Yes, dear!

Tags

Battleship, boutique gin, Claudius, Derek Jacobi, Lives of Twelve Caesars, Medici cards, PMT, Post-Menopausal, Post-Traumatic Stress, Regeneration, Suetonius, vestal virgin, Wilfred Owen

Okay.  I know.  I know.  I abandoned Augustus Snodbury,  erstwhile

Senior Master of St Birinus’ Middle School.  He was at the altar alongside

Virginia Fisher- Gyles and both were sharing a service with Murgatroyd-

Syylk and Diana ( renewal of wedding vows for the latter) and vestal

virgins, Nigel Milford- Haven and the chaste- but not very chased, it must

be admitted – Drusilla (Gus and Diana’s daughter and Murgatroyd’s

adopted daughter.)  All very complicated, n’est-ce-pas?

However, that is the modern family for you.

Gus, having been a Classics teacher at one time, could have expanded on

that subject ad nauseam – and frequently did so.  He loved to read and

re-read Suetonius’ Lives of the Twelve Caesars.  He and ‘Sweaty Tony’

could have told you that there was nothing new under the sun.

Gus felt equally qualified to write a book called The Playground, as

the Classical author had done.  Now that retirement had been achieved,

he intended to have a go.

It was one way to have an alibi for sitting in the study alone for long

periods of time, playing Battleship online.

Virginia said that she could bring out a monograph on The Physical Defects

of Men.  A very big monograph.

Mehercule!  Did that mean that she wanted to share the study?

Married life had brought him face-to-face with the central question of

Suetonius’ works:  how does one cope with absolute power?  Gus now felt

sure that he  was coming to a good understanding of the answer and it

was something along the lines of promptly saying : Yes, dear, to any

assertion, request or remark.

Once Gus had had two very prestigious jobs- Senior Master and (Acting)

Deputy Head.  Neither had involved much work.  They were posts

comparable to Suetonius’ positions as flamen sacerdotalis and pontifex

volcanalis.

Now our newlywed had a very stressful post as Husband.  If he wasn’t

careful, he might develop a nervous stammer, like Claudius.  Derek

Jacobi- now wasn’t he marvellous…?  So, indeed, was that actor who

played Wilfred Owen in Regeneration.  Owen had a stammer.  Wasn’t

that evidence of Post Traumatic Stress?  Virginia wouldn’t develop one,

that was for sure.  And she didn’t even have the mitigation of PMT – not

at her time of life… Maybe she had Post Menopausal Something- Else?

But she was not the one who was feeling the pressure… What was her

excuse?  He felt like asking her to reflect on her mis-demeanors in some

kind of detention.  She could write an essay, perhaps…

Gus!

Yes, dear.

Gus!  Could you take the bin out?

I could, he thought rebelliously. But will I?  Ha!  I could say

that I don’t want to be pedantic, but, in fact, I very much do.

Gus!  Did you hear me?

Ita vero.  On my way.   Yes, dear!

Dumb insolence got him n…n.. n… nowhere.

At least he didn’t have to write the Christmas card this year.  Wives

seemed to take on that mantle.  Virginia had bought about six packs of

Medici cards.

In the past, he had only sent one – to  ‘Aunt Augusta’ (God Rest her Soul.)

His Christmas shopping had been confined to a bottle of Dewlap Gin for the

Discerning Grandmother.  It hadn’t been boutique, but had always been

acceptable to the old bird.  He wondered if he should buy a bottle for old

times’ sake.  The stresses of connubial bliss were driving him in that

direction.

Head of Cosmic Intelligence

Tags

Alex Salmond, Bake-Off!, Billy Connolly, boutique gin, DeborahMeaden, fallaid, Ginevra, James Bond, Michaelmas, quern, reeve, Sean Connery, sloe, South Sea Island cotton, spaewife, struan

Carrie dropped in on her mother-in-law, the gin-swigging nonagenarian,

Ginevra Brewer-Mead.

So, what is my son up to at the moment?

Your son, Gyles?

Is that his name?  Ah, yes, him.

He’s filling out some tax forms.  He said he feels like a reeve.

Reeves used to have to do the accounts before Michaelmas Day

and, if there was a shortfall, they had to make it up from their own

resources.

I expect no one wanted that job, pronounced the sharp old lady.

I didn’t want this job, muttered Magda.

Candia sent you some sloes, for your boutique gin, said Carrie,

handing a bag to Magda, Ginevra’s Eastern European carer, along

with a pot of Michaelmas daisies.

How you do? said Magda.

I think we’ve met, Magda, Carrie replied, puzzled.  She thought the

girl’s English had improved recently, but..

No.  How you make?

Ah- thirds.  One third gin, one third sugar, one third sloes.

You’re supposed to wait until the first frost before you pick them,

complained Ginevra.

Oh, I didn’t know that, Carrie sighed.

Weel, ye ken noo, as the Scots Worthy famously said.  Sit ye doon,

commanded the old curmudgeon, patting the sofa beside her.

Carrie connected with something hard and cold which had been secreted

under a cushion.

Candia and I were discussing folklore to do with St Michael, Carrie began

as a conversational opener.  I used to think that he was the patron saint of

underwear, as his label was on the back of my vest and South Sea Island

cotton knickers when I was at school.

Ach no.  He’s the Head of Cosmic Intelligence, stated Ginevra.  A kind of

angelic James Bond.  The Real One. Sean Connolly.

Sean Connery; Billy Connolly.

Aye, well don’t get me started on him.  He needed a good haircut.

I bet you don’t know some of the Scottish versions of the folktales, Ginevra

cackled, like an old spaewife.  Your grandmother- Jean Waddell, as she was

before she married into the Pomodoro family, could reel all the old tales off,

nae bother, as she used to say.  God rest her soul!

She shifted the tartan blanket over her knees and tried to conceal the

aluminium hip flask under it.

Is that a new tartan? Carrie asked.

Trust you to notice.  Magda got it for me on that Internet thing. It’s ‘Made in

China’ actually.  It’s the same tartan as that fishy guy, Alex Salmon, ordered

at the taxpayers’ expense when he forgot his trews, or breeks, as your granny

would have called them, for some function over there.  He had them made

up.

Like his policies, Carrie thought, but did not continue the metaphor, rich

though the ore of satire might have been.

Magda came in with a wee cuppa, as she had learned to call refreshments

other than the alcoholic ones.

Your grandmother was a dab hand at making the struan, Ginevra continued,

her eyes searching for shortbread.

Struan- what was that? Carrie was intrigued.

It was a cake which had to be ground in a quern-

Quern? asked Magda.

I’ll tell you later-in three equal parts-of bere, oats and rye.  The eldest

daughter had to make it and woe betide her if it broke in the baking.

Quite a responsibility then? sympathised Carrie.

More than in yon Bake-Off rubbish, said Ginevra.  This could be Life and

Death.

Changing the subject and getting back to reeves, directed Carrie, did you watch

Strictly?

How does that link to reeves?

Well, I was thinking of financial wizards and wondered if you liked Deborah

Meaden?

Not as much as Robbie, her partner, Ginevra pronounced.  I suppose he’s like

St Michael.  He’s taming the old Dragon!

And yet again, Carrie was impressed at the old biddy’s mental acuity.

Have you seen my winter fuel allowance? Ginevra asked.

She means this, said Magda, holding the hip flask out of reach.

It isn’t winter yet, said Carrie firmly.

But the nights are drawing in, protested Ginevra.

I’d better be off, Carrie said decidedly.  I’m meeting Candia in

Costamuchamoulah, for a coffee quite soon.

Cheerio! Ginevra trilled, quite happy as Magda had handed over the flask.

I’ll tell you all about fallaid next time.

I can’t wait, replied Carrie, exiting right, but thankfully not pursued by a

bear.

Big Bang!

Tags

Big Bang, Black Hole, Border, bottling, boutique gin, Brassica, craft gin, flugelhorn, FT, Horizon, Kirstie Allsopp, Milford-Haven, Nobel Prize, preserving, Volvo

Brassica was collecting the twins from St Birinus Middle School.  The Autumn term was frantic.  She had so much bottling and preserving to do in the afternoons, even though there was a dearth of some fruits after the rainy early summer.  It was also a real nuisance that EU legislation was making it very difficult to sell her jams and jellies in the table top sales on behalf of the Parents Who Care Association. What was the world coming to when a member of airline security had fairly recently confiscated her damson jelly, with its pretty calligraphy label, which she had specifically made for an ex-pat friend?  She felt as though she was being treated as a terrorist.

But it isn’t liquid- look!  It has set beautifully.

The security frisker had looked as if she should take the argument no further.

Hello, anybody!  Do you want a free jar of jelly?

There were no takers and she had to watch the jar being consigned to a transparent bin.  Privately she bet that, as soon as the shift was over, the staff would be having lovely jam on their airport croissants.  Or maybe they would be too afraid of being poisoned.  Really! She thought of the school bully’s nickname for Castor, but then put it out of her mind.

She had been out early that morning, walking the family Border and had discovered some hugely plump sloes, so she filled her mini-trug with them and hid them under a new packet of poo bags, just in case she met anyone else and it gave the game away as to the spiny bushes’ location.

By three o’clock, they had been pricked with a thorn; sugar had been measured and they were added to some cheap gin – not from Pop My Cork!  That would have been too expensive.  The bottles were now laid down in the cellar, awaiting festive consumption.

The FT had re-assured her that she was ahead of trend yet again.  An article discussed how gin sales had risen by 27% over the past year or so and, in particular, boutique or craft gins.

She had been puzzled by these neologisms, but then the penny dropped: these were the good, old hedgerow tipples that she had been making for years, to her grandma’s recipes.

She felt that Kirstie Allsopp would have approved of her thrift, but then she wondered why that should matter.

As she drove around the semi-circular school drive, which was one-way, she glared at John’s mother’s Volvo.  John was sticking his tongue out at the twins.

Is that boy still bullying you? she asked.

Yes-no. We don’t mind. Actually he is very funny.  He got into trouble today in Assembly.

Oh, why? asked Brassie, genuinely pleased.

He was singing:

All things wise and wonderful

The Big Bang made them all..

He had to write an punishment essay at lunchbreak, which he said violated his human rights, especially as he has learning disabilities, but Caligula, we mean Mr Milford-Haven said that it was, nevertheless, an A*.

A*! Humph! grunted Brassie, almost making contact with the car in front’s bumper, which just happened to be the same Volvo which we described previously.

John said that there was an expandable universe before the Big Bang and then it bounced, just like a cricket ball.  Then there was infinite expansion, said Castor.

Infinite expansion of that child’s ego! muttered Brassie.  He simply stole all of that from ‘Horizon’    I saw it the other night. Mr Milford-Haven should mention the dangers of plagiarism in his end of term report.

But sometimes boys that get very poor reports end up getting the Nobel Prize, do they not, Mum?

Don’t you two assume anything.  Daddy and I expect wonderful reports about you or else.. She couldn’t think of any sanction, but then.. or else, she repeated, no new cricket pads.

We are both second top equal for Science.

Brassie dumped their satchels in the hall, along with the flugelhorn case.

Who’s top? she tried to sound nonchalant.

Don’t worry: Ferdy.  John’s third.

There was a puddle in the hall which she had to step over.   Wretched Border!

Mind out! she cautioned and went down to the cellar to fetch a bucket and mop.

The twins heard a cry of dismay.  They climbed down the steps.  There had been a Big Bang in the cellar.  The sloe gin had exploded and there was glass and chaos everywhere.

Oh, Mum, that’s just what John said.  Infinite expansion, commented Pollux.

You should have left some room at the top of the bottles, lectured Castor.

Brassie could have consigned them both to a Black Hole.  She stepped back into the puddle:

Shut up and go and do your prep!

And that was because she was a Very Bad Parent.