Surprise Guests

Tags

Bonnie Prince Charlie, Burns' Night, Caligula, Commonwealth Games, D-day celebrations 2014, emoticons, Eskdale Hotel. Langholm, Glasgow School of Art, Henry Moore's King and Queen, incontinence pads, Kagyu Samye Ling, Land Girl, portable catheter, Sauchiehall Street, Snodland, Tibetan Centre, Usain Bolt, whippersnapper, Willow Tea Rooms

It’s gone!  It’s gone!  Murgatroyd’s face was ashen.

Calm down, dear!  Diana took control.  She was used to his

histrionics.

But it was here last night when we had the post-concert

drinkies.  And the glass hasn’t been smashed.  We didn’t hear

the alarm. I don’t understand it.

The niche where Bonnie Prince Charlie’s chalice had been

displayed was now empty.

What a shame!  The concert had been a triumph and there had

been some surprise visitors.  One, in particular, had caused

consternation and a re-shuffling of the sleeping arrangements.

Aunt Augusta had shown up in a taxi, gleefully proclaiming, Have

portable catheter.  Can travel!

The taxi driver sheepishly unloaded the packs of incontinence pads

from the boot and waived the tip of an obsolete half crown.

When reprimanded about the staff at Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry being frantic with worry, the rogue aunt merely

shrugged and said: That old chap escaped for the D-day celebrations

in Normandy, so, as a Land Girl, I wasn’t going to be trumped by some

whippersnapper of a male.  You can phone and tell them I’ll return

after I have heard my great-niece in concert.  I’ll be back on Wednesday

as it’s the day I have my corns done.  Tell them not to strike a medal; I

have enough of them at my age.

The other unexpected members of the audience were Maxwell

Boothroyd-Smythe and his delinquent, but artistically-talented daughter,

Juniper.  Thankfully her pesky little brother had been taken to some kind

of trendy boot-camp by his mother.

Juniper had been photographing the burnt-out Glasgow School of Art, where

she had been promised a place if her predicted grades were achieved.  Her

father found that checking out possible accommodation for the Autumn term

was nigh-on impossible, as The Commonwealth Games‘ crowds in Sauchiehall

Street were overwhelming.  The chance of having a cup of tea in The Willow

Tearooms was as slight as Usain Bolt failing to win a gold medal.

Finding the city too crowded, they had set off for The Borders, hoping to see

Henry Moore’s King and Queen sculpture and to visit the Kagyu Samye Ling

Tibetan Centre which Juniper had been harping on about for months.  Goodness

knew, her father had been seeking inner peace for some time.  So, he agreed.

They had been eating a bar snack in The Eskdale Hotel, Langholm, when

Juniper’s observant eye focused on a flyer advertising a clarsach concert.

Dad!  Let’s go to that!  It’s that form teacher of mine.  She’s playing at some

kind of a tower house near here.  That nerdy guy who’s John’s form teacher-

the one they all call Caligula- is singing.  It should be a laugh.

When is it?

Tonight.

But won’t you put them off?

No, Miss Fotheringay is well-used to me surprising her.

Maxwell studied the mini-poster.  He recognised the woman.  She had scrubbed

up quite well.  Probably Photo-shopped.  Yes, he had danced Strip the Willow

with her at the PTA Burns’ Night.

Okay.  Okay.  But I’m not phoning ahead for tickets.  We might get lost. 

Probably hardly anyone will turn up, so we can buy tickets on the door.

I knew there was something going on between those two, whooped his

daughter.

Juniper was already texting her friend Tiger-Lily, using a full range of

emoticons.

 

 

The World Is Not Enough

Tags

arras, azure chapeau, barmkin, Blackadder, break a leg!, campaned, Commonwealth Games, crewel work, eBay, Esau, Fountainbridge, Green Room, helm affronte, heraldry, Ian Fleming, interior design, Kevin McCloud, King Over The Water, latex allergy, Moneypenny, Mrs Dalloway, nonsufficit orbis, Pierce Brosnan, policies, Polonius, poniard, Revenge Tragedy, Salmond, Samuel Johnson, Scotch Terrier, Scottish baronetcies, Sean Connery, stream-of-consciousness, Wee Eck, women bishops

Murgatroyd peered from behind the crewel worked arras, like a tetchy

Polonius.  No matter that he had found the reproduction fabric on Ebay,

it gave the desired effect and Kevin McCloud could stick that in his

chanter and play it, if he possessed such an instrument.  He only hoped

that the presenter would not appear at the concert with a camera crew,

and the verbal equivalent of a poniard, in the shape of a character in a

Revenge Tragedy, avenging  the contravention of ‘Good Taste‘ in interior

design.  But, unless Kev had been in the area and read one of the local

flyers, it seemed unlikely.

All the seats had been laid out in the erstwhile barmkin by a team as

efficient as those in The Commonwealth Games, minus the daft

choreography and the neon costumes.

Time was getting on and no one had turned up, except for Sonia and

Diana.  Only five tickets had been sold to date.

Och, dinna fash yersel’, soothed his cleaner.  They’ll a’ troop in at the

last meenit.  It’s jist their way.  They dinna want tae spend ony money

in case they shuffle off their mortal coil afore the night.  They’ll buy their

tickets on the door.

I do so hope you’re right, replied the Master of Ceremonies.

Away and sit doon, man.  Yer makin’ me nervous.  I’ll lead them in.

Ah dinna need ony o’ they wee Scottie dugs either.  Ah’ll dae the

job masel’.  Hey, did ye see the Manx team?  They should ha’ got

wan o’ the three-legged dugs fur them!

Yes, Mrs Dalloway, I mean Connolly.  You carry on.  Murgatroyd

interrupted her stream-of-consciousness.

Actually, things had gone rather well in the afternoon.  He had insisted

on collecting Sonia and Diana from The Tibetan Centre and he and

Diana had had their ‘little chat‘, without acrimony, during a tour of his

policies.

With a re-adjustment of the sleeping arrangements, space had been

found to accommodate them.  Nigel and Dru and Snod and Virginia

had not been sharing anyway, so Diana and Sonia were to join Dru, who

kindly agreed to couch herself on a borrowed futon and Nigel moved into

the master bedroom with Murgatroyd and graciously said that he did not

mind kipping on the semi-perished Li-lo that the cleaner said had

belonged to her grandson, who was now fifty.  He didn’t think it would

set off his latex allergy.

This left Snod in splendid isolation, which was his preferred option;

Virginia was also ‘toute seule.’  She did not intend to imitate The Grey Lady

and wander around at night.  There were far too many creaky floorboards.

She commented that Nigel looked amazing in his kilt.  He wasn’t quite sure

if this was a compliment, but decided to accept it as such.

A snifter to settle those nerves? Murgatroyd offered Nigel.

No, thank you, replied our songster.  It can wreak havoc with the vocal

chords.  He gabbled from jittery nerves.

Sir, when I was browsing in your library this afternoon, I came across a

fascinating tome on heraldry.  It mentioned all sorts of names, such as

Moneypenny and Blackadder…

Ah, yes.  That was the kind of source Ian Fleming used to come up with

mottoes such as ‘Nonsufficit Orbis’ for James Bond.

Virginia’s eyes misted over.  There was only one James Bond for me..

Sean Connery, agreed Sonia.  Born not too far from here, in

Fountainbridge..

No, Pierce Brosnan, corrected Virginia.  It was the naval

commander’s uniform. Classic.

Nigel continued, unabashed: It confirmed what we discussed about

Scottish baronetcies and the female line.  It also said that The Lord

Lyon only governs on matters heraldic and could not enforce any

objection to you- here he nodded towards Snod, respectfully–

wearing the azure chapeau for formal occasions connected with the

baronetcy.  Like for this concert, he finished proudly.

Stuff and nonsense! replied Snod gruffly, thus earning two sharpish

kicks: one from Virginia’s stiletto and another from his daughter’s heel.

Sir, Nigel turned to a sceptical Snod, as heir to an ancient baronial family

who is no longer the owner of the estate, one is still permitted these

privileges.  You could settle for a pennon..

Pennon?  Murgatroyd was becoming confused with poniards.

…a small swallow-tailed flag.  Or  a feudal steel tilting helm, garnished in

gold, shown affronte..

Pull the other one, Milford-Haven.  It is campaned.

Campaned?

In heraldic terms, it has bells on it! But now I am becoming affronted,

snorted Gus.  As Samuel Johnson said, and I paraphrase, ‘Just because

someone can do something, it doesn’t follow that they should.’

Murgatroyd chipped in:  Oh yes.  I like the good doctor’s quote about

female preachers and dogs walking on hind legs.  Most apposite.

And now we have women bishops, groaned Snod.  What is the world

coming to?  Tell you what, old boy- here he addressed Murgatroyd-

fill me up with some of that nectar and I will forget this inane

conversation.  Like Esau, I’m prepared to sell my inheritance for a mess

of porridge at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Be a good boy now, added Virginia, and I will buy you a spurtle.  And,

by the way, it was pottage.  A quite different thing.  Lentils, I believe.

It was Dru’s turn to be outraged, but she hid it well.  Diana was simply

amused.

Stop stirring, children, reprimanded Sonia.

Yes, conciliated mein host.  Let’s drink a time-honoured

toast to The King Over the Water- and I don’t mean Wee Eck.

Oh yes, said Dru.  I read that Salmond has lost two stones and

a bystander told him that women would be hitting onto him.

Not in a flattering way, surely? sniped Sonia.

Come away doon, all o’ youse!  The hall’s fillin’ up!

Mrs Connolly, the cleaner had been right.  The canny audience had

bought their tickets on the door.

Break a leg, said Sonia before descending the staircase.  Hopefully,

she wouldn’t.

Nigel and Dru exchanged glances and did their deep breathing in

unison.

They would be summoned from The (makeshift) Green Room.

 

 

 

I Am What I Ate

Tags

Andrew Fairlie, Commonwealth Games, Cullen Skink, Glasgow, Gleneagles Hotel, Irn Bru, Jammie Dodgers, Loch Fyne, Rab C Nesbitt, Scotland

The Commonwealth Games are coming to Glasgow in 2014 and more than 2 million meals will have to be prepared for athletes, officials, staff and spectators.  However, Ah hae ma doots that the 100 plus tonnes of fruit and veg that are being ordered will necessarily go doon a treat.

Save the Children co-ordinator, Malcolm Clark, has been reported as saying that there should be a junk food ban.  Many will respond:  Ach, away an’ bile yer heid.

Rural Affairs Secretary, Richard Lochhead said: 

There will be unprecedented opportunities to showcase the magnificent produce Scotland has to offer.

There will be a Food and Drink AGM in Perth, so close to Andrew Fairlie’s eponymous restaurant at The Gleneagles Hotel. However, I don’t think his signature lobster dish- its shell smoked in whisky, as if you didn’t know, will be featured in the biodegradable cardboard takeaway dishes of the Games themselves.  Nor do I see Celtic Fish and Game and all things feathered and sustainable being up there in the hot desires of Rab C Nesbitt and Co.

Candia was once a student at a Scottish University, in the gloaming of time and so she can recall seeing some graffiti sprayed on the exterior of the students’ refectory and it read:

You Are What You Eat

And that is a very frightening concept.

Just over a week ago now, I was contemplating a journey north and felt compelled to express in verse my anticipation of the culinary delights of Alba.

I Am What I Ate

I’m returning to the land of shortbread-

(Petticoat Tails, the Peek Frean Custard Cream)-

where, for many years I had ingested

more Jammie Dodgers than in sweet-toothed dream;

Lorne sausage, Stovies, Co-op jam

stirred into semolina, mutton pies,

mince n’ tatties, neeps, pan peeces, flaccid Spam,

school custard, tablet- then, to appetise,

Black Bun.  If I felt a wee bit faddy;

Barr’s Irn Bru, a Paterson oatcake

with a Loch Fyne kipper; a Finnan haddie

gar’d me grue. Bottles of ginger would slake

my thirst and, if I was in a paddy,

you could shut me up wi’ a soor green ploom.

On Fridays we had something Ruskolined,

Cock-a-Leekie, Clootie Dumpling, sheep’s womb,

Tunnock’s wafers, Lees’ Snowballs, but now weaned

off those pokes of chips, black pudding slices,

I spread my Low Fat Flora very thin.

Childhood diet no longer entices,

yet I am what I ate- there’s nae denying

the place the skillet had in all our hearts.

Arteries were clogged through constant frying

by strangers to the culinary arts.

But Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled don’t shrink

fae food wae names like bannock, Cullen Skink.

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012