Snod’s Law

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Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, crystal ball, DNA analysis, Elgin marbles, exhumation, Katherine of Aragon, kinship, Lady of the Bedchamber, perjury, St Birinus, Tindall, Tyndale, Wyvern Mote

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe was open on the Bank Holiday and, the

weather being clement, Sonia, Diana and Dru were sitting in the courtyard,

out of earshot, they hoped, of the other customers.  Snod came in, looking

ill-at-ease in this bastion of good taste.  He was probably the only

customer who could have explained what a ‘bastion‘ was.  Most would

have thought it a term of abuse.

I just want a simple coffee.  Why does life have to be so complicated? he

grumbled.

Diana cleared her jacket from the spare chair that she had been reserving.

I’ve been studying the paperwork from Aurelia, she began.  The Tindalls of

Coquetbrookdale!  Quite a family.

Not related to that rugby player with the smashed nose who married Zara?

queried Sonia.

No, not the same branch. Elizabeth Swan married John Tindall and this was

how the- here Diana lowered her voice and looked around furtively – the

Tindall jewel came into Elizabeth’s possession.  It had been handed down

from generation to generation, from mother-in-law to daughter, or daughter-

in-law.

A relation of Sir William Tyndale, who was knighted at the marriage of Arthur,

Prince of Wales to Katherine of Aragon, originally seemed to have acquired it,

possibly from a royally-esteemed Lady-of-the-Bedchamber.

Whose bedchamber? asked Sonia, forthrightly.

Ah, that might have been telling! said Diana, coyly.  No, it might have

come into the family through a marriage.

Which leaves the problem of what you are going to do about it, said Snod,

nodding to Dru.  The letter says that it comes to the wife, or daughter of any

of her sons.

I’m definitely out of the picture, said Diana.  But what if you were to marry in

the near future?  Would that rule Dru out?  She was desirous of protecting

her daughter’s interests.

And can we be sure that Lionel and Peregrine did not have any illegitimate

daughters? asked Sonia.  They would have entitlement.

I suppose Bunbury et al will advertise in the press in Thailand and Canada for

any claimants to come forward within a certain period of time.  They might

have to be subject to DNA analysis, said Snod.

I might have to give a swab too, interrupted Dru.  They might want to check

your paternity.

Diana blushed and her chin disappeared into her collar.  Shhh! she hissed.

I might have to have a DNA test, agreed Gus, not relishing the idea,

as he confused it with sperm banks for some reason.  After all, my father is

not named on my birth certificate and my mother is designated as Berenice. 

Just because Lady Wyvern, er.. Aurelia, paid some school fees and confessed

to perjury in her letter, it might be seen as the ravings of a madwoman and

Anthony being dead too, how can we prove kinship?

There could be a hair on Aunt Augusta’s sheets, suggested Dru.

Don’t be silly, laughed Diana.  I expect that in an establishment as genteel

as Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry, they have probably

changed the bedding since Anthony’s last nocturnal perambulation.

Dru looked sceptical.  From what I’ve read, it’s a miracle if the sheets

are laundered at all on some of these premises. But, seriously, DNA

is pretty resistant material.  It survives washing machines, apparently.

Sonia said: Washing machines have inbuilt obsolescence nowadays,

so it wouldn’t be difficult to outlast them.  I only had mine three years.

Yes, but you don’t use de-calcifiers, reprimanded Diana.  That’s why

your towels are brick hard.

Sonia shot her a look that might have been interpreted as inviting

her to lodge elsewhere if she had any further criticisms.

Well, I am not going to sanction any exhumations, avowed Gus.  And

that includes Berenice’s.  It’s rather extreme to rule out a blood

relationship.

You wouldn’t have to, clarified Sonia.  You could get a sibling swab from

Aunt Augusta which would disprove your relationship to her entire family.

Not by stealth, Diana countered.  Only by informed consent and the

authorities might think she is too confused to comply.

Nonsense, said Sonia.  From what you’ve told me-here she nodded

towards Dru- she has all her marbles and it wouldn’t surprise me if she

had some of the Elgin variety too, stashed in her bedside locker, alongside

her gin.  Anyway, you could ask that De Sousa chap in Caracas to supple a

hair.  That would disprove that he is your half brother.

Oh, I’d forgotten about Hugo, said Snod, a trifle guiltily.  I’d better write to

him to disabuse him of our familial ties.  He will be disappointed.

Well, you asked me what I was going to do, Dru finally chipped in.  And I have

already decided.  If the lawyers are satisfied that Dad is Aurelia’s son and I am

offered the jewel, I am going to say that I want it to remain on exhibition at

Wyvern Mote.

These things can bring a curse on families and I don’t want Mum to regret

that she should have had no stake in it. Nor do I want to alienate any future

step- mothers. (Here Gus flushed deeply)  And, anyway, what would I do

with it?

It’s probably uninsurable in private hands. I don’t need the money.  I am more

interested in my career and this seems as good a time as any to announce

that I have been short-listed for the post of Head of St Birinus Middle, with the

blessing of its finest Master, my father!

And she raised her coffee cup to her lips in a loyal toast.  I wouldn’t need

any treasures, as there is accommodation provided and, without having to

worry about a mortgage, I would be well provided for and would have an

adequate salary and pension.

That’s my girl! Gus flushed with pride.  He could only hope that she would

be successful.

He had declared his affiliation and conflict of interest to the Governors and

had stepped down from the interview panel.  He had yet to be informed of

the other candidates.

But what about your parentage? Sonia challenged Gus.  Don’t you want to

have everything cleared up?  I know there is no inheritance involved, since

Wyvern is now National Trust, but aren’t you a teeny bit curious?

I thought you would have taken out your crystal ball and enlightened me,

teased Gus. But, I’ll take Aurelia’s word for it. As far as I am concerned, at my

time of life, I am grateful to one parent alone and he is the one who has

perpetually looked out for me through thick and thin..

And that is..? they all asked simultaneously.

St Birinus. And Snod twiddled the ring on his little finger and drained his

cup of basic filter coffee with satisfaction, even though there were no

accompanying Bourbon biscuits on offer.

So, you don’t mind the uncertainty? Sonia probed a little further.

No, Gus shook his head. It’s just like many of life’s vicissitudes: an

exemplification of Snod’s Law!

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Hypogonadism

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

Hypogonadism, Snod read.

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

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

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

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

had been similarly challenged.  Apparently she seemed very happy

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

months.

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

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

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

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

admitted.)

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

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

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

and the initials MCP.

He thought that had been a joke.  Had it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

getting older.’

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

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

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

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

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

inevitabilities of Low T.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

nay gallop!

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

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

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

relaxation, as the activity had not yet taken place.

The Missing Years

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Bourbon biscuit, David Dickinson, El Sistema, GovUk, Gustavo Dudamel, Lent, Los Angeles Philharmonic, marimba, poodle moth, Sexagesima, Shostakovich, St Birinus, wyvern

The school chaplain was banging on about Lent in Assembly.

What are YOU prepared to give up for Lent? he had asked the

congregation.

Augustus Snodbury looked at his school calendar surreptitiously.

Last Sunday had been Sexagesima.  Well, there was no issue in

abstemiousness in that line, as he had not had relations with a

woman for thirty years or so.

Maybe he could cut down his Bourbon biscuit intake.  Yes, he would

tell the School Secretary to bring a single biscuit at elevenses for the

next forty odd days.  That was a 50% reduction.  Time off for good

behaviour in Purgatory?  No, that was the opposition’s belief, surely?

His mind wandered to his ‘to do’ list.  It was more than a week since

he had received the Wyvern signet ring from his step-brother in

Venezuela.  He ought to reply and thank him.

After the boys had filed out, he sat at his desk and began to draft a

letter.

St Birinus Middle School,

Suttonford etc

27th Feb., 2014.

My Dear Hugo,

I am writing to confirm receipt of the signet ring on our mother’s instructions.

I realise that finding the cost of its postage must have been challenging for

you at this time of rampant inflation in your country.

I enclose a photograph of your niece, Drusilla, and myself, standing outside

Wyvern Mote.  The lady in the wheelchair is your Aunt Augusta- Berenice’s

sister.

Augusta oversaw my education when our mother- he was going to write

‘scarpered‘, but Tippex-ed it out and replaced it with ‘left for warmer climes.’

The news did not come as too severe a blow to Augusta, as she had

believed her sister had been disappeared years previously.  We did not go

into too many details anyway, as the old dear is now in her dotage.

Wyvern yielded some of its secrets on our visit.  Drusilla spotted a photograph

of the tutor in an old schoolroom and his facial features betray my origin.  Not

yours, of course, dear boy.  Perhaps you have inherited Berenice’s genes in

the appearance department.  In that case, you may resemble Aunt Augusta,

who is said to be her ‘dead spit‘, as some would crudely put it.  Judge for

yourself.

Perhaps you would find it in your power to send us a photo of yourself-

possibly in revolutionary garb, manning barricades or indulging in some

such activity.  That is, unless your post is censored.

Dear old St Birinus must have been watching over us, as my mother

remembering the name of the school led to our successful contact.  An odd

thought came to me in Assembly.  Apparently Birinus could also be spelled

‘Bernius’.  Was our mother given the saint’s nomenclature by a dyslexic

registrar?  What connection did her parents have to the school, or to the

saint?  Our grandmother was Augusta too, if I recall correctly and our

grandfather was a rug merchant, and probably a rogue trader too, by all

accounts, from somewhere in the Bosphorous.  I saw a photo of him once

and he bore a striking resemblance to David Dickinson, that antiques

chappie.

I would love to come and visit you, dear brother, but GovUK advises against

it at present. The site informs me that you have been experiencing heavy rain

and road conditions are poor.  We have a similar situation in Surrey,

Hampshire, Dorset and Somerset.

No doubt your passport has been suspended.  We are concerned

when we read of famous beauty queens and boxing champions being

killed.

Our peripatetic marimba teacher commented that El Sistema, the universally

famous Music Education programme should speak out about your political

situation.  He is disappointed that Gustavo Dudamel, Music Director of the

Los Angeles Philharmonic, has not taken a stand.  But he cannot embed

secret messages in his music, as Shostakovich did, as he is only a conductor

and not a composer, as I tried to point out.

Thank you also for the inadvertent gift of a poodle moth which somehow got

into the packaging of your communication.  The Biology teacher was thrilled.

He posed me a riddle: What is fuzzy, adorable and terrifying all at the same

time?

(He had read this sub-title in one of our staffroom magazines: The Week, as it

happens. Not a publication with which you may be familiar, but no matter…)

I don’t like riddles in general, but I immediately replied, John Boothroyd-

Smythe.

He is a bete-noire of mine.  The correct response should have been Poodle

Moth, naturally.

Take care, little brother.  One day we shall meet and discuss the missing

years.

May St Birinus protect you.

(He scribbled ‘Gus‘) and then signed off with a flourish:

Augustus Snodbury (Acting Head)

Then he crossed out the parenthesis and sealed the personal letter in

a school envelope. The School Secretary could work out the international

postage and use the office franking machine.  There was no fraud involved.

He was, after all, saving the school catering budget a fortune on biscuits for

the foreseeable future.  Or so he rationalised.

Revelation

Tags

Ancient Mariner, Bourbon biscuit, Purgatory, seamed stockings, St Birinus, St Vitus

Virginia, PA to the Acting Head of St Birinus Middle School, was curious.

A woman had just gone into Snod’s study and she wanted to know the

reason. She could have sworn that it was that Welsh woman who had

played the harp in the end of term concert.  When Virginia went in with

tea and biscuits, silence descended until she had shown herself out

again.  Still, she had taken a closer look and it was that woman from St

Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl after all and she was wearing a

lovely gold necklace with a harp charm , so she must be Welsh.

She had just sat down at her computer when Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior

Master, knocked on her door.

Excuse me, but is Mr Snodbury free at the moment? he asked, his face, as

usual, pale with stress.

Regrettably not. Virginia loved blocking ordinary staff’s access to the highest

authority.  He is in consultation with that Welsh teacher from the girls’ school-

the one who played the harp in the concert.

Welsh?  Nigel expressed his confusion.  She’s not Welsh.

Virginia wanted to interrogate him as to how a minion such as himself

could be privy to information about the ethnicity of his betters, but she

restrained herself and restricted her reply to: Well, why else would she be

wearing a harp round her neck? It would be like the Ancient Mariner being in

denial about his particular cervical-was that the right word?- decoration being

a proclamation that he was not the world’s biggest lover of all things

ornithological.

Nigel was hyper-aware that his form class would be destroying the room, so

he nervously answered quickly, before shooting off back to Purgatory: No, she

is Mr Snodbury’s daughter.

What?  Are you certain?  I didn’t know he was married!  Virginia was seriously

discomfited.  She had thought that she knew everything.  He doesn’t wear a

ring.

Nigel flushed, partly with pleasure, now that he knew his anonymous present

of jewellery had been accepted.  Well, please could I send John Boothroyd-

Smythe to stand outside your office?  He is being unusually, or, to be more

truthful- usually-disruptive.

Virginia nodded, not taking in the information.  She was shell-shocked.  She

would never have sought to ingratiate herself with a married man, seamed

stockings or not.  Hers, I mean.

Mr Snodbury, married!

She knocked and went into the study to clear the cups and tray. Yes, he

was wearing a ring.  Why had she not noticed this before?  She stole a

sidelong glance.

They both had the same jowly profile and looked annoyed at her interruption.

As she used her elbow to exit the room, since neither Gus, nor Drusilla

offered to open the door, so deep were they in conversation, she collided

with a boy that she recognised all too well.

Not you again! she shouted.  Don’t you understand in that infantile brain of

yours that we are all heartily sick and tired of your puerile and selfish

behaviour? Get back to your class and apologise to your teacher and if I ever

see you here again, I will personally not be responsible for what I do to you!

The semi-permanent smirk was wiped off John’s face and he fled with his tail

between his legs.  No one had ever spoken to him like that before and he

immediately got the message.

Yes, Ms Fisher-Giles, he whispered, awestruck, and ran, practically wetting

himself.

Virginia’s seamed stockinged legs almost gave way under her and she

collapsed into her chair.  Before she knew it she had eaten three

Bourbon biscuits.

Married, she muttered.  And I never knew.

Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Caracas, cri de coeur, Cumbernauld, De Sousa, Elastoplast, Gregory's Girl, Ipostel, lime tea, madeleine, Philately, seamed stockings, Telegraph, wyvern

Virginia Fisher-Giles, The School Secretary and PA to Acting Head,

Augustus Snodbury, was reluctant to sign for the rather shabby parcel.

It was postmarked ‘Caracas‘ and she didn’t recognise the name on the

sender label: Hugo De Sousa.  There was an Ipostel label still hanging onto

it.  Clearly addressed to Mr Augustus Snodbury, St Birinus School, Suttonford

etc., she decided that she had better take it in and check the list of new

boys’ guardians.

The postman said that he had rattled it and smelt it and it seemed all right.

Nevertheless, Virginia had read, only the previous week, about a nineteen year

old diplomat’s son in South London, who had innocently and altruistically signed

for a neighbour’s parcel, and who had ended up being arrested and his parents’

home and garden being turned over for several days by police in bio-hazard

suits, before being issued an apology.

The Head, who was on sick leave, never received odd mail such as this.  She

wondered what on earth Snodbury was up to.  Unless, of course, it was some

kind of jape organised by that pest, John Boothroyd-Smythe.  He had once

offered her a nut from his cylindrical tin and when she removed the lid, a cloth

snake on a spring had leapt out at her and had given her the shock of her life.

As for ‘Caracas’..wasn’t that the ultimate destination those two teenage idiots

had misspelled on their placard, when they were trying to hitch a

lift from rainy Cumbernauld, or wherever, to an exotic land of allegedly

compliant girls, in the opening sequence of that coming-of-age classic

Scottish film, Gregory’s Girl?

Virginia simply had to know everything that was going on in St Birinus.  After

all, she was the PA and this whole episode was too, too intriguing.

Gus had a free period and was opening his Telegraph, ready to dunk

his Bourbon biscuit into his tea, when he noticed the package in his in-tray.

His first emotion was pleasurable, as he realised that the stamps would be

educational for his lunchtime Philately Club.  But this was followed by

puzzlement.  He didn’t know anyone of the surname on the label, except for a

composer of brass music, which was not really in line with his preferences.

He held the box up to his rather hairy ear.  No, there was no ticking.  Gingerly,

he tore off a corner of the brown paper and shook the parcel over his tray.

No white powder came out.

He decided to live dangerously and ripped it open, in the way one deals

with an Elastoplast that simply has to come off.

A small box fell out onto his desk.  He opened it.  It contained a gold

signet ring with a strange crest.

Snod might as well have dipped a Madeleine into some lime tea, rather than

a Bourbon into his builders’ variety, for, all at once, the years rolled away

and he could remember things past.  The mythical winged creature depicted

a dragony-type beast with a barbed tail.

A wyvern! he exclaimed.  And he could see the hand that had worn the ring

in his infant memory.  A stab of emotion that he thought he had suppressed

for over fifty years clutched at his entrails.

There was an accompanying letter.  As he read its contents, his tea turned

cold and he forgot to eat the second Bourbon.  This, in itself, would have

enlightened any observer as to the significance of the impact he had

received.

However, there was no voyeur, except for Virginia, who, unable to contain

her curiosity, barged into the study, without the usual courtesy of a knock,

and interrupted with:

I say, Mr Snodbury, you haven’t drunk your tea!  Did you get your parcel? 

Was it anything of interest?

But Gus was sitting expressionless and scarcely seemed to hear her.

Virginia, brought up short, revised her behaviour and, apologising, merely

took the cup away, along with the first uneaten biscuit that she had ever

had to retrieve and prepare for disposal.

How very strange! And, like Mary, she pondered all these things in her heart,

as she bent down and followed the trail of rubber bands from the school foyer

to the spot where the mail van parked every day.

Really!  She was tired of picking up the detritus scattered by that buffoon

whose ridiculous semi-uniform of baseball cap and unseasonable shorts

was a disgrace to civilised society.  As for that trolley thing that he pushed,

it was completely wimpish.  How she longed for a real man that she could

respect.  But what was the chance of her meeting one in this limited scenario?

The seamed stockings that she wore were a cri-de-coeur.  If the true princess

could spot a pea, then, surely, a real prince would notice her stockings!  And,

oh, how she longed that one day he would come!

Pastoral Care

Tags

allotment, Bourbon biscuit, child benefit, Cincinnatus, dibbling, harrowing, in loco parentis, internecine, open question, Pastoral Care, ploughing, Polar vortex, Protestant reformation, seamed stockings, smallholding, spyware, toga, Type 2 diabetes, William Morris Willow Bough Minor, work ethic, yoke of oxen

 

Gisela Boothroyd-Smythe and her newly ex-husband, Maxwell,

sat at opposite ends of the William Morris Willow Bough Minor

upholstered sofa in Acting Head, Augustus Snodbury’s study.

He had called both warring factions into school for a review of

their delinquent son’s Autumn term.  The emotional temperature

in the room reflected the physical Polar Vortex being experienced

elsewhere.

Snod opened the large file on his desk.  Gisela rubbed her heel on

the rug, exacerbating the hole which had been initiated many

parental meetings before.  She twisted the wedding ring which she

now wore on her right hand.

Maxwell sat with his legs splayed, trying to make himself appear

bigger.

Attendance…hmm..almost perfect.  Maths and Science very good.

Arts subjects: ‘a facility with words’, as his form teacher, Mr

Milford-Haven has so succinctly put it in his summative report.

Everything seems to boil down to John’s problematic attitude to

authority and his lack of empathy towards his peers.

He is a bit of an individual, Maxwell broke in and his ex-wife scowled

at him.

I understand that both children are now boarding, Snod re-directed.

He felt that this was one of those open questions, couched in a

declarative which might open up discussion.  He was surprised to

hear himself employing the technique.

Ye Gods Above! I must have been inadvertently listening at the last

Training Session, he silently marvelled.

Gisela cleared her throat.  Em, yes.  Juniper feels that she has more

freedom at school.

That’s because you set up spyware to find out what she was up to,

interrupted Maxwell.

Maybe, but you didn’t have to inform the Child Benefit people that she

was not with me sufficiently to merit a payment, recriminated Gisela.

Now, let’s stick to the point, Snod intervened.  He had almost added

‘children’.  Both offspring seem to have become more calm with the

schools being ‘in loco parentis’.

Gisela and Maxwell forgot their differences to exchange an

uncomprehending glance.  Neither had studied Latin.

I think, concluded Snod, that participation in the school concert

definitely improved his co-operative skills. Life is all about teamwork

(What a load of old jargon, he admonished himself.)

Of course, individuation can be a positive.  After all, it led to The

Protestant Reformation.  It’s all a matter of cultivating the work

ethic.

Personally I hate teams, he admitted to himself.  Unless, of course,

they are of the cricketing or choral varieties.  In every other realm I

prefer to calculate my own decisions and work out how to achieve my

own goals.

He recalled the image of one of his personal heroes.  There had been a

pen and ink drawing of Cincinnatus wearing a shorty toga and perhaps a

laurel wreath, depicted in Gus’ own boyish Latin textbook.

There he was, the great dictator, minding his own business, in an agrarian

backwater, furrowing a field in retirement, when he was called upon to

leave the plough and to govern through the crisis of an invasion of three

intercenine tribes.

Imagine how pointless it would have been if Cincinnatus’ governance skills,

finely honed through harrowing, had been hampered by him having to drag a

yoke of useless dead oxen after him! Snod opined to himself. No, sometimes,

it is better to just get on and do things yourself.  Certainly in this line of

business it’s the case.

He quickly re-grouped his thought processes, releasing his

linked fingers.

Well,  I won’t detain you, knowing that you are both Very Busy People.

Flattery could get you everywhere.

And he stood up, remaining behind the desk, because he had seen

his GP do the very same when he wanted to terminate a consultation.

Snod then shook their hands.  Gisela had to stretch over the ring binder,

as her arms were shorter.  She didn’t shake hands with her ex-husband

and barely inclined her head to him.

The School Secretary showed them out and Snod reflected that he had

been advocating attributes which he had never developed himself. Did this

make him a hypocrite?

Hmm, she’s wearing high heels today, he observed. You know, I could

have sworn that she had seamed stockings..

He was fixated on the hosiery of his PA.

The door opened once more and the question was resolved.

I’ve brought you your tea and some biscuits, she announced.

You probably need a sugar fix after seeing those two.

On the contrary, I feel remarkably refreshed, he commented, glancing

down at her heels as she left the room.

Mmm-two sugars and two Bourbon biscuits.  Diana restricted his biscuit

portion to one.  She was always banging on about Type Two Diabetes.

She ought to leave a man alone, he cringed.

Mr Snodbury, sir!

He jumped out of his reverie and spilled his tea into the saucer.

It was Milford-Haven.  Snod hoped this wouldn’t be a lengthy session.

He bit into one of the Bourbons to mark his territory.

Yes, all this power was heady stuff, but he, like his Classical hero, would

return to civilian oblivion once his task was over.  Maybe he would try to get

an allotment?  His pension might not run to a Roman smallholding.

He wondered if the secretary liked horticulture.  He wouldn’t mind

watching her bend over as she did some dibbling.

Are you all right, sir?  I mean, is that all right?

Yes, Caligula- I mean, Milford-Haven, do as you think best.  Show some

initiative.

And Nigel stood up, grabbed the other biscuit and said, Cheers!

Snod supposed that was what was called being an individual.

Staff Meeting

Tags

acronym, arrythmia, Bourbon biscuit, correcting fluid, Daily Mail, faggots, gender fluid, Hippocratic oath, Jammie Dodger, Jeremy Paxman, libido, testosterone, University Challenge

Augustus Snodbury, Acting Head of St Birinus Middle School, looked out

on his assembled staff.  It was the first meeting of 2014 and he felt

uncomfortable in The Headmaster’s chair, amid so many grumpy men.

He nodded curtly to Geoffrey Poskett, relaying an unspoken message

which underlined the transmission that their coincidental holiday

encounter was, in no way, to imply any kind of partiality or informality

now that they were back in their normal routine.

Yawn! Yawn!  There were the usual parental missives, if not missiles,

informing staff of snowboarding fractures.  Then there were Boys To Be

Discussed.  This provoked an excited background hum and Snod had to

lay down the law firmly:  One of you may buzz, I mean, speak.

The School Calendar had been printed at the end of the previous term,

but was now distributed.  Usually each fixture had to be gone over in fine

tooth detail, but Snod pronounced: Well, you can all read, I suppose, so, in

the manner of Jeremy Paxman at the start of University Challenge, I will just

invite you all to crack on.

He eyed young Milford-Haven who was about to snaffle his own favourite

Bourbon biscuit from the trolley.  However, when the young puppy felt the

elder educator’s gimlet gaze bore into him, he eschewed his first choice

and opted for a Jammie Dodger instead.  Very wise as a future career

move.

No conferring! Snod emphasised.

He glanced at dates for the end of term and mused:  Oh, why does Easter

have to be so late this year?  If it is a moveable feast, then why can’t it

be shunted closer to release us all from scholastic torment?

Nigel Milford-Haven put up his hand.  As John Boothroyd-Smythe’s form

teacher, he felt compelled to put one and all in the picture re/ behavioural

issues and their mitigating causes.  One of these was that B-S’s sister had

apparently ‘come out‘ recently as being gender fluid.

I’ve heard of correcting fluid, remarked ‘old school’ Snodbury, but never the

sexual variety.  Pray, clarify.

Several know-it-alls who had been paying attention at the previous in-

house training on Psychosexual Proclivities and the Learning Process came

to attention and tried to contribute to the allegedly open forum.

One of you may answer! boomed Gus.  Well, fascinating though the subject

promises to be,..His olfactory sense had just radared that the first sitting

of lunch was a possibility.

Who is on Lunch Duty today? he asked.

Poskett, always poised for a hasty getaway, was crouching near the door.

I am, sir!  He bowed his head and fled.  He had known that they would

never get round to the pressing matter on his agenda.  Maybe next week!

he muttered.

A final notice, Snod declared.  The smell of faggots was making him lose

concentration.  You may be wondering how The Headmaster is.  The good

news is that he has not suffered a stroke.  Not even a TIA, to use a medical

acronym.  His wife assures us that he has only been experiencing mild

arrythmia, brought on by an arduous Autumn term, combined with an

overindulgent celebration on Christmas Eve.  And, if you have been reading

The Daily Mail lately, which, God Forbid any member of this illustrious

academic establishment would..

Here the aroma of hot beef olives, to use a more polite culinary term, was

really distracting..

…Where was I?  Oh, yes, apparently the acme of journalistic achievement

has suggested that some men d’un certain age develop irrational anxieties,

heart palpitations and alter their personality through low levels of

testosterone. (He stroked his new leather jacket in a spontaneous gesture

of subliminal self-awareness.)  They can even lose their..

Libido, supplied an earnest Milford-Haven, who was probably the only one

in the staffroom attempting to follow his drift.

Suddenly thirty two pairs of eyes widened and their owners ceased to

dwell on stuffing and onion gravy.

Snod coughed.  Aaagh, whatever! he agreed. Anyway, to cut a long story

short, his wife has persuaded him to combat excessive grumpiness by a

course of hormone injections, which should render him more..

Subservient! Milford-Haven nodded.

Compliant! re-stated Mr Snodbury, glaring at the exhibition of impatience

shown by the Junior Master.  He recognised a desire to conclude proceedings

in the worthy cause of nutrition.  But the boy should know his place.  He had

to restrain himself from awarding the member of staff an order mark and

detention.

So, not a word of this confidential information is to pass beyond these walls,

stressed The Acting Head.  He then had to watch everyone else exiting the

room before himself, which probably meant that he would have to go to the

second sitting in the dining room and there would be no faggots left.

Meanwhile, in a mockery of the Hippocratic oath, The Headmaster’s wife was

discussing her husband’s alarming symptoms in Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe, over two lattes, with the GP’s spouse, who was going to relay

the absorbing details to multiple caffeine addicts in the weeks to come.

cafe

A Pet What?

Tags

Arms and the Man, Bourbon biscuit, Britten, BUPA, Ceremony of Carols, Discovery Centre, electric bell, flu jab, Garibaldi biscuit, George Bernard Shaw, Ken Livingstone, nocturnal emission, Petkoff, proleptic allusion, prostate, Strictly, Tupperware, Type 2 diabetes, urologist, Viennese Whirls, Vince Cable, Well Man Clinic

Two weeks for half term this year!

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School, could hardly

believe his good fortune.  He had actually managed to stagger on and had

avoided becoming a stretcher case, even though he had received his flu

jab mid-session, which left him somewhat debilitated for a couple of days.

The Parents’ Open Evening had almost finished him off.  He had been

stationed in the Library, now designated The Discovery Centre,

but had hoped that no one would ferret him out from his hiding place.

He was supposed to showcase its latest technology to prospective

‘clients’, but such a role reminded him of the Major in Arms and the

Man, who kept boasting to all and sundry of his latest piece of technical

kit for the reading room, namely an electric bell.

A divorced father wandered in, but he made a very hasty departure,

as he thought that Snod had given him his marching orders. In fact, the

prematurely-aged one had just been introducing the ostentatious Shavian

character’s name- Petkoff!- in order to make ironic reference to

furnishing accessories for educational spaces.  However, Snod was

discovering out that fewer and fewer people shared his cultural references

and, consequently, his jokes were misconstrued, as we shall see later

in this post.

(That’s a proleptic allusion, by the way.  But I digress.)

Snod may have lost the school some ‘business’, I fear.

While the elusive Master hid behind the bookshelves, he consulted

a Medical Dictionary.

At The Well Man Clinic, which Diana had urged him to attend, he had

been surprised to learn that he was close to the margin for being

diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes.  However, he had been advised that

he could hold back the waves, unlike Canute, if he reduced his sugar

intake.  Worth a try.

Geoffrey Poskett, Head of Music, had been stunned earlier in the

day, by Gus having eschewed, rather than chewed, the last biscuit at

break.  He had held out the Tupperware box to Poskett and waved the

Bourbon, usually his favourite mid-morning nibble, under the puzzled

choirmaster’s nose.

You have it, he had said, graciously.

Geoffrey sat down and dunked the dark brown chocolaty finger into his

coffee while he waved his left hand in time to a beat that only he could hear.

Gus screwed up his nose.  Dunking! This was a practice which he considered

to be anaethema– yea, beyond the pale.  If he could have predicted the

biscuit’s fate, then he would have offered it to Nigel Milford-Haven, whose

eyes had followed its trajectory and milky disintegration.

Nigel had not bothered to open the cupboard in the staff kitchen, as he had

known that by now, there would only be packets of Garibaldis remaining, and

he would never ingest these, as they had far too revolutionary a name.  One

could call them Flies’ Cemeteries, but a sweetmeat by any other name would

taste just the same, and revolution stuck in his craw.  Leave it to characters

such as Red Ken Livingstone, who, no doubt, had sucked on the curranted

Italian perforated strips since boyhood.  As for Viennese Whirls, they were

more Vince Cable, he had thought, ever since seeing the politician strutting

his stuff on Strictly.

And Nigel was not a Lib Dem. He wasn’t sure what he was.  And that was why

he had been overlooked for promotion.

Gus, skulking behind the Human Biology section was looking up information on

nocturnal emissions.  When the hymn  All Hail The Power of Jesus’ Name had

been announced in assembly that morning, Snod had been reminded of

another medical problem that he should have discussed at the clinic.

Let angels prostate fall, in line two, had leapt out at him, even though he knew

that there was a difference of one consonant. For, yes, he was getting up

several times in the night to take a leak, in prep school parlance and, so he

really must phone Bupa to see if he could choose a urologist who might be

in the country over half term.  Vain hope!

He had glared at some of the older boys during the Junior Choir’s rendition of

Faire is The Heaven.  It may have been a trial run for a future performance,

but he was too long in the tooth not to anticipate the sniggers at the phrase:

in full enjoyment of felicity.

Actually, Poskett was doing a good job.  He had elevated himself in Snod’s

opinion by planning the Britten Christmas concert.  It was ambitious, but,

apart from the difficulty of finding a harpist for The Ceremony of Carols, he

was managing the rehearsals sensibly and hadn’t requested anyone’s

absence- as yet- from a Snodbury lesson.  Hence the biscuit offer.

…………………………………………………………

It was the morning after the Open Evening and staff were all rather

exhausted. Snod had leapt up two minutes before the bell at break.

There was only time for a coffee, or for visiting the little boys’ room.

Avoiding chatty colleagues was a necessity for the implementation of

good time management at the interval.

However, just as he was about to exit the staffroom, he collided with a whey-

faced loon in the shape of young John Boothroyd-Smythe who had been

knocking on the door.

Is this a query which could be addressed in lessons? barked Snod,

practically wetting himself.

Well, sir, I’m not sure.. B-S stammered.  It’s just that Dad gave me this letter

to give you.

Back to lessons! shouted Gus, hurrying down the corridor and pocketing the

envelope for future perusal.

It was only at lunchtime that he remembered to take the missive out of his

Harris tweed jacket pocket and then he read the parental complaint.

Apparently he was being accused of having told B-S’s father to ‘*** off’

the previous evening.  Snod was confused until he recalled that one of

Shaw’s characters had similarly misunderstood the Major’s name and had

uttered the immortal interrogative:

A Pet what?

(To which the immortal reply should have been: a Petkoff.)

Snod muttered the well-known aphorism: Never apologise; never explain,

to himself. 

But he knew that he would have to try.

No wonder B-S had problems when his father was so dense!  And B-S,

wasn’t that some kind of intestinal problem which had been mentioned on

the comprehensive leaflet which he had been given at the clinic?  It was

related to stress and Snod was having bucketfuls of that experience every

day.  Perhaps he should have that possibility investigated at the same time

as his prostrate, or whatever it was called.

First Rehearsal

Tags

Bishop of Lyra, Bourbon biscuit, bratwurst, Britten, Camelot, Ceremony of Carols, Elijah, Elisha, Frankfurter, Nunc Dimittis, Old Hundredth, Peter-Pears, Richard Burton, Richard Harris, St Nicolas

Mr Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School, was over-

excited as usual.  It was almost the end of September and he had given a

great deal of consideration- mainly in the wee sma’ hours-to the

programme for his showcase Christmas term concert.

Greetings, chaps and chapesses! he enthused. (Several singers groaned.)

Welcome to the parents and staff who are supporting the boys in the end of

term concert.  I am delighted to announce that we will be performing Britten’s

Ceremony of Carols and St Nicolas. If ever there was an accessible

programme, then this is it.  Now I know that you will be wondering who the

soloists are going to be and I can announce that the youngest boy in the

choir will be the youthful Nicolas, as is traditional..

Here some parents looked as if they were about to vote with their feet, as

they had assumed that their mini Peter-Pears-in-the-Making was going to

land the eponymous role.

In fact, John Boothroyd-Smythe might have been a good choice as he

had nerves of steel, but his voice was about to break.

Geoffrey couldn’t imagine the latter springing from his mother’s womb, singing

‘God be glorified!‘  He had tried to keep the delinquent on board, but when he

had offered him the part of the final member of the trio of pickled boys,

Timothy, Mark and John, the ingrate scornfully replied, Who wants to be a

singing sausage?

The answer to that was none of the boys, particularly, but all of their parents

were gagging for them to be chosen and were ready to literally sacrifice their

darlings, whether they were to be actually preserved in brine or not, for the

sake of a favourable mention in a review in the school magazine.

John’s rudeness had earned him a detention with Mr Snodbury.  When he saw

the on-duty master reach into his briefcase for a quick snifter from what looked

suspiciously like a hip flask, John felt that the old boy would have been first

rate as a pickled adult.

John’s interpretation of the boys as Frankfurters, or chipolatas, en vinaigrette,

was somewhat literal.

Geoffrey had bitten back a comment to the effect that the role of

metamorphosed, or resurrected bratwurst would be highly appropriate for

such a pupil as himself.

Some of the semi-professional male instrumentalist members of staff who had

turned up to lead the Junior String Orchestra had been hoping for an elevation

from the ranks and  longed for a recognition of their solo tenor voices.  In

short, they wondered if one of their cohort might land the part of the adult

Nicolas.

And so it came as a surprise when Poskett announced that Mr Nigel

Milford-Haven was going to sing the role of the saint, in view of his

enhanced experience which had been finely tuned– ahem!( he was aware

of his own pun) at the Bath Monteverdi workshop over the summer.

Nepotism! muttered one of the viola players, but that was to be expected

from a musician in their section.

Over tea in the staffroom the following day, Nigel raised the subject very

casually with Mr Snodbury as he stood in line to choose a biscuit from the

hostess trolley. He mentioned that he had been elected to sing the part of

the Bishop of Lycra.

Snod looked at him as if he was a first former and corrected him: Lyra, sir! 

Lyra! He then snaffled the last Bourbon biscuit, which Nigel had been eyeing

throughout the conversation. Still, he couldn’t have everything, he supposed.

Lyra, yes, of course, that’s what I meant to say, he stuttered.  Yes, it’s a

marvellous piece and the eighth movement is so homophobic.

Snod put half of the biscuit in his mouth and sprayed Nigel with a cascade of

dark brown crumbs:  Homophonic, you ass! 

He was clearly not having a good day.

Nigel considered reporting the Senior Master to the union representative

and fantasised about receiving enormous damages for his loss of self-esteem

and injured feelings, but to complain might mean that his stellar role would

be endangered and it was too important to risk that.

I heard the parental chorus sang the Old Hundredth fairly competently, Snod

remarked, as if nothing untoward had been voiced.

Yes, sir!  He was relieved that he was on surer footing now and sat down

beside Snod in an ingratiating manner which irritated the eminence grise.

The boys enjoyed the part where Nicolas is enjoying his bath, he volunteered.

Snod had heard that there had been one or two sniggers at this point.

We rehearsed the section where the bewildered mothers were looking for

their lost sons.  They assumed that the ‘wurst’ had happened.

Nigel congratulated himself on a very good joke, but Snod ignored it.

There’s a plethora of that type of female in the school yard, I always find.

Snod drained his tea in one-a practice he had perfected over many a break.

I don’t suppose Poskett was other than spoilt for choice. I hear he gave

the parts to the pushiest ones as usual.

I don’t know about that, Nigel practised being pontifically diplomatic, if that

wasn’t an oxymoron- ie/ he tried to sit firmly on the fence on any thorny

matter.

I expect that you can relate to the sixth movement, as can we all, mused

Snod.

How so, sir?

Isn’t it a description of the barren years of incarceration? Snod said wryly.

Still, everyone gets their Nunc Dimittis in the end.

He was hoping for his very soon.  Pension! God be glorified!  But you will have

to wait much longer for yours, won’t you, under the new government

regulations?  Never mind- God moves in a mysterious way.  Maybe you will win

the lottery, if you say your prayers.  You should buy a ticket in our

consortium. A tenner a month, that’s all.

Is that Camelot? asked Nigel who was somewhat otherworldly regarding such

vices and, in that respect, made more of a a convincing saint than any other

member of staff.

Camelot? repeated Geoffrey, who had only three minutes of break left, having

collected his large bundle of hate mail from his pigeon hole, all protesting about

his casting skills. Oh, there’s no Bourbons left!  He looked devastated.

Camelot! Now there’s a good summer musical for you, suggested Snodbury,

rising from his club chair. I once sang the role of King Arthur many moons ago,

but I leave you my musical mantle, Milford-Haven.  Even Elijah had to divest

himself of his garment so that the young Elisha could grow into his sandals.

Gentlemen, adieu!

And though there was no rushing wind or cloud of unknowing, he cast a

cursory glance at his empty pigeon hole and left humming:

Don’t let it be forgot

That once there was a spot

For one brief, shining moment

That was known as Camelot..

And Geoffrey and Nigel had to admit that there was a deal of musicality left

in the old dog yet!  In fact, there was even a look of the young Richard Burton

in his profile- or was it Richard Harris?  Both were before their time.

Who’s That Girl?

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, countertenor, HB pencil, John Eliot Gardiner, Monteverdi, Panama hat, St Endellion Festival

Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster of St Birinus Middle School and Nigel-Milford

Haven, Junior Master, had thoroughly enjoyed the Summer Music Workshop

and its final concert in Bath.  They launched themselves into the next

section of their holidays, humming Monterverdi.

It was true that they had shared a score in the concert, a fact not

unobserved by the keen-eyed Drusilla Fotheringay.  Her vision was more

acute than her discernment, however.  She had left the concert with

a misapprehension, after the interval, which, incidentally, has been

thought by some to be the highlight of such entertainments.

Her interpretation of social relationships had been skewed by her minute

observation of the close interaction of the two singers.  In fact, their

perceived intimacy had been owing to Geoffrey’s pencil having been blunt

and therefore his having to borrow Nigel’s obsessively sharpened HB, to

reduce a semibreve by one beat, as roundly instructed.

Nigel had forgotten his score in his haste to get a position on the front

row of the male participants, where there was some jockeying between

the tenors and countertenors as to precedence.

Divas are found in both sexes, he reflected.

And so the two teachers had shared and halved their logistical problems.

Geoffrey’s heart had skipped a beat when he had spotted that very nice

Housemistress from St Vitus’ School for the Academically Gifted Girl in the

audience.  He had been so discomfited that he had whispered an enquiry

to Nigel and had been glared at by the conductor, who, by-the-by, was

NOT John Eliot Gardiner, nor would ever be.

Geoffrey then forgot to reduce the semibreve, earning himself a raised

eyebrow which was the equivalent of a bad order mark.

What was she doing in Bath?

He was surprised to see Nigel delivering some glasses of over-priced

rose to the Housemistress and her friends at the intermission.

No, surely not!

There was that old duffer, Augustus Snodbury, the Senior Master.  He

was the bane of Geoffrey’s life, as he was prone to correct the spelling

on the Choirmaster’s End of Term reports, quibbling over the

orthographical differences between practice as a noun and practise as a

verb.

Snodbury had also made it his peculiar habit to snaffle the last Bourbon

biscuit in the staffroom, when he ought to have known that Geoffrey was

especially fond of them and looked forward to a couple with his coffee at

break.

The weird thing was that the Housemistress seemed to share the same

jawline as the reprehensible old…Geoffrey restrained himself at this point.

He would ask Nigel about her later on in the pub.  (They were permitted to

have some post-concert refreshments in the local hostelry, as they had

had to deny themselves the fruit of the vine for the sake of musical

accuracy.)

They were expected to be tucked up in their bunks by eleven thirty, as

if they were still at school- which, in a way, they were.

Being institutionalised, they hardly noticed the restriction to their civil

liberties. So, no rioting in the town square for them.

Yes, I seem to have blown it, Nigel said to himself as he drove down to

Cornwall to check on his peevish mother.

Drusilla hadn’t waited for the second half of the programme.

Mind you, she may very well have left something in the oven.

And so he ruminated over the events.

Maybe he could earn some Brownie points as he had rescued Snod’s

rather flattened Panama hat, which he had left behind at the ill-fated

concert.  He would return it with a flourish.  If its true owner didn’t mind,

the abandoned headgear might come in useful to screen Nigel’s only just

noticed balding area from the intense rays of the Cornish sun.

He hoped his mother would enjoy The St Endellion Festival.  He hoped to

meet up with Geoffrey there in a few days’ time.