Crossing the Rubicon

Tags

alea iacta est, Burmese ruby, Caesar, die is cast, Lady Capulet, Mercutio, Mr Bennet, Pele Tower, Queen Mab, Romeo and Juliet, Rubicon, Six Nations, Test Matches, Tybalt, warts and all

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession

of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife, Drusilla had quoted to her

father with a laugh, at her small engagement celebration.

The hint had not been too subtle and he had riposted:

But what about a single man who is not yet in possession of an

indifferent pension?  And, furthermore, I have the humility to question

whether I am ‘a fine thing.’

She had sighed in exasperation: Oh, Dad! Inverted pride, more like!

Now Augustus Snodbury was shaving and meditating as he did so.

He could no longer prevaricate.

Lines from Romeo and Juliet whirled around his mind, as was

usual when he had been drumming a text all term into the

recalcitrant brains(?) of restless adolescents.

I like her well enough, he mused, referencing Juliet’s words to Lady

Capulet, but reversing the gender perspective.

( He did not usually play the female lead, but would generally

assign it to some pretty-looking boy whom he wanted to punish

for a late prep.)

…if looking liking move, he continued.

Was he moved sufficiently?

Terror rushed through his veins and he nicked himself through

self-sabotage, dispensing with a need for a Mercutio, or Tybalt, to

draw blood.  He was aware that he was in a fear or flight situation.

But no more deep will I endear mine eye, whispered one of his angels.

He would never again be able to watch all the Test matches in peace

and absorb himself in The Six Nations, not to mention Wimbledon.

And yet…

He had travelled down to Rochester to Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil

with Drusilla, to collect the pigeon blood Burmese ruby ring from the

depository, in order to make his proposal to Virginia, with a gem from

Lady Wivern’s bequest.  Dru had not wanted it.  She thought it too vulgar

and had been pleased to resign any right in the stash, in exchange for the

sweet little heart-shaped ring she had acquired to mark her betrothal to

Nigel.

He put himself into the sandals of Caesar himself.  Maybe it would be

treason, treason to his long-held bachelorhood status, but now he knew

that he must cross the last frontier and push his boat into the Rubicon

of married life.

He knew that, like Mr Bennet, he was an odd mixture of quick parts,

sarcastic humour, reserve and caprice.  And yet Virginia, unlike Mrs B,

was a woman of some understanding, much information and a certain

temper.  Would she agree to entering an arrangement of mutual solace?

Was he in the throes of some Queen Mab fantasy?

At his time of life he felt challenged by the concept of establishing a new

permanent relationship.  It made him feel- what?  Peevish.  Yes, that was

it.

When Dru had phoned her mother to tell her about the engagement, Diana

had been in raptures.  Dru was relating how she intended to pay for her

wedding through crowdfunding, but Murgatroyd wouldn’t hear of such a

thing and immediately offered the pele tower as a venue, adding that they

would have a joint celebration at which he and Diana would renew their

wedding vows.

Maybe he should make it a threesome.  No, that was something entirely

different, he believed. Three weddings and whose funeral?

They were having a piper and all the rigmarole that Snod despised.

Anyway, she might turn him down!  That would be a relief, in a way.

He took the ring out of the box and held it to the light.  It seemed to have

flaws in the stone.  When he was having it cleaned he had asked the

jeweller about it.

All the best stones do, he had remarked.  It shows their authenticity.

Well, he hoped Virginia would appreciate him, warts and all!

Alea Iacta Est!

 

 

Advertisements

Blue Murder

Tags

Boris Johnson, Brussels, Bullingdon club, David Cameron, George Osborne, Gove

Brassica laughed, It’s the English teacher in you.  You

can’t stop relating everything to literature.

I know, but hark at this.  Et tu, Brute and all that!

I pushed my scribblings over the table, for her to read.

ACT 3:3

Boris:  If there be any in this assembly,

any dear friend of Cameron’s, to him say

that Boris’ love to Cameron was no less than his.

If then that friend demand why Boris rose against

Cameron, this is my answer:

Not that I loved Cameron less,

but that I loved Britain more….as he was

valiant, I honour him: but as

he was ambitious, I slew him.

Here comes his corpse,

mourned by those who shall receive

the benefits of his dying:

a place in Parliament.  With this I depart,

pleading that I slew my Bullingdon pal,

for Britain’s good.

Citizen;:  This Cameron was a traitor.

Osborne:  Friends, MPs, Countrymen, lend me your wallets.

The noble Boris hath told you Cameron was ambitious.

If it were so, it was a grievous fault

and grievously hath Cameron answered it.

He was my friend, faithful and just to me,

but Boris says he was ambitious- and Boris is an honourable man.

Cameron brought favours back from Brussels,

whose ransoms the general coffers might have filled.

When the poor have cried, Cameron hath wept.

You all did love him once, not without cause.

What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?

O judgement!  thou art fled to brutish beasts

and men have lost their reason.

Citizen:  I fear there will a worse come in his place.

Osborne:  Yesterday the word of Cameron might

have influenced the world; now lies he there.

You all know Gove and Boris are honourable men.

And here’s a parchment with the seal of Cameron.

Let but The Commons hear this testament.

Some may go and kiss dead Cameron’s wounds-

yea, beg a law of him for memory

and, dying, mention it within their wills,

bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue.

I fear I wrong the honourable men

whose daggers have stabb’d Cameron.

Citizens: They are traitors!

Osborne:  Boris, as you know, was Cameron’s angel,

so this is the most unkindest cut of all.

Citizens:  Let’s hear his bequest!

Osborne:  To every British citizen he gives 75 drachmas.

Citizen:  Most noble Cameron!  We’ll avenge his death.

(Revolution ensues)

Osborne: Now mischief, thou art afoot.

Take what course you will.

 

Act 4   tbc

 

Congratulations and Celebrations

Tags

Alamuddin, Alcopop, Amal Clooney, Banksy, Borgia, Brexit, Carpe Diem, discursive essay, Donald Trump, fish kettle, jelly girl, Lucrezia, Magaluf, Medici, Nerissa's ring, Pope, Robert Frost, sliding door, Turtle Mat, Vogue, Weetabix, zircon

The ring had sparkled on Drusilla Fotheringay’s finger- so

much so that Lower Six spotted it immediately and one

forward type had commented, Oh, Miss, is that a zircon?

Dru then had had to prevent herself from using the sun’s rays

as a laser effect to bounce off the prism of her multi-

faceted stone, only for it to be directed forthwith into the pupils

of the aforesaid wag.

Pupils.  Hmmm, I must ask Dad what is the etymological

connection between students and eyes.  Maybe reading?

Or is it that nowadays they all seem to be the apple of their

father’s eyes? she had ‘mused‘.  Editor: Not ‘reflected’. 

She had sprung back to attention as she noticed that the class

had left a lumpily wrapped present on her desk.

It was obviously a fish kettle.  And there had been an

accompanying card, with the following : Men!-Don’t Let the

B******* get you down!

It had been signed by the whole class.

The legend had obviously been written by one of the more gender-

politicised members of the group.  Dru would choose to ignore

the inappropriate language, in favour of the spirit of the gift,

even if it had been Amarillo Guttersnipe’s mother’s unwanted

Christmas present.

That had been yesterday and today it was her morning off.  She

was enjoying a quiet interval in her flat, still in her pyjamas.  She

took her hot water and lemon slice and wandered into the hall, to

see if there was any post.

A pink envelope lay on the Turtle mat, which was very similar to the

doormat that had covered the very spot, over thirty years previously,

and which had been the location of her mother’s tragic mis-directed

missive- the one which Existentially might have opened a very different

sliding door.

When Diana, Dru’s mother, had been a ‘Lax‘ Mistress at St Vitus’ School

for the Academically-Challenged Girl, all those years ago, the ill-fated

Valentine card had slipped between the underlay and the carpet and

its interior proposal had been unread for decades.

(Editor:  The school’s name had been changed to accommodate the very

different type of clientele they were now receiving.)

Now there was a smart brass letterbox in the House Mistress’ door, so

the mail tended to reach its intended recipient.

Curioser and curioser… It seemed to have a Spanish stamp and was

franked with the dreaded Proper Noun: Magaluf.

Oh, it was a card from Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe, whose pesky little

brother was still at St Birinus Middle, where he continued to abuse Nigel.

Dru liked to have news from her ex-pupils, though, goodness only knew

how she had wished this one even further away than Glasgow School

of Art.

There was no denying that the girl had been creative and talented,

however.

John had texted his big sister with the news of the teachers’ engagement.

Actually, he had worded it thus: We thought he was gay!

The card was made of hand-crafted paper, which looked like tissues that

had survived a 40 degree wash in some sleeve or other.  There was a

glued on stencilled depiction, a la Banksy, of a manacled woman, holding

out a begging bowl and wearing leg irons.  She was chained to a kitchen

sink. Below this image were the comments:

Who wants to live in an institution?

Congratulations, anyway!

No, she could never see Juniper settling down to domestic bliss.  In fact,

the appended news announced that the sender was having a whale of a

time as a jelly girl, earning more than Dru by selling Alcopop-shots to

the already wildly inebriated.

She came back to her sitting room- why it was called that, she didn’t

know. She scarcely ever had the time to sit.  Carefully, she added the

card to the growing collection on her faux mantelpiece.  She propped

it next to Nigel’s mum’s conventional offering of twin doves trailing a

ribbon, from which two rings were suspended.  It must have come

from a charity shop, as it was faded and had probably been printed in

the 1950s.  Medici it was not, though the spirit was almost Borgian.

On its front it said:  On Your Engagement and inside it more or less

repeated itself.  Best Wishes on Your Engagement.

  There was nothing else, except an acid comment worthy of

Lucrezia herself: I suppose I will have to get someone in to finish off the

skirting boards now that  Nigel is to be a married man.

There was a faint hint of malice aforethought which had made Dru

wash her hands on receipt, in case there had been any plutonium

in the envelope.

She walked into the kitchen area.  Brexit– yeah, that would be a good

name for a cereal.  Drat!  She had run out of Weetabix!  She had better

get a move on as she was down to cover a colleague’s General

Studies-type lesson.  When she had asked what the class were

‘doing‘, the teacher had humorously quipped: ‘Time‘ and then

had vaguely added, Oh, just  give them some provocative titles and

get them to plan a discursive essay.

Thanks for the clarification, Dru had thought.  She gazed at The Daily Mail

for inspiration.  There was a photo of the Pope.

I know, she said to herself, what about ‘Walls or Bridges?-which should we

build?  She could photocopy some stimulus-material, such as those  Robert

Frost poems.  He had had a mural obsession, she seemed to recall.

(Mr Donald Trump in New Hampshire, 19th August, 2015.  By Michael Vadon.)

Is Donald Trump a Christian?  No, that might be too awkward if the parents

had any political predilections.

Amal Clooney or George Alamuddin?

Great!  Should be good for some gender-debate.  And the girls like

to see what the stylish lawyer is wearing. 

She would borrow some Vogues from the library, if the librarian would

allow her.  Usually teachers were not permitted to touch such publications.

Flicking through the fashion pages should keep the girls quiet during the

double lesson.

Should she change her name to Drusilla Milford-Haven?  She thought not.

She wondered if Virginia had accepted her father’s proposal.  Would she

change her name to Snodbury, or even Revelley?

Editor:  you really need to re-read past posts to keep up with all this!

It was at such significant times that she missed Great-Aunt Augusta.  All

right, she hadn’t really been her aunt, but she had performed the function

of one and she had always enjoyed hearing about a good family illness, or

a wedding.  It was such a shame that she was missing out.  You do, when

you’re deceased.  Pity!  Carpe diem, and all that.

Of course, the old bat had never married.  A lot of those old girls had not

had the opportunity after the war.  However, she had demonstrated the

powerful effect of relative celibacy on longevity and the advantages of

‘keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.‘ Dru just hoped that her decision was going to

be worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

Building The Queen Mary

Tags

Blue Ribands, Clyde, pistons, Plimsoll Line, rivets, RMS Queen Mary, The Grey Ghost, The Starlight Club, Turkish Bath, White Star line, Yarrow boiler

(RMS_Queen_Mary_Long_Beach_January_2011.jpg David Jones

derivative work 2011 File Upload Bot Altair 78(talk))

 

Grandfather sat at the prow of my bed,

his pipe smoke furling from a brown funnel.

Tell me again: what was the very first thing

you had to do, to build The Queen Mary?

(single-handedly, I probably thought.)

 

Och, it’s all about rivets – lots of them.

 

Sitting up, I tucked the quilt round my legs,

replicating the outline of a hull.

We sipped tea from imaginary cans,

eating chocolate wafer Blue Ribands.

His narration of yard life, like Yarrow Boilers,

never ran out of steam; their flow increased.

 

The fog came down. Make the noise! Make the noise!

And he would drone the deep ‘A’ of its horn.

We flitted round The Grey Ghost arm in arm,

measuring the umpteen miles of carpet;

swimming in the pool and dancing, dancing,

at The Starlight Club. What’s a Turkish Bath?

 

Enthralled by the bright sparks of his stories;

strengthened by many blow-by-blow accounts

of what lay beneath the dimpled surface,

I never felt held back by rusting chains.

 

I was swaged and took on his impressions. So,

now, decades later, I am assuaged,

having been sent down the slipway of life,

christened and launched on that maiden voyage,

into a specially widened, dredged channel,

to follow my White Star: plated and sealed

and watertight through the symbiosis

of the riveter and the riveted.

 

A lucky four leaf clover propeller

directed my course down the Clyde and out

into the North Atlantic. Now retired,

far from home; docked like the grand old lady,

I have righted myself from past rogue waves-

listing, but not sinking, because of him

and the ballast he laid down in my hold.

 

Below my Plimsoll Line, when fog comes down,

I still feel the pistons of his heartbeat,

attuned to my own and powerful still.

The Last To Know

Tags

commissario, cushion cut diamonds, euphemism, Genoa, Henry vacuum, Lower Wraxall, Pantagruel, Rabbie Burns, Rochester, Romeo and Juliet, tasting menu, The Longs Arms, The Nurse, The Young Montelbano

Snod, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School, exited his final

lesson  before the weekend.  He was in an unusually good mood,

but then he always enjoyed Shakespeare, as playing the part of

The Nurse in Romeo and Juliet was right up his street.

(He always skipped the bit about being a wet nurse, however.

He also omitted the bit about Susan.  Thankfully she was with

the Almighty, according to the Bard.)

He breezed into The School Office and managed to find Virginia

alone.

Gus had booked a table a deux for Valentine’s Night at Pantagruel &

Gourmand’s.

Little did he suspect that Virginia had been on the brink of issuing

an ultimatum concerning her perception of the lack of direction in

their relationship.  She managed to adjust her expression from what

she was worried was becoming something that was commonly referred

to as ‘Resting Bitch Face‘ and softened her PA mien.

She had planned to say that she was going to hop on a bus to Genoa

at Easter, if things didn’t hot up.  That was a euphemism.

She had rehearsed the conversation.

Snod: Why Genoa?

Yes, why had Genoa sprung to mind?

She reflected further and realised that she had been watching

too much  of ‘The Young Montelbano‘. Genoa was where his enamorata

Livia had headed when the Commissario hadn’t come up to the required

commitment level.

She would have felt even more humbled had she known that Snod had

been to Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil, the lawyers in Rochester, to

collect a ring from the depository at their associated bank.

It had all been discussed with his daughter, Drusilla, who had relinquished

her rights to the jewellery stash she might have inherited from Lady Wivern,

his mother.

The Tindall Jewel was being lent in perpetuity to The National Trust for display

at Wyvern Mote, in lieu of some death duties and Dru had accepted that Nigel

would never be able to afford a decent ring on his salary.

She had been the one to suggest that if her father gave Nige –Nige??!– the

original heart-shaped diamond ring that Snod had once intended for her

mother, Diana, and which had had such a checkered existence- namely being

shut in his filing cabinet for approximately thirty years, she would accept it as

an engagement ring.  No matter that it had been bought with her mother in

mind.

After all, if Kate Middleton was not fussed, why should she be?  Her mother

had a cracker of an old bluish cushion cut eighteenth century diamond solitaire

from Murgatroyd, so why should she, Diana, mind if Gus then gave Virginia the

Burmese ruby which, frankly she, Drusilla, thought a tad vulgar?

She laughed as she remembered them all having to suck up the heart-shaped

ring from under the floorboards in The Longs Arms, after Snod’s clumsy attempt

at the re-kindling of his romance of yesteryear.  Yes, Henry the vacuum cleaner

had proved most effective.  Mum had been so embarrassed, however.

Nigel had been told what was currently happening and had gone along with

his instructions.

Now the extended family was waiting to see the outcome of Snod’s coming

proposal.

Virginia was the last to know what was going on.  And that was a very unusual

position for Virginia.  And Virginia was not the kind of woman who was interested

in unusual positions, I can assure you.  That, indeed, was one of her major

attractions for our worthy schoolmaster, in spite of his penchant for a slim ankle

in a stiletto.  But that is by the by…

To our tale, as Rabbie Burns said on at least one occasion…

Pantagruel & Gourmand?  Oh, Gus! she exclaimed.  How did you know that I’ve

always wanted to go there?  Ever since Mrs Boothroyd-Smythe told me about it,

I have longed to sample their tasting menu.

Whoever said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach might

as well have included both sexes.

 

(If any reader wants to refresh their memory as to what originally happened

when Snod bungled his proposal to Dru’s mother and dropped the

aforementioned heart-shaped ring down the floorboards of The Longs Arms,

Lower Wraxall, then you can refer back to February 2013 for revision purposes.)

 

Signals from Deep Space

Tags

astrophysics, black holes, comet, cosmology, cover lesson, gravitational force, Harris tweed, Philae, University of Glasgow, Valentine's Day

(Image: NASA)

Boothroyd-Smythe and Peabrain Minor had actually

impressed Mr Augustus Snodbury with their results in

their latest Latin ink exercise.

He walked into St Birinus Middle’s staff-room and bumped

into Nigel Milford-Haven, whose countenance was somewhat

crestfallen, since he seemed to have  been issued, via his

pigeon-hole, with a dreaded luminous pink notification that

he had a cover lesson after break.

It wasn’t fair.  He had a bit of a sore throat.  Whatever member

of staff had phoned in on this inauspicious morning simply

couldn’t feel  worse than he did at that precise moment.

What ho, old boy!  I have just received the equivalent of some

gravitational waves which have issued from those two infamous

black holes in 4C, boomed Gus.

Nigel looked puzzled and he frankly wished to avoid such an

encounter, as once the old buffoon revved up, there would be

little chance of being able to seize upon one of the scarce, but

ever-popular chocolate Hob-Nobs on the staff refreshment

trolley.

To wit, that this is a cataclysmic event, only to be celebrated in

greater style by the University of Glasgow, after its global contribution

to astrophysics and cosmology.

Nigel still looked puzzled.

I’m afraid that you have lost me, sir.

Ahh, if all of us in the learned profession were to switch on our educational

detectors, then we would possibly be able to receive signals, whose dimension

might be the equivalent of a trillionth trillion of an atom.

Education is a project which can seem fruitless.  It can appear a thankless

task for decades. We must remain ever-vigilant and note the slightest

pulsation of a neuron!  Posterity may depend upon it.

 Today I rejoice that I have tuned into the mysterious workings of

the juvenile brain.

A ripple passed through the staff-room, as one or two of the older

members of staff who were familiar with the overly metaphorical style

of The Senior Master lowered their newspapers for a nanosecond, in

order to make an infinitesimal response.  This reaction might have

registered with Nigel, if he had not been utterly consumed by the

shattering paper communication whose imperative had shredded any

hope that he had harboured for a respite period, after teaching his least

favourite class of the day.

Now he would never have time to sort out quelque chose for Valentine’s Day.

Drusilla would be so disappointed in him.

But, hold on!  That pink paper was not a cover slip.  It bore an embossed

depiction of a Cupid, or a cherub.  Was this some sort of a trick?

Snod took the missive from The Junior Master’s trembling hand.

Excuse me, but I think this has been delivered to the wrong pigeon-hole.

It is clearly addressed to me.

Like a prestitidigateur, he conveyed it to the inner pocket of his Harris

Tweed jacket, with aplomb and surprisingly little sign of embarrassment.

Goodness only knew what company it would keep in the fluff-lined depths

of such a recess. The last time Gus had emptied his breast pocket he had

found a confiscated note from 1977 which bore a fading priapic drawing

and the Classical legend: Snod cloacum est!

Nigel experienced a wave of subtle emotion- the same feeling that he had

attempted to explain to his English class:  Ambivalence.  His mental universe

seemed to be imploding.  When it came to affairs of the heart, he felt like

Philae hitching a lift on a comet.  He hoped that he would not come unstuck,

but decided that his best bet was to hang on for dear life and share the

determined course of one who seemed to be making progress in that

other-worldly realm.

(Hale-Bopp seen from Croatia, 1997)

salzgeber.at/astro/pics/9703293.html

CC-BY_SA_2.0-AT

 

The Pajama Game

Tags

deshabille, Doris Day, embonpoint, Gladys Hotchkiss, jim-jams, Lloyd Webber, negligee, Noah, ognon, onesie, pajamas, plein-air, Shirley Maclaine, subjunctive, The Pyjama Game, Waitrose

(original Broadway windowcard: Wikipaedia)

 

Oh look!  Here comes Peabrain Minor’s mater, alias Head of The Grievance

Committee, expostulated Virginia Fisher-Gyles, PA to The Headmaster of

St Birinus Middle School.

Late again, commented Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master, on his way

to Registration via his partner’s office.

The aforementioned parent hopped out of her 4×4, still in a onesie, or

her pyjamas.

Gives a new aspect to the adjective ‘deshabille’, he added. Mind you, I

wouldn’t mind if you turned up for work in that rather fetching negligee

which the saleswoman persuaded me was entirely appropriate as a Christmas

gift for a friend.  I think you would make a better understudy for Shirley

Maclaine than Mrs P does.

Let’s be professional. Virginia stood on her principles- as well as her

four inch stilettos.

Oh, the subjunctive- and so early in the morning, quipped Snod.

You say ‘pyjamas’ and I say ‘pajamas’, countered Virginia, closing the

conversation and starting to hum ‘I’m not at all in Love.’

The Carry On Teaching vision with choreography by Fosse faded from

his magisterial brain, but not before he had noted the similarity

between Virginia’s embonpoint and that of a certain fictional Gladys

Hotchkiss.  Yes, they no longer produced the great musicals of

yesteryear. That Lloyd Webber character…  Sigh.

(Does anyone out there recognise the etymology of ‘magisterial’ ??

Are we all going to adjust our spelling to ‘ognon‘?)  The Editor.

There was a peremptory rap at the door.

Enter! boomed Virginia.

Peabrain Minor’s mother appeared in her usual matitutinal

fluster.

I’ve just brought a bag with a change of clothes for Noah, if I could

leave it in The Office for him, she announced.

Oh, we are a Left Luggage Establishment now, Snod thought, but

didn’t remark aloud.  That was a forbearance that he had learned

from Virginia, in the course of their relationship.

I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, said Virginia.

Well, it’s just for the lesson after break.  Noah doesn’t respond well

to formal learning strategies and, if Mr Snodbury doesn’t mind, my

son would be more comfortable in his jim-jams.  Oh, Mr Snodbury!

She had just noticed the schoolmaster lurking behind the door.

Ah, his namesake was quite comfortable with appearing in a

Post-Diluvian Apocalyptic public space au naturel, Mrs P, Snod

pontificated. But, unfortunately, even the members of the patriarch’s

family took exception to his informal, nay  casual,  plein-air approach.

I take it that that’s a ‘no’ then, Sir?

She left, with the Waitrose bag of clothing, looking rather

chastened.

Not exactly Doris Day, said Snod in his habitual report-speak.

But more intelligent than you’d think.