Diary of a Lax Mistress

Tags

Bradford on Avon, Burns Supper, Calais, clairvoyant, cliche, Dalrieda, diaspora, estuary, Heraclitus, Immortal Memory, lacrosse, Mary Tudor, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, New Year Resolution, parsing, Robert Burns, St Vitus, straightjacket

Not ‘lax‘ in any moral sense, you understand, Dear Diary.  Just an

abbreviation for that energising and energetic sport which I once

taught all those years ago when I was a fresh-faced sports

mistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, that

educational establishment now served by my one and only

daughter, Drusilla.

Lacrosse, how indebted I am to you for my trim figure in late

middle- no, change that-early middle age.

My New Year Resolution was to record in your pages an unfolding

record of my life as I turn my back on Bradford-on-Avon and return

to Suttonford, or environs thereof.  I could castigate myself by

declining to add a preposition in the final position of a sentence,

but, Dear Inquisitive Reader, I am not allowing such an intrusion

into these highly personal pages. I can assure you that ‘thereof’

is actually an adverb.  So, Parse that! as my primary teacher used

to say to me.

Apparently all that pedantic wrangling and linguistic strait-jacketing is-

new hate word- ‘prescriptive‘, so we can write what the ….we like!

Having spoken to Sonia, my old friend, ex-colleague and godmother to my

child, I was persuaded to come and lodge with her while my cottage is on

the market.  Diana, she urged, Feel free to stay as long as you’d like.

So, here I am in Royalist House, 3 3/4 High Street. Suttonford.

Will this new chapter of my life include Augustus?  I should ask Sonia; she

claims to be a clairvoyant.

Gus has frankly been a bit of a bore recently.  We were all three en famille at

Christmas and our pre-festivities Turkish trip was delightful, but since he

assumed this Acting Head harness, he has shown a distinct lack of

delegation. I don’t know what he expects his School Secretary to do.

Well, maybe I don’t want to know, Dear Diary!

Last night he was moaning on the telephone about the fixtures list having

been published on the Calendar he inherited. Apparently, he has been left

to fill in the subtle logistical details.

The Fundraising Burns’ Supper for the PTA is a current example.

He hasn’t even booked the speaker for The Immortal Memory yet.

Did I know anyone who could deliver it?  I ask you.  I’ve only just arrived

in the community.

Why should I?

It all leads me to question our compatibility.  I am not that burbling stream

that he once paddled in and which scarcely covered the ankles of his

gumboots.  No, the mighty river of my post-menopausal personality would

probably engulf his emotional waders, to continue an aquaeous metaphor,

and would sweep him off his feet, into a tidal estuary.

Maybe his Classical learning has influenced my subconscious and transmitted

some Heraclitean analogy concerning never being able to step in the same

river twice.  We have both moved on, I fear.

We emerged from the house into the street and immediately were almost

knocked over by a child on an aluminium scooter.  Sonia didn’t see that

coming.

Our physical evasion led us to bump-literally-into a neighbour of Sonia’s,

namely an interesting looking woman called Candia Dixon-Stuart.  She was also

on her way to the infamous Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe, in order to

meet a friend, and so we fell into step.

Her Jacobite surname, albeit hyphenated, led me to the most serendipitous

idea.

I asked her if she knew of anyone who could give some readings of the Bard’s

works at an impending Burns Supper.

She immediately replied, I can, of course.  Although I live in Suttonford, you

may detect a hint of the Caledonian in my genetic code.  Prick me and do I not

exude a few drops of blue blood from the Kingdom of Dalrieda?!

I took this as an affirmative and she drew my attention to a clan badge that

she wore on her lapel.  I did not know if this indicated an invitation to

remove it and plunge its pin into her soft and yielding flesh.  I did not

doubt that, eviscerated, her remains would bear the motto: Nemo Me

Impune Lacessit just as indelibly as that other Mary had the word:

Calais stamped on her heart, or running right through her like a stock

of seaside rock.

Over a couple of cappuccinos, she introduced us to her friend, Carrie,

who turned out to be half Italian and half Scottish.  Gosh, these Scots

certainly had some diaspora and spread their seed around like some

blown thistledown.

Carrie told me that her mother- Morag!- a stereotypical name- would have

come down had she not been performing at various Masonic associations

and venues north of the border.

Very kind, but somehow I think Candia is our woman and she will ‘step up

to the plate‘ to re-circulate a current, over-used metaphor: isn’t that a cliche?

I gave her Gus’ number and am half-inclined to allow him to take me along as

his guest of honour.  There are bound to be some spare tickets and, frankly,

this new acquaintance intrigues me.

Desperation and Depilation

Tags

Ally Bally Bees, Bikini Atoll, Boson Higgs, Burns Supper, Creamola Foam, cryogenic, Erskine Bridge, Flower o' Scotland, Francis Bacon, Krakatoa

Snow had fallen: snow on snow, but now it is dirty slush.  Clammie

met me as we were bored: well, no shopping over the freezing

weekend.

Still, not as bad for us as it was for Carrie.  She was supposed to have

winged? wung? her way to her grandmother’s funeral last Friday, but

the flight to Glasgow was cancelled and the cremmy postponed as

the Italian delegation couldn’t get off the runway for Cremona foam.

(Hey!  I’ve just remembered that effervescent stuff from my

childhood.  It was Creamola Foam and it was composed of dissolving

crystals.  They stopped making it, but now, apparently, it is

produced as something called Krakatoa, by Ally Bally Bees of Fife.

Maybe Costamuchamoulah could get some in at a price that would

have as much shattering till impact as a Boson Higgs particle meeting

itself on the way back to base.  Commercial fission accomplished!)

Anyway, the weather was the reason that Carrie was able to join us

on the walk last Friday, when she was supposed to be crossing the

Erskine Bridge in a hearse.  She did manage to travel today,

however.

The comment that poor old Jean was on ice was never truer and we

have all joined her in the cryogenic state, it seems.

Tristram told Clammie that Francis Bacon-the scientist and essayist,

not the painter- perished from pneumonia after experimenting with

the effects of stuffing a chicken with snow, to observe its

preservation on flesh. Tristram, the amateur chef, had been criticising

the length of time that his spouse had allowed for de-frosting the turkey

at Christmas.  He met with an icy reception, as I recall.  But I digress…

Anyway, we have given up frosted coffee and are enjoying hot

chocolate with marshmallows instead- blow the calories!

Now that Carrie has taken off, we think that she should stay up north

for a couple of Burns Suppers.  She remembered to take her

long, tartan skirt and sash.  Jean would have approved.

We are babysitting between us.  I am picking up young Edward later

this afternoon and Clammie is putting the pugs on a sledge for a

little progress through town, sans diamante.

Clammie says that she is annoyed with Tristram as he refuses to

return to his Monday evening Art class.  She spent a fortune on his

brushes and easel.  He was muttering something about an

analogy between the hazards of scientific, and those allied to artistic

exploration.

Francis Bacon seems to be the connection, but she can’t see what

links a Life Class with a trussed chicken. I pointed out that Melinda,

the Life model, might just have raised that particular mushroom

cloud.  Melinda and Bikini Atoll somehow go together like a horse

and carriage.  Desperation and depilation seem to collocate when I hear

her name.

Ginevra has reconciled herself to her absence at her friend’s funeral.

At the precise moment of committal she intends to raise a toast– not

the best term to associate with her long time companion’s method

of departure- but there you go! She will commemorate the

Flower O’ Scotland in a time-honoured way.

My goodness, is that the time?  I have to go and pick up Edward!

 

Pointless

Tags

Alexander Armstrong, beefalo, Boris Johnson, Burns Supper, Dolly the Sheep, lyger, matthew pinsent, Pippa Middleton, Pointless, Sean the Sheep

Pointless.  Not life in general- the quiz programme, dear readers.

No, I’m not admitting to being a viewer.  I was just waiting for The

Six o’ Clock News.  Honest.

You know, I feel really sorry for Alexander Armstrong.  He gets to keep

the music from his comedy programme, but doesn’t do his dad dancing

any more with his wee pal.  And he’s related to Royalty, which makes it all

as embarrassing as Pippa Middleton’s pontifications on Burns Suppers.

(The Bard’s epic opus reduced to Lovely stories.)

Can you imagine Boris- also a Royal, by all accounts- asking what the

least likely answers would be to a given question.  He usually

expresses those himself and doesn’t expect a trophy, either.

Matthew Pinsent was also shown to have blue blood of the deepest

ultramarine on Who Do You Think You Are?  I don’t think you would

catch him asking what a liger was on prime time TV.

For, yes, that was one of the questions dreamt up by that specky guy

who makes up all those surreal sections, such as Crossover Animals.

A hundred ingénues were interviewed as to what they thought a

beefalo was and amazingly, a third of those so pressed came up with

the notion that it was a cross between a bee and a buffalo. Think

about it.  They probably think that Sean the Sheep was the prototype

clone, not Dolly.

The so-called celebrities actually got this beefalo one right.  I’m not telling

you the solution: work it out for yourselves.  Only 0.5% of the

viewing audience recognised any of the contestants, though,

including moi-meme.  So, does that mean I get a really low score and

win the jackpot.  I doubt it.

Who is that specky guy?