A Man about a Dog

Tags

4x4, Andy Murray, Border Terrier, Fatted Calf, flugelhorn, Philippe Johnson, Pritt stick, St Birinus

 An old one for Andy, the Border Terrier fans.  Incidentally, named

after Andy Murray.

MISSING!

REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO RETURN OF:

ANDY

Much beloved and sorely missed pet of the Willoughby family,

Willoughby House,

1 North Street,

Suttonford.

Tel: Suttonford 753799

starry-eyed@suttonworld.co.uk

A male, castrated Border Terrier, micro-chipped.  Friendly, slight

bladder problem, requires expensive medication.

Last seen Sunday, 16^th January, 2013 in walled rear garden of above

address.

Brassie was just about to jump into her 4×4 to race down to St

Birinus Middle with her son’s flugelhorn, which he’d forgotten to

take with him that morning, when she noticed a puddle in the drive

and a rolled up piece of paper which was sticking out of her

letterbox.

She unrolled the scroll and read the following:

Hey, missus, have your dog back.  He just peed all over the van and

barked non-stop.  He’s a ***liability.

Look round the back garden.  He’s tied up to that funny metal thing

in the middle of the lawn.

Don’t try to fingerprint this as we always wear gloves.

Brassie was annoyed before the relief kicked in.  That metal thing

was a genuine Philippe Johnson sculpture that they had sourced from

his studio in Sussex!

But, Andy, darling!

There he was, looking none the worse for wear and licking her hands

continually while she struggled to unknot the hairy string which

bound him to the artwork.

She ran to the get the dog bowl at the back door which sported the

slogan:  Chien en Psychanalyse.  Clearly he was very thirsty.

Oh the relief!  She picked him up and placed him in the back of the

4×4 and put the dog guard in place.  She wasn’t about to let him out

of her sight.  The fatted calf would be slain this evening.  This dog of

theirs that was lost had now been found!

She would ask the school receptionist to put a note in Mr Milford-

Haven’s pigeon-hole, so that he could tell the boys the good news.

Then she would text Cosmo at work and would call in at the police

station on the way back home to report Andy’s return to the nice

constable.  She had better remove all those notices on High Street

and environs.  Thankfully they had saved on a reward.

Half way down to school, she remembered that she had left the

overdue Latin prep on the hall table.  Drat!  It had taken her an hour

last night.

Leaving the flugelhorn in Reception, where it took up an inordinate

amount of room and caused Mr Snodbury to trip over it when he

came in to snaffle a few too many red pens and a Pritt-stick for his

personal use-  (to secure an unfranked Xmas card stamp that he

had carefully steamed off, I believe, but no matter..)- Brassie left a

note for the twins’ form master which concluded with the following:

Sorry about the prep, sed Mihi ignosce, cum homine de cane debeo

congredi , which, I believe, could be translated thus:

Excuse me, but I’ve got to see a man about a dog.

 

 

 

 

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In Disgrace

Tags

Border Terrier, Noble Fir, Stollen, video card, Youtube

Andy, the Willoughby family’s Border Terrier, was in

disgrace.  That was a pity as he had been the star of their

video card which had scored thousands of hits on Youtube.

But Brassica had caught him in the act of cocking his hind leg

against her Noble Fir, non-shedding Christmas tree and he had

already stolen their Stollen before the shopping had been put

away.

Brassie wished that she could put him in the garden for a while, but

after his recent expensive ingestion of discarded elastic bands,

probably dumped on their drive by a litter lout of a postman, she

decided that the ensuing vet bill would not be worth the moments of

relative peace.  How she wished that there could be a kind of canine

creche, so that he could be a dog in the manger, in keeping with the

spirit of the season.  Failing that, there was always the twins’ old

playpen, but Andy could leap over its sides.

Oh no!  He had spotted the postman coming through the gate and he

immediately leapt onto the forbidden sofa with its new festive throw,

pulling threads with his claws.  He put his front paws on the back and

tangled his rear legs in the flex of a string of fairy lights. He barked furiously

and then Brassie heard the crash of breaking glass and she rushed into the

sitting room, only to discover a Border-shaped hole in the bay window.

The postman had fled down the path and the twins were ordering their

pesky pet to come to heel, a request which he was ignoring as usual.

Brassie, against all her principles, threw the menace a festive chew and

he instantaneously diverted his focus to the treat.

Mum!  Did you see that massive leap?  It was a-ma-zing? Castor enthused.

Pollux added: He didn’t cut himself; he was so fast that he went clean

through it.

Andy looked as if he expected to be congratulated.  He rolled over for

his tummy to be tickled.  The bulbs attached to his back legs were

flashing.

Don’t touch him! she ordered.  You’ll probably be electrocuted or ripped

to shreds by slivers of glass.  Oh, where am I going to get a glazier just

before Christmas? she despaired.

In the local magazine, Castor suggested.

But the local magazine’s latest issue was lying in the mud along with

a batch of Christmas c

Basic/Better/ Best

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!

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.

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.

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!

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

Prost!

Strictly Finals

Tags

Anton du Beke, bangles.., Barrowland, Baubles, Bermuda beads, Border Terrier, Bruce Forsyth, Brucie, bugle beads, Christmas tree Trafalgar Square, Craig Revel Horwood, Denise van Outen, Dennistoun Palais, eminenece grise, Frank Sinatra, Fred and Ginger, Fred Astaire, Kismet, Laocoon, Latin moves, Louis Smith, Mayans, Mother Shipton, Rita Hayworth, soothsayer, Strictly Finals, Tess Daly, Vincent Simone

As the Finals approach again this year, here’s what happened in a certain

household two years ago.  Is it really so long since all these characters

operated in combination?  Sir Bruce and Artem have gone.  Oh well, the

glitz goes on…

 

Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly Finals party was in full swing.  Brassie

had found a Frank Sinatra CD in Help the Ancient and was playing

Baubles, bangles, hear how they jing, jinga-linga to encourage

everyone to get into a sparkly mood. Certainly, tonight was

Kismet.

Most of the guests were downing bubbly and becoming increasingly

effervescent and aerated. Ginevra was ensconced in the prime

viewing position in front of the large plasma screen.  She was

cheerful and enjoying her favourite Dewlap gin, with very little tonic.

Everyone was wearing enough ruffles, fringing, Bermuda and bugle

beads to keep Julien Macdonald in ecstasies till actual Doomsday.

Their scintillation would have been sufficient to have illuminated the

Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

Sonia arranged a sweepstake for the guests to wager on the winner

of the coveted glitter ball.  Of course, she was not permitted to enter

since she would have had an unfair advantage as a professional

medium.  When the twins tried to elicit a clue from her, she merely

raised her eyebrow, in a Vincent Simone enigmatic expression.

Maybe she did know something and might have been more astrologically

in touch than the Mayans, but she had a greater affinity with Mother

Shipton than any South American soothsayer.  That could have been

applicable to her Latin moves too.  The twins turned away in

embarrassment when she tried to shimmy and they consequently

tripped over Andy, the annoyingly ubiquitous Border Terrier, so he

was banished and gated in the kitchen.

Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade supported Louis Smith and defended

their choice hotly when teased that they were merely responding to

his lack of a costume.

Ginevra, the eminence grise, favoured Anton and had to be told that

he was not a contender. But he dances like Fred Astaire, she

retorted.  When the girls explained which dancers were finalists, she

decided to bet on Kimberley, as she thought she looked a little like

Rita Hayworth.

Once she had her glass re-filled, she didn’t care which programme

she was about to watch.

Carrie supported Dani; this was more to do with the dark pony’s

Italian partner, however.

I decided to opt for Denise, as I felt sorry for her lack of support.

She had been subject to some bad luck owing to costume

malfunctions and had covered her professional partner’s mental

blank, mid-performance.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da: everyone was riveted and crowded round the

screen.  Bruce grinned: Nice to see you; to see you…

Just as everyone shouted Nice in return, there was a fragmentation

of the picture.  Two words appeared: No Signal. Tess’ lovely face,

usually a mask of tolerance while Brucie lifted her leg (though he was

more like the dog round a lamp-post) disappeared.

Oh no! everyone exclaimed. What’s wrong?

Cosmo was dispatched to the fuse box in the kitchen.  Carrying a

bowl of floating tea-lights, he nearly tripped on the threshold as he

tried to negotiate the child gate that had been attached to the door,

to deter the excitable Andy. A veritable Laocoon of tangled and

chewed cables was all that remained of the Christmas tree lights,

once they had been dragged from the hall.

Brassie! he shouted.

She managed to feel her way out of the sitting room and stumbled

into the scene of canine chaos.  So much for thoroughbreds and

champion breeding.

There was no fuse wire in the electrical box, so Cosmo was also in

the doghouse- a destination with which he was only too familiar.

Everyone decided to hot-foot it to Sonia’s place, which was the

nearest viewing possibility.  Difficult in crystal-encrusted stilettos.

It was only when the glitter ball had been awarded that someone

realised that Ginevra was missing.  There had been nothing

problematic with her electric wheelchair, but everyone had forgotten

her in their eagerness to hiss Craig Revel Horwood’s initial

pronouncements.

When Cosmo rushed into the sitting room with a borrowed torch, he

found her fast asleep and perfectly warm under her tartan blanket.

She had consumed the rest of the bottle of Dewlap– neat, by all

accounts.  She was alert instantly and wanted to know if she had

won the sweepstake.  Cosmo lied and presented her with an

uncorked bottle as a prize and she went back to sleep, happily

dreaming of Fred and Ginger and the days when she used to dance

at the Dennistoun Palais and Barrowland in Glasgow, with her first

love, Gianbattista Pomodoro, Carrie’s grandfather, before he

married Jean Waddell in 1946.

But who had really won?

In Disgrace

Tags

Border Terrier, Christmas tree, dog in manger, fairy lights, Noble Fir, Stollen, Youtube

Andy, the Willoughby family’s Border Terrier, was in

disgrace.  That was a pity as he had been the star of their

video card which had scored thousands of hits on Youtube.

But Brassica had caught him in the act of cocking his hind leg

against her Noble Fir, non-shedding Christmas tree and he had

already stolen their Stollen before the shopping had been put

away.

Brassie wished that she could put him in the garden for a while, but

after his recent expensive ingestion of discarded elastic bands,

probably dumped on their drive by a litter lout of a postman, she

decided that the ensuing vet bill would not be worth the moments of

relative peace.  How she wished that there could be a kind of canine

creche, so that he could be a dog in the manger, in keeping with the

spirit of the season.  Failing that, there was always the twins’ old

playpen, but Andy could leap over its sides.

Oh no!  He had spotted the postman coming through the gate and he

immediately leapt onto the forbidden sofa with its new festive throw,

pulling threads with his claws.  He put his front paws on the back and

tangled his rear legs in the flex of a string of fairy lights. He barked furiously

and then Brassie heard the crash of breaking glass and she rushed into the

sitting room, only to discover a Border-shaped hole in the bay window.

The postman had fled down the path and the twins were ordering their

pesky pet to come to heel, a request which he was ignoring as usual.

Brassie, against all her principles, threw the menace a festive chew and

he instantaneously diverted his focus to the treat.

Mum!  Did you see that massive leap?  It was a-ma-zing? Castor enthused.

Pollux added: He didn’t cut himself; he was so fast that he went clean

through it.

Andy looked as if he expected to be congratulated.  He rolled over for

his tummy to be tickled.  The bulbs attached to his back legs were

flashing.

Don’t touch him! she ordered.  You’ll probably be electrocuted or ripped

to shreds by slivers of glass.  Oh, where am I going to get a glazier just

before Christmas? she despaired.

In the local magazine, Castor suggested.

But the local magazine’s latest issue  was lying in the mud along with

a batch of Christmas cards further down the lane.

Opera in the Park 2

Tags

balalaika, Border Terrier, candelabra, Dr Johnson, Highland Spring Mineral Water, Kettle Chips, Liberace, Pravda, Putin, Raskatov, Samoyed, scrims, Sobac'e Serdce, wasabi butter

Brassica thought her heart would burst with pride when the semi-

transparent scrims revealed the symmetrical shadows of her pinioned

progeny.  She squeezed Cosmo’s hand, but his mind was elsewhere, as it

often was when she attempted such familiarities.  He was worrying what

havoc was being wreaked by Andy, their manic Border terrier, who had

been stair-gated in the kitchen for the duration.

When the boys raced out to meet their parents at the interval, they pulled

open the wicker hamper.

Don’t knock the candelabra over, darlings, said Brassie in her best operatic,

carrying voice.  She had just noticed another parent from the boys’ school.

She hoped the woman wouldn’t think she was a fan of Liberace.

But, Mum, where’s the pastrami and Serrano ham?

Mum, who ate the Balsamic Vinegar Kettle Chips?

Brassie looked into the hamper with horror.  The cylinder of Wasabi butter

which she had rolled in greaseproof paper bore the evidence of canine

dentition.  Some mushy strawberries lay squelched at the bottom of the

basket and the double cream had leaked everywhere.

There was nothing for it, but to crack open the warm bubbly- Andy had

even managed to knock the lid off the ice bucket.  The boys had Highland

Spring Mineral Water.

You know what this means, Dad? said Pollux ruefully.

What son?  Cosmo was grieving over the Kettle Chip loss; he had never

been a great fan of opera.

It means, clarified Pollux, that we can’t ask Mr Poskett if Andy can audition

for the lead role in Sobac’e Serdce, in next season’s programme.

Yes, added Castor, the new opera by Raskatov.

But Andy can’t speak Russian, joked their father.

No, but it’s all about a dog that loses its fur and tail and walks upright

and plays the balalaika.

Are you serious? asked Brassie, who was sucking a mulchy strawberry.

She remembered that Dr Johnson had made a remark to the effect that,

although a dog could walk on its hind legs, it didn’t necessary follow that it

should- or was he referring to a woman?  She couldn’t quite recall the exact

quotation.

Well, replied their father, Andy certainly isn’t disciplined enough to be on

stage.

No, but now the caretaker’s ex- wife’s Samoyed will probably get the part,

mourned Castor.

Oh, that dog that’s called Putin? said Pollux.

It probably understands Russian, so it would have a head start, commented

Castor.  Mr Poskett is bound to choose it over Andy.

Pravda, Brassie said disconsolately, realising that the curtain was about

to descend on their familial spot in the limelight.

A Man About A Dog

Tags

Border Terrier, flugelhorn, St Birinus

  MISSING!

REWARD FOR INFORMATION LEADING TO RETURN OF:

ANDY

Much beloved and sorely missed pet of the Willoughby family,

Willoughby House,

1 North Street,

Suttonford.

Tel: Suttonford 753799

starry-eyed@suttonworld.co.uk

A male, castrated Border terrier, micro-chipped.  Friendly, slight

bladder problem, requires expensive medication.

Last seen Sunday, 16^th January, 2013 in walled rear garden of above

address.

Brassie was just about to jump into her 4×4 to race down to St

Birinus Middle with her son’s flugelhorn, which he’d forgotten to

take with him that morning, when she noticed a puddle in the drive

and a rolled up piece of paper which was sticking out of her

letterbox.

She unrolled the scroll and read the following:

Hey, missus, have your dog back.  He just peed all over the van and

barked non-stop.  He’s a ***liability.

Look round the back garden.  He’s tied up to that funny metal thing

in the middle of the lawn.

Don’t try to fingerprint this as we always wear gloves.

Brassie was annoyed before the relief kicked in.  That metal thing

was a genuine Philippe Johnson sculpture that they had sourced from

his studio in Sussex!

But, Andy, darling!

There he was, looking none the worse for wear and licking her hands

continually while she struggled to unknot the hairy string which

bound him to the artwork.

She ran to the get the dog bowl at the back door which sported the

slogan:  Chien en Psychanalyse.  Clearly he was very thirsty.

Oh the relief!  She picked him up and placed him in the back of the

4×4 and put the dog guard in place.  She wasn’t about to let him out

of her sight.  The fatted calf would be slain this evening.  This dog of

theirs that was lost had now been found!

She would ask the school receptionist to put a note in Mr Milford-

Haven’s pigeon-hole, so that he could tell the boys the good news.

Then she would text Cosmo at work and would call in at the police

station on the way back home to report Andy’s return to the nice

constable.  She had better remove all those notices on High Street

and environs.  Thankfully they had saved on a reward.

Half way down to school, she remembered that she had left the

overdue Latin prep on the hall table.  Drat!  It had taken her an hour

last night.

Leaving the flugelhorn in Reception, where it took up an inordinate

amount of room and caused Mr Snodbury to trip over it when he

came in to snaffle a few too many red pens and a Prittstick for his

personal use-  (to secure an unfranked Xmas card stamp that he

had carefully steamed off, I believe, but no matter..)- Brassie left a

note for the twins’ form master which concluded with the following:

Sorry about the prep, sed Mihi ignosce, cum homine de cane debeo

congredi , which, I believe, could be translated thus:

Excuse me, but I’ve got to see a man about a dog.

 

 

 

 

Wonderful Counsellor

Tags

Andy Murray, Birgitte Nyborg Christiansen, Border Terrier, Borgen, Castor and Pollux, grooming, Patty Hearst, Stockholm syndrome

Castor and Pollux had not done their prep.  Mr Milford-Haven was

just about to issue them with a joint detention, when they both burst

into tears.  Mum couldn’t help us with Latin as she was very upset,

they wailed.

Mr Milford-Haven realised that there was more to the episode than

was immediately apparent.  This was because he was a reasonably

decent, empathetic sort of chap and therefore not too much the

over-rigorous disciplinarian.  This led certain pupils and parents to

take advantage of his kindly nature, but he had decided that he

would not wish to change his approach, however difficult things

were at times.

Do you want to tell me why your mother was upset?  He was

sensitive to the need for discretion.  He knew that other masters had

solicited family exposures with their topics on weekly news.

Sometimes children would reveal the most private information.

It’s just that Andy has disappeared, they said simultaneously.

Andy?

Yes.  Dad was up in his observatory and Mum had been spending a

lot of time grooming Andy.  She loves him really.

Grooming.  That was one of the words that sent alarm bells ringing in

Nigel’s ears. He had just endured- no, benefitted from- yet another

child protection session and he was aware that women could be

involved in unsavoury activity, nearly as much as men.

Come and see me at break in my office, he told them.  He simply had

to start the class before the noise got out of hand and Old Snodbury

next door would come and stand outside his class and peer through

the glass panel in the door with a disapproving look that told of years

of applied control.  Snod would probably have slippered the

twins for a similar offence thirty years previously.  No excuses and no

questions.

The twins appeared at break.  Nigel had two packets of crisps and

two cartons of juice to the ready, as well as a box of Kleenex.  He left

the door slightly ajar.

Now what is this all about? he began.  Your mother was spending

time with Andy while your father was elsewhere?

Yes, she always sets some time aside for him in the afternoon,

volunteered Castor.

She combs his hair and cuddles him, added Pollux.

Nigel tried to look dispassionate.  And is this Andy part of the family?

Of course, they both agreed vehemently.

Sometimes it is a family member, thought Nigel.  And how old is he?

About 21, considered Castor, clearly making a calculation.

Disgusting, thought Nigel.  A woman who has responsibilities

indulging herself with some toy boy behind her husband’s back and

neglecting her children.  Mind you, he corrected himself.  For all I know,

the situation could be like Birgitte Nyborg Christensen’s in that Danish

political drama.  Maybe the twins’ mother felt forced into having an affair

because her husband, like Philip, the PM’s husband, had gone off with

some flirtatious paedophile-no, that was the wrong word- paediatric

woman.  He’d better reserve judgement.  That was what the training

session had advised.

And why was your mother upset on this occasion?

Well, she had just spent a lot of money on having him cast..

..rated, supplied Pollux.

What?  This woman was evil!  She was ensuring that there would be

no comeback by paying for her lover’s vasectomy!  He began to feel

that the young man was also being abused.

Andy had to go outside in the garden to pee.  He never returned and

Mum had made his bed all lovely and cosy for him, said Castor.

Mum is furious with dad because when she told him he said he was

finding it difficult to cope with him anyway, clarified Pollux.

And Andy is only 21, you said.  Nigel thought that the victim must be

feeling very vulnerable.  Actually he had quite a few victims to deal

with in this scenario.

Perhaps he required counselling.  Nigel had a photocard with a

telephone contact number for a very good street pastor.  However,

the twins were priority.

So what would you like to happen?  This was one of the open

questions he had been trained to employ.

We’d all like him to come back.

Wasn’t this an example of that syndrome that Patty Hearst

developed?  Sympathy and support for her abuser’s plight?

Stockholm Syndrome!  Yes, very complex this situation.  It would take

him hours to write a report.  Drat!  He had been going to watch

Borgen tonight.

So, even your father is upset?

Yes, he bought him for Mum in the first place, even though he eats

everything in sight.

What a liberally-minded and tolerant father, thought Nigel.

Would you like me to try to contact Andy to see if he is all right?  Do

you have his mobile number?

The twins exchanged a look: But he doesn’t have a phone.  He is

tagged, though.

Everyone has a phone, thought Nigel. Even toddlers.  He must have

been kept as some sort of slave. He wondered if he was an illegal

immigrant.

Where did he come from originally?

The Borders, we think.

Ah, some transit camp- maybe he crossed over illegally-paid some

syndicate a fortune for a ticket and the criminal stole his papers. He

began to be worried: maybe he was a terrorist?  At least someone in

the authorities is aware and is tracking him, though, since he has

been tagged.

And he is only 21, he repeated sadly.

In dog years, Castor elucidated.

Yes, he is three in our years, added Pollux.

Nigel heard the bell ring metaphorically as well as literally.  He hadn’t

even had time to pee himself or to get a coffee.  The withdrawal

symptoms would make him irritable with his next class and it was

ages till lunch.  He was on yard duty too and so would barely have

time to snatch a sandwich.

But you said he was a border refugee!  He didn’t add any expressions

such as asylum seeker, sex slave, or Islamist terrorist on the run.

He is a Border terrier! they replied

And he ate your homework- right?  Nigel had heard this one before.

He was becoming rapidly less sympathetic.

No, he was dog-napped, we think, and that’s why Mum was so upset

and couldn’t help us with our Latin translation.

Credo quia absurdam est, muttered Nigel. (I believe it because it is

ridiculous.)

Okay, guys. You’d better get off to Mr Snodbury’s class.. (He had

nearly said Snod!)  Dispensation till tomorrow.  I hadn’t realised that

Andy was-hem- a family pet. (caveat canem!)

And the twins slipped off their stools and, grabbing the crisp packets,

picked up their satchels and added:

He’s named after Andy Murray, you know!

I do now, thought Nigel wearily.  Ah well, perhaps he would be able

to watch Borgen.  Two less wretched preps to mark tonight!

 

 

 

 

Nice to see you; to see you- NICE!

Tags

Border Terrier, Brucie, Craig Revel Horwood, Dordrecht, Heat magazine, Jenny Packham, Johan Huibers, Lisa Riley, Louis Smith, Paxman, Strictly Come Dancing, Wembley

The whole St Swithun day prognostication thingy seems irrelevant as

it appears to rain incessantly whatever the season.  A Dutchman

named Johan Huibers built an ark in Dordrecht, complete with plastic

animals.  Well, I suppose they would float in any deluge.

Such meteorological topics did not interest Tiger-Lily, nor

Scheherezade, who were caught up with their £40 sweepstake

winnings from Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly party. They had

accurately predicted that Louis Smith would win the Strictly Come

Dancing finals and, being altruistic girls, they donated part of their

winnings to their favourite charity, Curs in Crisis.  This was in spite of

Andy, the destructive Border Terrier having chewed the Christmas

tree lights and having caused mayhem at the party by plunging everyone

into darkness at the opening of the show.

Tiger called in to see how her grandmother, Ginevra was, after

having been abandoned the previous evening, when everyone ran to

Sonia’s house, in order not to miss the opening group dance by the

professionals.  In actual fact, once Cosmo had woken the wheelchair-bound

guest, she had been refreshed and then no one could get her to stop partying

until 2am.

Tiger’s mum, Carrie had eventually put her mother-in-law to bed as

the carer was off duty.

As mum was busy helping Ginevra with her morning ablutions, Tiger

had been left relatively unsupervised and she had ‘Googled’ Louis

Smith.  Almost immediately a very saucy photograph of the said

Olympic gymnast had popped up and he was not wearing anything at

all. Tiger was intrigued.  She was frustrated by the strategically

placed champagne bottle.  Apparently it had been a feature from Heat

magazine -a publication that would never be afforded entry to

Nutwood Cottage.  She immediately printed it off and Blu-tacked it

to her wardrobe’s inner door.

Imagine Carrie’s volcanic eruption when she discovered the same

indecent image on hanging up her daughter’s beaded Jenny

Packham dress later that morning.  (Tiger kept on having to correct

her mother.  It was Packham and not Packman.  Carrie should have

realised that Jeremy was not into bugle beads and fringing.  At least,

she didn’t think so.  But Paxman was different again.  It was very

confusing.)

Whatever.  Carrie sustained a shock as sensational as that

experienced by Craig Revel Horwood– and indeed the rest of the

nation’s viewers- when Lisa Riley did the splits at Wembley.

It was painful to think that her sweet, innocent Tiger of tender years

had downloaded such an image.

Gyles!  she called and then thought better of involving him.

The bedroom door was open and she jumped as a voice asked: Did

you call, Mrs Brewer-Mead?

It was Mrs Hatch-Warren, her cleaner.  She had let herself in with the

key she had been given.  Carrie was so overwhelmed that she had

forgotten that she had asked her to come in early to do some

ironing and other chores.

Shall I start by vacuuming Tiger’s bedroom? she inquired.

No!  I mean yes. Eh…  Carrie turned red and it wasn’t a hot flush.

Are you all right, Mrs Brewer-Mead?  the kindly cleaner asked

solicitously.

Carrie gulped.  Mrs Hatch-Warren, I know that you are a

grandmother to a fifteen year old girl.  Well, do you mind me asking

if this is normal?

She opened the wardrobe door.

Ooooh!  I’d say it was more than normal.  I’d say it was b*****

fantastic!  Mrs Hatch-Warren was from Yorkshire where this rather

crude modifier was in constant use and was considered an intensifier,

rather than being tinged with any offence.

So you think I should ignore it?  Carrie was prepared to take the older

woman’s advice.

Ignore it!  No, not at all.  I should come in here every day and have a

good look myself.  Fab-u-lous!  It’s not just Len who would give him a

10!

Mrs Hatch-Warren seemed energised and did all the ironing in

record time, but kept finding excuses to do more dusting in Tiger’s

bedroom.

Carrie was so shocked that she forgot to give the cleaner her

Christmas tip.  But the Yorkshire gran-with-attitude didn’t seem to

notice.  She felt she had had a huge bonus and spent the rest of the

day repeating Brucie’s catch-phrase: Nice to see you- to see you

NICE!

 

Strictly Finals

Tags

Anton du Beke, Barrowland, Border Terrier, Bruce Forsyth, Craig Revel Horwood, Denise van Outen, Dennistoun Palais, Frank Sinatra, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Julien Macdonald, Kismet, Laocoon, Louis Smith, Mayan, Mother Shipton, Rita Hayworth, Tess Daly, Vincent Simone

The world didn’t end yesterday, so maybe the Mayans weren’t so

clever after all.  It was going to be curtains for some of the Strictly

contestants, however, in a few hours.

Brassie and Cosmo’s Strictly Finals party was in full swing.  Brassie

had found a Frank Sinatra CD in Help the Ancient and was playing

Baubles, bangles, hear how they jing, jinga-linga to encourage

everyone to get into a sparkly mood. Certainly, tonight was

Kismet.

Most of the guests were downing bubbly and becoming increasingly

effervescent and aerated. Ginevra was ensconced in the prime

viewing position in front of the large plasma screen.  She was

cheerful and enjoying her favourite Dewlap gin, with very little tonic.

Everyone was wearing enough ruffles, fringing, Bermuda and bugle

beads to keep Julien Macdonald in ecstasies till actual Doomsday.

Their scintillation would have been sufficient to have illuminated the

Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square.

Sonia arranged a sweepstake for the guests to wager on the winner

of the coveted glitter ball.  Of course, she was not permitted to enter

since she would have had an unfair advantage as a professional

medium.  When the twins tried to elicit a clue from her, she merely

raised her eyebrow, in a Vincent Simone enigmatic expression.

Maybe she did know something and might have been more in touch

than the Mayans, but she had a greater affinity with Mother Shipton than any

South American soothsayer.  That could have been applicable to her Latin

moves too.  The twins turned away in embarrassment when she

tried to shimmy and they consequently tripped over Andy, the annoyingly

ubiquitous Border Terrier, so he was banished and gated in the

kitchen.

Tiger-Lily and Scheherezade supported Louis Smith and defended

their choice hotly when teased that they were merely responding to

his lack of a costume.

Ginevra, the eminence grise, favoured Anton and had to be told that

he was not a contender. But he dances like Fred Astaire, she

retorted.  When the girls explained which dancers were finalists, she

decided to bet on Kimberley, as she thought she looked a little like

Rita Hayworth.

Once she had her glass re-filled, she didn’t care which programme

she was about to watch.

Carrie supported Dani; this was more to do with the dark pony’s

Italian partner, however.

I decided to opt for Denise, as I felt sorry for her lack of support.  She

had been subject to some bad luck owing to costume malfunctions

and had covered her professional partner’s mental blank, mid-

performance.

Da-da-da-da-da-da-da: everyone was riveted and crowded round the

screen.  Bruce grinned: Nice to see you; to see you…

Just as everyone shouted Nice in return, there was a fragmentation

of the picture.  Two words appeared: No Signal. Tess’ lovely face,

usually a mask of tolerance while Brucie lifted her leg, disappeared.

Oh no! everyone exclaimed. What’s wrong?

Cosmo was dispatched to the fuse box in the kitchen.  Carrying a

bowl of floating tea-lights, he nearly tripped on the threshold as he

tried to negotiate the child gate that had been attached to the door,

to deter the excitable Andy. A veritable Laocoon of tangled and

chewed cables was all that remained of the Christmas tree lights,

once they had been dragged from the hall.

Brassie! he shouted.

She managed to feel her way out of the sitting room and stumbled

into the scene of canine chaos.  So much for thoroughbreds and

champion breeding.

There was no fuse wire in the electrical box, so Cosmo was also in

the doghouse- a destination with which he was only too familiar.

Everyone decided to hot-foot it to Sonia’s place, which was the

nearest viewing possibility.  Difficult in crystal-encrusted stilettos.

It was only when the glitter ball had been awarded that someone

realised that Ginevra was missing.  There had been nothing

problematic with her electric wheelchair, but everyone had forgotten

her in their eagerness to hiss Craig Revel Horwood’s initial

pronouncements.

When Cosmo rushed into the sitting room with a borrowed torch, he

found her fast asleep and perfectly warm under her tartan blanket.

She had consumed the rest of the bottle of Dewlap– neat, by all

accounts.  She was alert instantly and wanted to know if she had

won the sweepstake.  Cosmo lied and presented her with an

uncorked bottle as a prize and she went back to sleep, happily

dreaming of Fred and Ginger and the days when she used to dance

at the Dennistoun Palais and Barrowland in Glasgow, with her first

love, Gianbattista Pomodoro, Carrie’s grandfather, before he

married Jean Waddell in 1946.

But who had really won?