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Tag Archives: Blackberry

Basic/Better/ Best

12 Friday Dec 2014

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Education, Family, History, Humour, Music, Philosophy, Religion, Sculpture, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Antiques Roadshow, Basic/ Better/ Best, Blackberry, Border Terrier, breach of promise, Easter Island, Fiona Bruce, Flog-It!, flugelhorn, marimba, Miller Guides, Moai, Moorcroft, Polynesian figure, Quorn, Radio 4, Rocky Road, Sotheby's, Tesco, The Moral Maze

Some archival material which, I think, deserves a second airing!

ARtitle.jpg

There was an amateur Antiques Roadshow in Suttonford’s Community Centre on Saturday afternoon, on behalf of the charity, Curs in Crisis.  The organisers had asked local auctioneer, Hubert Wormhole, to give of his expertise and they charged £5 per valuation.  The queues snaked out into North Street, but thankfully it wasn’t raining.

Ginevra Brewer-Mead had donated a quirky, mystery object as a prize.  It was to raise fifty pence a guess as to its identity and use.  The winner would be allowed to keep it.  It was all good fun.

Ginevra had bought the ugly thing many years before, at a jumble sale.  It usually resided on her mantelpiece and her carer, Magda, had encouraged her to get rid of it, as it freaked her out.  (Magda was becoming more and more proficient in her utilisation of Slanglish.)

People were laughing as they wondered aloud which of their friends and neighbours most resembled the figure with the over-sized head.  Pollux nudged his twin and whispered: Caligula!  They both sniggered, but their mother, Brassica, reproved them and said that it was rude to make comments about their teacher.

Hubert had set up a table with Basic / Better/ Best cardboard signs, which was an idea that he had stolen from the real BBC show.  Three examples of Moorcroft pottery stood behind the labels.

Again, people were invited to pay fifty pence to guess the relative worthiness of the three items and, if they were correct, they were given a delicious cluster of Rocky Road from a Tesco bucket.

Brassica’s twins had been issued with their pocket money that morning, and, miraculously, still had some left.

Castor walked over to the table with the hideous figure and realised that he had seen it before, at Ginevra’s house, when he had been visiting with his mother.  He had been fascinated by it and had looked up similar objects online.  He knew that such figures dated from the Pre-Moai period, when Easter Island had been afforested.  A similar object had sold at Sotheby’s in the eighties for £100,000.

He was hopping up and down with suppressed excitement when he asked the woman on the stall, who happened to be Sonia, if he could borrow a pen.

Then he concealed his writing with his arm crooked, as he was wont to do in school tests, so that John, his partner on the double desk, would not copy his answers.  He wrote very carefully:

Rair deety Ester Iland

He appended his father’s mobile number.  Thankfully he was more numerate than literate, so there was a chance of the adjudicator being able to contact him.

He posted his entry in the cardboard box.  Sonia said, I think you might be a lucky boy.

Pollux usually did the Arts subject preps and he did the Maths and Science ones.  Between themselves, they did quite well.  However, on this occasion, he did not collaborate with his twin, nor did he inform him of his entry.

English: An example of a Moorcroft ginger jar,...

Some people were becoming annoyed as they had guessed the Moorcroft conundrum correctly, owing to an over-exposure of such ceramic art on Flog-It!  They thought that they should have won the best object of the three, but even the Rocky Road was unavailable, as it had been consumed by little boys with light fingers and sweet tooths, no, teeth.  And, in particular, by twins who had been feeding their Border Terrier who lay under the table, with the chocolate and marshmallow moreish morsels.

These small-minded adults had paid and guessed in vain and they were very disgruntled and said that charities should put humans before canines. They expressed other sentiments in terms which little boys should not have overheard.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Brassie was in her kitchen/diner, cooking supper and the twins had been finishing their flugelhorn and marimba practice next door.  She called them to the table.

But, mum, we’re not hungry, they complained.

That’s because you stuffed yourselves with Rocky Road, she lectured.  You know I don’t allow sugar treats and now you can see why.  All this lovely wholesome Quorn is going to go to waste.

The twins simultaneously eyed their Border.   They felt sure that he would oblige in any hoovering up operation to do with leftovers, even though he had consumed a fair amount of the sweet clusters himself.

Rocky Road

Darling!  She shouted up the garden in the direction of the observatory.  Supper’s ready.

Cosmo was already coming down the path, fiddling with his Blackberry.

Castor, he said, it’s Mr Wormhole from the roadshow this afternoon.  He says there has been a terrible mistake.

I know, dad.  They didn’t pick up on the Polynesian figure.

What? said Brassie. (The phone always rang at mealtimes).  I’ll take it.   She held the mobile up to her ear with one hand while she stirred the unappetising looking Quorn mish-mash.  Easter Island?  Rare?  Pre-Moy, what?

A similar figure went for an absolute fortune at a London sale of Tribal Art in the Seventies, said Hubert, suddenly very authoritative.  Naturally, Mrs Brewer-Mead had no idea what she had donated.  Even I wasn’t certain until I went home and referred to my Miller Guides.

But Castor guessed correctly, she insisted, amazed at her son’s vast store of knowledge filched from http://www.geekologie.com etc.

What’s all this about? asked Cosmo, confused as ever.

He says that Castor can’t have his prize as he spelled the answer incorrectly.  He’s offering him the best piece of Moorcroft instead, Brassie stage-whispered, holding her hand over the Blackberry.

We’ll see about that, said Cosmo masterfully.  He won it fairly and squarely, as far as I can make out.

No, they’ve had a lawyer on to it already and Ginevra seems to be within her rights to withdraw the prize and to offer a substitute.  Brassie was frantically trying to remember where she had seen the advertisement for No Win/ No Fee legal services. Mr Wormhole thinks that Mrs Brewer-Mead, I mean Ginevra, has already appropriated it, as it was not on the table at the end of the afternoon.

Mr Wormhole rang off, saying that they could discuss things further on Monday.

Now do you see the importance of spelling, you careless boy? snapped Brassie.

Castor’s lip trembled, but he rallied: My teacher says that you can still get an A* so long as she and the examiner people can make out what it is you are trying to say.

Well, now you know that that is a load of rubbish in the real world, stressed Brassie.  I’ll have to have a word with Ginevra on Monday about the EU and Children’s Rights and breach of promise.

Pollux tried to draw the blame onto himself-and succeeded; his father had more experience and kept a low profile.

 I’d have known how to spell the answer, he piped up.

Oh, shut up, Smart-Alec, they all said.

Pollux crept over to the Border’s basket to stroke his little, furry friend and as a tear plopped onto the dog’s wiry head, it looked up quizzically, and, as it did so, it gagged.

Give! ordered Pollux.

After a tussle, he forced open its jaws and a carved splinter of something very Moai-like shot out across the kitchen flagstones.

Mum! he screamed.

Andy, the Border, had evidently carried the figure home in his mouth and had been worrying at it throughout their music practice and Brassie’s meal preparation.

They all agreed to say nothing and to accept the Moorcroft gracefully.  However, Brassie could feel the discomfort on the back burners of her conscience.  She felt that it was the kind of dilemma that The Moral Maze would like to have grappled with on Radio 4 and she felt that they would not emerge smelling of roses.  She wished that Castor had never seen the wretched thing.  It must have emitted some evil power, as she could see how destructive its forces would have been in her family and community.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Think of all the Dewlap Gins I could have bought, said Ginevra, wistfully.

It freaked me out, replied Magda, her carer.  You only lost 20 pence effectively.  But you still have your friends.

Let’s drink to that, agreed Ginevra.  Bottoms up!

Gin and French

And Magda understood the expression, as her English and Slanglish was coming on.

Prost!

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Skeletons in the Cupboard

22 Tuesday Apr 2014

Posted by Candia in Arts, Education, Family, History, Horticulture, Humour, Music, mythology, Romance, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

≈ 1 Comment

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..

 

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Barking!

14 Tuesday Jan 2014

Posted by Candia in Family, Humour, Psychology, Social Comment, Suttonford, television, Writing

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

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

BlackBerry Z10.jpg

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

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

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

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

She clearly distrusted any information unless she could verify it from

her phone.

Okay, darling.  Love ya, she called off.

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

Just follow me.

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

corner for a couple of lattes and a natter.

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

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

to leave them alone for ages at a time.

Mops-duke-mopszucht-vom-maegdebrunnen.jpg

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

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

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

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

concerned.

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

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

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

book.

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

Hmm..maybe the dog is mimicking his behaviour.

I meant the dog, silly!

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

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

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

and have separation anxiety.

The owners? I was trying to be funny.

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

of doggy creche where he receives stimulation and activities.

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

when I considered whether owners would receive tax breaks or

vouchers from the government.  She must have more money than

sense, I concluded.

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

shame-faced.

Why?  What have you done?

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

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

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

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

I don’t believe this!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

presence.

It improves interaction, Carrie continued, less confidently.

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

DOGTV Logo.png

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

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

medication.

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

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

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

cartoons, or A Hundred and One Dalmations?

Oh, you’re so cynical, Candia!

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

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

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

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

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

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

she’s barking!

.

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Old Michaelmas Day 1

06 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by Candia in Humour, Nature, Religion, Social Comment, Suttonford

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

acorns, Blackberry, brambles, cornucopia, divination, foraging, gambling, goose, Guinness Book of Records, Michaelmas, Premium Bond, Satan, sin of commission, sin of omission, sloe gin, St Michael, William Hill

Let’s go for a walk and get some blackberries, l suggested to Carrie.

With all her kids to feed, she should be able to freeze quite a few

fruit crumbles, what with the glut of apples too.

Okay.  We’d better get them in before the 10th or 11th,

I suppose.

Why then?

Oh, because you must pick blackberries by Old Michaelmas Day,

which is either on the 10th or on the 11th- there is some dispute about

it.

What happens if you break the rule?  I asked, always the maverick.

Something apocalyptic, since Satan was apparently banished from

Heaven on that day and he fell to Earth and landed in a blackberry

bush. 

He cursed the brambles and either spat on them, or in a Yorkshire

version, urinated on them.

Gross. I expect you would wash them, anyway.

We could always look for acorns, or haycorns as my children

always call them.

What can we make with these?  I looked sceptical.

No, we could lay a bet on a white Christmas and might do better than

the lottery, she elaborated.  If there are a lot of hay..ay-

Bless you! I thought she was about to sneeze..

acorns, there will be snow in December, she elucidated.

I never get lucky that way, I sighed.  Mind you, I don’t buy lottery

tickets. When I was a child, gambling was seen to be as cursed by

the devil

as..

Blackberries, she laughed.  But you are still prepared to eat those. 

Anyway, you’ve got to be in it to win it.

(Sometimes Carrie speaks in the most appalling cliches.)

Mmm...I mused.  It was tempting, but we know where temptation

springs from.  Curiously, I have a different take on Premium Bonds, but

then mine never come up, so the sin is never actualised.   Is that a sin of

commission, or omission?   Either way, will I get away with it? I thought

Michaelmas was last Sunday, though?  I changed the subject- always a good

diversionary technique if something was challenging me ethically.

Mikharkhangel.jpg

Oh, that was The Feast of St Michael and All Angels.  Didn’t you have goose

for dinner?  It’s so traditional?  We had one, but they cost a fortune now.

Rats!

What? I enquired. Was there another anecdote about folklore and rodents?

I’ve just realised that I forgot to check the colour of the breastbones.

As...?

‘Cos if they are brown, then we will have a mild winter and if they are white

or bluish white, we can anticipate a severe one.

I have never spent time examining the bones of my Sunday dinner that

closely.  Maybe William Hill had to – that is, if there ever

was a William Hill.  I could imagine him taking his wife to task for throwing

the giblets and carcase into the stock pot before he had done his domestic

divination and calculated the odds.

Was there a real William Hill? I asked aloud.

Why are you asking me that?  she looked confused and exasperated.  Do

you mean the bookmaker?

Yes.

Well, I think he operated in Yorkshire..

Where the devil was once supposed to have…

Don’t say it, she cautioned.  He was the guy who called legal betting

offices a cancer on society.

A case of the stockpot calling the kettle..

Look, we’d better get going, before the rain arrives and spoils our spoils, as it

were, Carrie interrupted my mercenary meditation on how I could sin and

avoid the consequences.  A world-first in the Guinness Book of Records,

probably, in spite of what Satan whispers.

Okay.  Do you want a plastic bag? I rummaged in my wicker basket.

She looked at me as if I was sporting horns and carried a trident.

I don’t tend to use them any more.  Carrie can be so sanctimonious

sometimes.  She just likes to save five pence.

Well, just this once, see it as a supermarket- sponsored receptacle for

nature’s cornucopia, saved from the devil’s contamination.

Well, if you put it like that, she said.  Let’s go a-foraging!

I’ll see if I can find some sloes for Ginevra’s gin, I remarked.

Drink of the devil, Carrie added.  Anyway, come on!

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Adults Only

05 Saturday Jan 2013

Posted by Candia in Celebrities, Humour, Suttonford, television

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Amoxil, Blackberry, Calpol, Facebook, Michelin-starred, Neil Oliver, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, Peppa Pig, The Liverpool Pathway, Twitter, University Challenge

Facebook

That little minx, Tiger, has no respect for boundaries.  She has also messed up my font

size-help! She ought to be on Facebook or Twitter or some cherub forum.  My blog is for

adults only.  I mean, if you go out for a special meal now-say to a Michelin-starred

restaurant where you will be paying shedloads to be seen eating a smear of quince coulis,

no sooner than you have broken open your walnut brioche than, out of

the corner of your gimlet eye, you will perceive a Sherpa-waiter

carrying a Peppa Pig upholstered high chair, making for a table near to

you and your romantic companion.

Peppa Pig.png

A legging-ed Mummy will stride out behind the drudge, looking

neither to the left, nor to the right, clutching the enfant terrible’s

entertainment tablet in one hand and guiding the mini-cyclone with

the other.  She will bear an expression that basically could be

translated as Nemo Me Impune Lacessit. ( I think Neil Oliver accurately

identified that motto on Christmas University Challenge, but

surprisingly didn’t know some of the coastal questions.  Ah well, he was

an archaeologist first and foremost.  But I digress..)

Anyway, the maternal facial expression defies socio-cultural challenge and so bang

goes your £200 treat and on goes the music-emitting tablet.  If you are

lucky, she may not breast-feed no 2, which is lurking in the carrycot,carted in by a rather

sheepish Daddy.

Mind you, it might not be Daddy; it might be Latest Replacement Carrycot

Transporter.  (What has happened?  The font’s okay now!)

You are just adjusting the air nozzle above you on a long-haul flight,

before you give your undivided to the amusing safety video, when the mother

in front of you, not long out of some job in the city which required a

Blackberry and no common sense, reclines her seat with a thump

and, for some reason, omits to give her wailing offspring a drink

during take-off’s maximum ear pressure.  Has she administered

Calpol, or Amoxil- also known as banana medicine, which my kids

drained in bottlefuls?  Brilliant for sore ears, novitiates to

parenthood. But check with your doctor first, naturally.  A lot of the

profession were prone to dose their own kids up for a bit of flight

harmony. Oh yes, they did..

Facebook Ads Ireland: Calpol

It’s the same with the supermarket shelves of chocolate goodies

placed strategically at pushchair level, right next to the tills.  Distract

the child, I say.  You used to be able to get sugar-free brick-hard

little crescents of Scandinavian bread that would shatter a

pensioner’s crowns but were ideal for gummy toddlers to suck to a

satisfying mush, just as you rounded the final aisle and came in sight

of the tantalising foil-wrapped temptations.  We ensured that the

rusky saviours were probably gluten-free, so we weren’t all child

haters.  At least, not then.  Knick-knack, paddywack, give the sprog a Bonio.

Seriously, though, it’s not the kid’s fault, is it?  He or she would

probably prefer to be cocooned in a cosy cot with a nice little

routine to follow.  Wouldn’t we all?

Rant over before someone puts me on The Liverpool Pathway.  That

reminds me: I need a drink!

 

 

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Basic/Better/Best

09 Friday Nov 2012

Posted by Candia in Humour, Suttonford, television

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Antiques Roadshow, Blackberry, Border Terrier, Brassica, Easter Island, Flog-It!, Moai, Moorcroft, Radio 4, Rocky Road, Sotheby's, Tesco, The Moral Maze, Tribal Art, www.gekologie.com

Antques RoadShow Fiona Bruce at Reception

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There was an amateur Antiques Roadshow in Suttonford’s Community Centre on Saturday afternoon, on behalf of the charity, Curs in Crisis.  The organisers had asked local auctioneer, Hubert Wormhole, to give of his expertise and they charged £5 per valuation.  The queues snaked out into North Street, but thankfully it wasn’t raining.

Ginevra Brewer-Mead had donated a quirky, mystery object as a prize.  It was to raise fifty pence a guess as to its identity and use.  The winner would be allowed to keep it.  It was all good fun.

Ginevra had bought the ugly thing many years before, at a jumble sale.  It usually resided on her mantelpiece and her carer, Magda, had encouraged her to get rid of it, as it freaked her out.  (Magda was becoming more and more proficient in her utilisation of Slanglish.)

People were laughing as they wondered aloud which of their friends and neighbours most resembled the figure with the over-sized head.  Pollux nudged his twin and whispered: Caligula!  They both sniggered, but their mother, Brassica, reproved them and said that it was rude to make comments about their teacher.

Hubert had set up a table with Basic / Better/ Best cardboard signs, which was an idea that he had stolen from the real BBC show.  Three examples of Moorcroft pottery stood behind the labels.

Again, people were invited to pay fifty pence to guess the relative worthiness of the three items and, if they were correct, they were given a delicious cluster of Rocky Road from a Tesco bucket.

Brassica’s twins had been issued with their pocket money that morning, and, miraculously, still had some left.

Castor walked over to the table with the hideous figure and realised that he had seen it before, at Ginevra’s house, when he had been visiting with his mother.  He had been fascinated by it and had looked up similar objects online.  He knew that such figures dated from the Pre-Moai period, when Easter Island had been afforested.  A similar object had sold at Sotheby’s in the eighties for £100,000.

He was hopping up and down with suppressed excitement when he asked the woman on the stall, who happened to be Sonia, if he could borrow a pen.

Then he concealed his writing with his arm crooked, as he was wont to do in school tests, so that John, his partner on the double desk, would not copy his answers.  He wrote very carefully:

Rair deety Ester Iland

He appended his father’s mobile number.  Thankfully he was more numerate than literate, so there was a chance of the adjudicator being able to contact him.

He posted his entry in the cardboard box.  Sonia said, I think you might be a lucky boy.

Pollux usually did the Arts subject preps and he did the Maths and Science ones.  Between themselves, they did quite well.  However, on this occasion, he did not collaborate with his twin, nor did he inform him of his entry.

English: An example of a Moorcroft ginger jar,...

Some people were becoming annoyed as they had guessed the Moorcroft conundrum correctly, owing to an over-exposure of such ceramic art on Flog-It!  They thought that they should have won the best object of the three, but even the Rocky Road was unavailable, as it had been consumed by little boys with light fingers and sweet tooths, no, teeth.  And, in particular, by twins who had been feeding their Border Terrier who lay under the table, with the chocolate and marshmallow moreish morsels.

These small-minded adults had paid and guessed in vain and they were very disgruntled and said that charities should put humans before canines. They expressed other sentiments in terms which little boys should not have overheard.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Brassie was in her kitchen/diner, cooking supper and the twins had been finishing their flugelhorn and marimba practice next door.  She called them to the table.

But, mum, we’re not hungry, they complained.

That’s because you stuffed yourselves with Rocky Road, she lectured.  You know I don’t allow sugar treats and now you can see why.  All this lovely wholesome Quorn is going to go to waste.

The twins simultaneously eyed their Border.   They felt sure that he would oblige in any hoovering up operation to do with leftovers, even though he had consumed a fair amount of the sweet clusters himself.

Rocky Road

Darling!  She shouted up the garden in the direction of the observatory.  Supper’s ready.

Cosmo was already coming down the path, fiddling with his Blackberry.

Castor, he said, it’s Mr Wormhole from the roadshow this afternoon.  He says there has been a terrible mistake.

I know, dad.  They didn’t pick up on the Polynesian figure.

What? said Brassie. (The phone always rang at mealtimes).  I’ll take it.   She held the mobile up to her ear with one hand while she stirred the unappetising looking Quorn mish-mash.  Easter Island?  Rare?  Pre-Moy, what?

A similar figure went for an absolute fortune at a London sale of Tribal Art in the Seventies, said Hubert, suddenly very authoritative.  Naturally, Mrs Brewer-Mead had no idea what she had donated.  Even I wasn’t certain until I went home and referred to my Miller Guides.

But Castor guessed correctly, she insisted, amazed at her son’s vast store of knowledge filched from http://www.geekologie.com etc.

What’s all this about? asked Cosmo, confused as ever.

He says that Castor can’t have his prize as he spelled the answer incorrectly.  He’s offering him the best piece of Moorcroft instead, Brassie stage-whispered, holding her hand over the Blackberry.

We’ll see about that, said Cosmo masterfully.  He won it fairly and squarely, as far as I can make out.

No, they’ve had a lawyer on to it already and Ginevra seems to be within her rights to withdraw the prize and to offer a substitute.  Brassie was frantically trying to remember where she had seen the advertisement for No Win/ No Fee legal services. Mr Wormhole thinks that Mrs Brewer-Mead, I mean Ginevra, has already appropriated it, as it was not on the table at the end of the afternoon.

Mr Wormhole rang off, saying that they could discuss things further on Monday.

Now do you see the importance of spelling, you careless boy? snapped Brassie.

Castor’s lip trembled, but he rallied: My teacher says that you can still get an A* so long as she and the examiner people can make out what it is you are trying to say.

Well, now you know that that is a load of rubbish in the real world, stressed Brassie.  I’ll have to have a word with Ginevra on Monday about the EU and Children’s Rights and breach of promise.

Pollux tried to draw the blame onto himself-and succeeded; his father had more experience and kept a low profile.

 I’d have known how to spell the answer, he piped up.

Oh, shut up, Smart-Alec, they all said.

Pollux crept over to the Border’s basket to stroke his little, furry friend and as a tear plopped onto the dog’s wiry head, it looked up quizzically, and, as it did so, it gagged.

Give! ordered Pollux.

After a tussle, he forced open its jaws and a carved splinter of something very Moai-like shot out across the kitchen flagstones.

Mum! he screamed.

Andy, the Border, had evidently carried the figure home in his mouth and had been worrying at it throughout their music practice and Brassie’s meal preparation.

They all agreed to say nothing and to accept the Moorcroft gracefully.  However, Brassie could feel the discomfort on the back burners of her conscience.  She felt that it was the kind of dilemma that The Moral Maze would like to have grappled with on Radio 4 and she felt that they would not emerge smelling of roses.  She wished that Castor had never seen the wretched thing.  It must have emitted some evil power, as she could see how destructive its forces would have been in her family and community.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Think of all the Dewlap Gins I could have bought, said Ginevra, wistfully.

It freaked me out, replied Magda, her carer.  You only lost 20 pence effectively.  But you still have your friends.

Let’s drink to that, agreed Ginevra.  Bottoms up!

Gin and French

And Magda understood the expression, as her English and Slanglish was coming on.

Prost!

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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