, had identified the novel as Don Coyote.

Quixote?

Whatever.

Another instance of that annoying expression.

Nigel put his hand in his tweed jacket, to draw out a handkerchief

and, to his surprise, pulled out-not a plum, like Jack Horner, but a pair

of castanets.  He flushed and raised them above his head, attempting a

confident Ole!

What’s going on? muttered Snod.

Oh, Dru and I have been preparing for our forthcoming trip by attending

a Flamenco Club in Suttonford, on a Wednesday night.

Cervantes and the duende. Hmmm, you are studying the chivalric form of

The Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, I take it?

Snod patted his paunch sagely, as if he were Simon Russell Beale playing

Falstaff.

Privately, Nigel thought Gus could do with some exercise himself.  He could

lose some of that grandote.

Flapping his hand in a hidalgoesque manner, Snod indicated that he was

terminating the conversation.  He picked up a newspaper and gave the

impression that all discussion on the picaresque was at an end.

But Nigel, noticing a front page photo of Jeremy Corbyn, could not help

commenting that the politician was another example, like Tony Benn, who

was given to renunciation of the caballeros class.

Snod lowered his paper and pronounced:

I think he feels Fortune has arranged thirty or more monstrous giants, all

of whom he means to engage in battle and slay in righteous warfare.

What giants?

No, Mr Milford-Haven.  The quotation is ‘Que gigantes?’  But, yes, Corbyn has

something of The Knight of the Rueful Countenance about him.  You see, he

wants you to believe what he claims to have seen in the Cave of Montesinos.

And that is all he has to say.  His words are like manure spread on barren

ground. He might as well be speaking Castilian.

(Photo: Garry Knight)

You think he is just telling some groups of goatherds about a Golden Age?

ventured Nigel.

He believes he can heal society with an equivalent of the Balm of Fierarbras, 

Snod nodded.

But at least he seems to be for the poor, Nigel qualified.

Fools think there is bacon when there is not even a hook to hang a haunch of

Serrano on, persisted Snod, beginning to enjoy the exchange.  I suppose in

office he might wake to sanity.

The bell rang, concluding the exploration of the romantic forthcoming trip

with Drusilla, or Dulcinea, as Snod was beginning to think of her.

Back to the galleys, Snod announced.  His identification with Cervantes

was complete.

(Photo by Lourdes Cardenal, Wikipaedia)

This particular collocation of Don Quixote and Jeremy Corbyn is copyright

to Candia Dixon Stuart.

The Taxpayers’ Alliance

Tags

Alex Wild, austerity, bob-a-job, bus pass, cockles of heart, death by thousand cuts, Dick Turpin, fix the roof, fox and grapes, gin, government waste, importunate widow parable, juniper berries, Liam Fox, Ponzi Scheme, Robin Hood, Taxpayers' Alliance, Whist Club, winter fuel allowance

(Liam Fox- allegedly ‘The Enemy’, though apparently he said the

equivalent of  ‘it wisnae me’ to Andrew Neil.

Image uploaded by Russiavia.  Image by Chatham House.)

What’s wrong with Mum?  Carrie asked Magda, the carer.  I’ve

never seen her so apoplectic…eh, annoyed.

She actually poured the nonagenarian a premature snifter of Dewlap

Gin for the Discerning Grandmother, in spite of having imposed a pre-

6.30pm ban.  Then she poured one for herself, but not for Magda since

she was on duty, though Carrie suspected that she helped herself.

Ginevra downed the shot in one swig, That jumped-up whippersnapper

has really got my goat! shrieked the venerable curmudgeon.

Carrie re-filled her out-stretched glass, fully knowing that her mother-

in-law was exceeding the recommended quota of units, in one session.

Who are we talking about? she asked.

Alex Wild.  He makes me wild-no, livid!  He’s trying to snatch my pension.

Magda rolled her eyes.  She had been accused on numerous occasions

of snaffling Ginevra’s pension book, but it was usually discovered down

the arm rest of the old crone’s favourite chair.

He’s the meddler from The Taxpayers’ Alliance, spluttered Ginevra.

He suggested that I might not be around at the time of the next election,

so my vote wouldn’t be in the equation.  Then he had the effrontery to hint

that we oldies are an example of government waste.  It’s Dick Turpin in

reverse, or do I mean Robin Hood?  Anyway. it’s daylight robbery, whatever. 

I fully intend to live another ten years, just to spite him.  We pensioners will

never forget the party who intended to treat us all so shabbily.  We’re like

elephants.  We never forget.  In 1940 my sister-in-law made a derogatory

remark about my shoulder pads and I waited thirty years till she…

But you spend your winter fuel allowance on Dewlap, Carrie pointed out,

in an attempt to be even-handed.

This did not go down well.

It warms the cockles of my heart, Ginevra expostulated.  I doubt he has

any cockles, or a heart.  He’d better not try to teach grandmothers to suck

eggs!

But you don’t even use your bus pass, sighed Carrie.

That’s not the point.  And if I don’t use it, it saves them money.  It’s my

prerogative and my human right.  I worked all my life and paid my taxes and…

I know!  I’ll have a funny turn and you can call out an ambulance.  That’ll

cost them for upsetting an old woman.

Carrie sat down on the chintzy sofa and picked up the newspaper.  It was

marked with a biro asterisk at the title of an article which reported that

Liam Fox had said that it was time to fix the roof.  She read aloud the section

where he was alleged to have said that we were all borrowing from the

next generation in some kind of Ponzi Scheme.

And to think we went up in Spitfires for these ungrateful…  It’s death by a

thousand cuts!

Hi, Grandma.  What are you on about now?  Tiger-Lily sauntered into the

sitting room and, without averting her eyes from her phone screen, planted

a kiss on the old lady’s brow.  I didn’t know you were a pilot in the war.

What do you want? Ginevra rasped, rather rudely.

Grandma, remember you promised to give me £50 so I can go to ‘The

Headbangers’ Festival?’

Did I?  I don’t remember that.  Anyhow, it’s out of the question.  I have to

fix my roof, apparently.

What roof?

It’s metaphorical.  Don’t they teach you anything nowadays?

Aww, but…

Carrie threw her daughter a disapproving look, but she persisted,

like the importunate bread seeker in the parable, but with a less

favourable outcome.

You said…  Here, for effect, Tiger actually made eye contact with an adult.

That was before Brer Fox stole the grapes, countered Ginevra.  Or the juniper

berries.  Whatever.  Soon I won’t be able to afford my favourite tipple.  You’ll

just have to do a ‘Bob-a-Job’, like your father had to, at your age.  You know,

collect some lemonade bottles and return them for the deposit.  Get a

Saturday job; do chores for old ladies.  Oh, you can take this bottle to the

re-cycling and get this old lady a new one.

Carrie interrupted:  They’re not allowed to purchase alcohol, Mum.

Aren’t they?  At her age…

Carrie gesticulated to Magda, who managed to find some dregs to pour

into the empty glass.

Listen, clarified her somewhat mollified mother-in-law, addressing them all:

Everyone has to make economies now.  We are in the days of austerity, so

here’s 50p.

She found a coin down the side of the sofa and proffered it to her grand-

daughter.  If you don’t like it, suck it up and blame it on Gorgeous George and

the poncey party.

She sneezed and took out a lacy handkerchief from her sleeve.

Grandma, there’s the knot in your hanky- the one you said was to remind

you that you would give me the money.

No, dear, I’m sure that’s the one I tied this afternoon, to remind me

never to vote for these highway robbers.  And I’m going to tell everyone

at the Whist Club to follow suit.

Jezza Style

Tags

Beckham baker's boy cap, beyond the pale, Birkenstocks, Biro, Channel 4, Clothing Bank, Diane Abbott, Islington North, ITV, Jeremy Corbyn, Jezza, Jon Snow, Paisley pattern, Pele Tower, personal style signifier, Robert Peston, snowclones, Whiter Shade of Pale, Wurzel Gummidge

(Photo-stopwar.org.uk)

Virginia Fisher-Gyles had to admit to a certain frustration over her

relationship with Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus

Middle School.

They had enjoyed each other’s company over the school holidays

and were planning a half term break to visit Gus’ ex-squeeze, who

had been reconciled to her ex-husband, Murgatroyd Syylk, the erstwhile

picture dealer.  Now Diana, for that was the name of the lady so lucky

in love, was adapting to her new role as chatelaine of a renovated

pele tower.  To boot, her spouse was the epitome of good grooming.

Virginia felt no pangs of jealousy, architectural, or otherwise, but

what really niggled at her lately-enjoyed sense of being a deux was a

certain slight embarrassment at her partner’s wardrobe.

Gus seemed to have shadowed Jeremy Corbyn on one of his sartorial

shopping treks round Islington North market stalls.  The schoolmaster

wasn’t guilty of the white vest solecism, but he did have a very similar

beige jacket, albeit with unco-ordinated elbow patches.

Like Jezza, Snod had a habit of keeping a spare Biro in his shirt pocket.

One hot summer day, before term had ended, Peabrayne Minor had

practically freaked out, as he had noticed a crimson seepage from his

teacher’s breast.  He had run out of the classroom to fetch the San Sister,

thinking the old boy was haemmorhaging.  Some of the other boys on the

front row had noticed the phenomenon too, but had realised that it was

a leaky marking pen that was gradually creating a map that the more

geographically-aware members of the class were already identifying as

Africa.

Snod had been sporting cords since the Seventies- possibly the same pair-

because he appreciated their comfort, which only increased, the baggier

they became round his increasing backside.

For more formal occasions, such as a Parents’ Evening, he added a rakish

personal style signifier in the form of a Paisley patterned silk mouchoir,

which protruded from the aforementioned jacket pocket.

Virginia had been relieved that her had stuck to his old cricket flannels on

their European cruise.  At least he had not worn shorts with his Birkenstocks.

That would have been beyond the pale, as far as she was concerned. She

privately made a bet with herself that his legs had not seen the light of day

since A Whiter Shade of Pale had topped the charts in 1967.  Anyway, she

wasn’t going to go there.

So, for her beau, beige was the new black.  She had read that such

expressions were termed snowclones.  How she wished that he would take

a leaf out of Jon Snow’s book and, at least, display a hint of hosiery style.

However, since Gus was not a Channel 4 type, she would just have to accept

that he was happier to converge with the likes of Robert Peston.  But if the

economist was to defect to ITV, there might be a hope of persuading her man

that Wurzel Gummidge was an unsuitable role model, or fashion template.

So, boho-Corbynesque seemed to prevail.  What was she supposed to do

about it?  Threaten to dress like Diane Abbott?

No, she would start her campaign early and ensure that he wasn’t just

getting socks and Boxers for Christmas.  This was going to tax her

organisational skills as a PA to the limit, as well as her personal shopper

aspirations.  It was heartening, however, to know that Snod’s daughter,

Drusilla, was on board and had offered to hijack his laundry and take it to

the Clothing Bank at the re-cycling centre.  They would probably charge

her ten quid to incinerate it.

Virginia thought that might be a risky strategy, although a tempting one.

However, since Nigel, Drusilla’s boyfriend was adopting the same

magisterial uniform, in the Latin sense, perhaps the two women could

form a twin-pronged attack on both males and achieve successful

makeovers.  Perhaps.

At least neither of them owned a Beckham baker’s boy cap.  So, there

might be some hope after all.