Last Year’s Walk

Tags

blackthorn, Carpe Diem, Coronavirus restrictions, Spring blossom

Glad I saw you then.  Seize each moment. (Carpe Diem)

100 Poems Explained by a Wet Nurse 5

Tags

Carpe Diem, harikiri, Hokusai, wet nurse

(Visipix.com)

No number 41- the above is 42.  There is no 46, or 49)

 

No matter the oaths

we have pledged to each other,

they are in the past.

 

(Visipix.com)

 

I will punish him:

his effigy is nailed here

until he responds.

 

(Visipix.com)

 

I am a white fox.

I gave him a son; but he

wishes I had not.

 

(Visipix.com)

 

I have been a fool.

Harakiri is my fate.

People should not cheat.

 

(Visipix.com)

No 46.  This is 47:

 

Though all is prepared,

yet in my soul is darkness

no one can detect.

 

 

(Visipix.com)

 

I sit out my love.

In daytime all is idle.

Fires will blaze at night.

 

No 49.  This is 50:

 

(Visipix.com)

 

Carpe diem – yes!

Since you’re going to die young, make

smoke and burn brightly.

 

 

Carpe Diem

Tags

Carpe Diem, Duc de Berry, Tres Riches Heures

(Duc de Berry Tres Riches Heures: November

Jean Colombe;  R-G Ojeda)

 

 

Eat up, swine,

because you’re crackling

tomorrow.

Congratulations and Celebrations

Tags

Alamuddin, Alcopop, Amal Clooney, Banksy, Borgia, Brexit, Carpe Diem, discursive essay, Donald Trump, fish kettle, jelly girl, Lucrezia, Magaluf, Medici, Nerissa's ring, Pope, Robert Frost, sliding door, Turtle Mat, Vogue, Weetabix, zircon

The ring had sparkled on Drusilla Fotheringay’s finger- so

much so that Lower Six spotted it immediately and one

forward type had commented, Oh, Miss, is that a zircon?

Dru then had had to prevent herself from using the sun’s rays

as a laser effect to bounce off the prism of her multi-

faceted stone, only for it to be directed forthwith into the pupils

of the aforesaid wag.

Pupils.  Hmmm, I must ask Dad what is the etymological

connection between students and eyes.  Maybe reading?

Or is it that nowadays they all seem to be the apple of their

father’s eyes? she had ‘mused‘.  Editor: Not ‘reflected’. 

She had sprung back to attention as she noticed that the class

had left a lumpily wrapped present on her desk.

It was obviously a fish kettle.  And there had been an

accompanying card, with the following : Men!-Don’t Let the

B******* get you down!

It had been signed by the whole class.

The legend had obviously been written by one of the more gender-

politicised members of the group.  Dru would choose to ignore

the inappropriate language, in favour of the spirit of the gift,

even if it had been Amarillo Guttersnipe’s mother’s unwanted

Christmas present.

That had been yesterday and today it was her morning off.  She

was enjoying a quiet interval in her flat, still in her pyjamas.  She

took her hot water and lemon slice and wandered into the hall, to

see if there was any post.

A pink envelope lay on the Turtle mat, which was very similar to the

doormat that had covered the very spot, over thirty years previously,

and which had been the location of her mother’s tragic mis-directed

missive- the one which Existentially might have opened a very different

sliding door.

When Diana, Dru’s mother, had been a ‘Lax‘ Mistress at St Vitus’ School

for the Academically-Challenged Girl, all those years ago, the ill-fated

Valentine card had slipped between the underlay and the carpet and

its interior proposal had been unread for decades.

(Editor:  The school’s name had been changed to accommodate the very

different type of clientele they were now receiving.)

Now there was a smart brass letterbox in the House Mistress’ door, so

the mail tended to reach its intended recipient.

Curioser and curioser… It seemed to have a Spanish stamp and was

franked with the dreaded Proper Noun: Magaluf.

Oh, it was a card from Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe, whose pesky little

brother was still at St Birinus Middle, where he continued to abuse Nigel.

Dru liked to have news from her ex-pupils, though, goodness only knew

how she had wished this one even further away than Glasgow School

of Art.

There was no denying that the girl had been creative and talented,

however.

John had texted his big sister with the news of the teachers’ engagement.

Actually, he had worded it thus: We thought he was gay!

The card was made of hand-crafted paper, which looked like tissues that

had survived a 40 degree wash in some sleeve or other.  There was a

glued on stencilled depiction, a la Banksy, of a manacled woman, holding

out a begging bowl and wearing leg irons.  She was chained to a kitchen

sink. Below this image were the comments:

Who wants to live in an institution?

Congratulations, anyway!

No, she could never see Juniper settling down to domestic bliss.  In fact,

the appended news announced that the sender was having a whale of a

time as a jelly girl, earning more than Dru by selling Alcopop-shots to

the already wildly inebriated.

She came back to her sitting room- why it was called that, she didn’t

know. She scarcely ever had the time to sit.  Carefully, she added the

card to the growing collection on her faux mantelpiece.  She propped

it next to Nigel’s mum’s conventional offering of twin doves trailing a

ribbon, from which two rings were suspended.  It must have come

from a charity shop, as it was faded and had probably been printed in

the 1950s.  Medici it was not, though the spirit was almost Borgian.

On its front it said:  On Your Engagement and inside it more or less

repeated itself.  Best Wishes on Your Engagement.

  There was nothing else, except an acid comment worthy of

Lucrezia herself: I suppose I will have to get someone in to finish off the

skirting boards now that  Nigel is to be a married man.

There was a faint hint of malice aforethought which had made Dru

wash her hands on receipt, in case there had been any plutonium

in the envelope.

She walked into the kitchen area.  Brexit– yeah, that would be a good

name for a cereal.  Drat!  She had run out of Weetabix!  She had better

get a move on as she was down to cover a colleague’s General

Studies-type lesson.  When she had asked what the class were

‘doing‘, the teacher had humorously quipped: ‘Time‘ and then

had vaguely added, Oh, just  give them some provocative titles and

get them to plan a discursive essay.

Thanks for the clarification, Dru had thought.  She gazed at The Daily Mail

for inspiration.  There was a photo of the Pope.

I know, she said to herself, what about ‘Walls or Bridges?-which should we

build?  She could photocopy some stimulus-material, such as those  Robert

Frost poems.  He had had a mural obsession, she seemed to recall.

(Mr Donald Trump in New Hampshire, 19th August, 2015.  By Michael Vadon.)

Is Donald Trump a Christian?  No, that might be too awkward if the parents

had any political predilections.

Amal Clooney or George Alamuddin?

Great!  Should be good for some gender-debate.  And the girls like

to see what the stylish lawyer is wearing. 

She would borrow some Vogues from the library, if the librarian would

allow her.  Usually teachers were not permitted to touch such publications.

Flicking through the fashion pages should keep the girls quiet during the

double lesson.

Should she change her name to Drusilla Milford-Haven?  She thought not.

She wondered if Virginia had accepted her father’s proposal.  Would she

change her name to Snodbury, or even Revelley?

Editor:  you really need to re-read past posts to keep up with all this!

It was at such significant times that she missed Great-Aunt Augusta.  All

right, she hadn’t really been her aunt, but she had performed the function

of one and she had always enjoyed hearing about a good family illness, or

a wedding.  It was such a shame that she was missing out.  You do, when

you’re deceased.  Pity!  Carpe diem, and all that.

Of course, the old bat had never married.  A lot of those old girls had not

had the opportunity after the war.  However, she had demonstrated the

powerful effect of relative celibacy on longevity and the advantages of

‘keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.‘ Dru just hoped that her decision was going to

be worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

Hypogonadism

Tags

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.