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.

 

 

 

Blue Badge Rage

Tags

Blue Peter badge, Camilla Parker Bowles, careless driving, criminal damage, Disabled parking permit, eBay, frost-resistant pots, tax disc, Venus de Milo, zimmer frame

Magda, Ginevra’s carer, had passed her driving test and she was ready

to take the nonagenarian out for a spin to their nearest coffee and gift

shop, housed in a barn, which also retailed garden ornaments, tubs and

plants, in addition to scented bits and bobs.

Magda executed a confident manoeuvre into the disabled bay and she

placed Ginevra’s Blue Badge onto the dashboard, before climbing out in

order to assist the old lady with her zimmer frame.  She would have to stand

for a few minutes until the collapsible wheelchair could be assembled.

There was a sudden blast from a car horn and an irate woman who resembled

a slightly more refined Camilla Parker Bowles rolled her nearside window down

and barked: You don’t look very disabled to me, young woman!

Translated this clearly meant: I think the world owes me a living and I have

an inflated sense of entitlement, so give me what I want: now!

Evidently she had been pipped to the post.

Magda stared with incomprehension: Excuse, what is your problem?

She can walk, can’t she? the obnoxious female continued to rant, indicating

Ginevra with a directional movement of her expensively low lit hair.  Both limbs

seem to be attached.

Ginevra, who was a little aurally challenged, rolled down her window and

enquired: What does this annoying woman want?

She want your parking place, I think, explained Magda, opening the door.

By this time, the woman’s exhaust fumes were causing Magda to cough. See,

she spluttered, pointing to the dashboard: The lady has the Blue Badge, innit?

Oh yes, sneered the woman.  But it has all been changed.  It is based on

ability to walk now.

Ginevra took a sneaky sip from her hip flask, which increased her Dutch

courage- as if she needed any boost!  She addressed the woman thus:

I can’t see your legs, you insolent parvenue, but if there was to be an

independent judgement, I dare say that these would win!  She swung her limbs

out of the door, revealing rather slim ankles and two shapely calves.  These

modelled silk stockings in the Forties and they have supported me for ninety

odd years. They kept me vertical when I served tea to wounded soldiers.  So

let’s see yours then! Walk up and down and we’ll see who has the best pins

for their age.

The woman jumped out of her car, seething and Ginevra laid into her.  As I

thought: elephantine!  And where’s your badge?  Is it a Blue Peter one that

you bought on Ebay?

The confrontational lady leapt back into her vehicle at the sight of Ginevra

gesticulating with one hand while steadying herself on the zimmer with the

other.  She reversed sharply and- crunch! she collided with a large garden

statue, shattering her rear light and damaging her bumper.

Quick!  Note down her number. Magda, shrieked the old warrior.  We need to

report her for careless driving and criminal damage.  She moved incredibly

speedily towards the vehicle.  Her tax disc is out of date! she crowed.

Then, exhausted, she flopped into her wheelchair.

Two witnesses emerged from the barn, having seen and heard the whole

episode from the porch, where they had been inspecting frost-proof pots.

That looks terribly expensive, said one to the other.  She’s left most of her

bumper littered all over the display. 

Oh look! replied her friend. She’s managed to flatten that sign.

She picked it up.  It said: All Breakages Must Be Paid For.

Did you get her number? the first one asked Magda.

Yes.  Can do numbers now, Magda proudly asserted.

Just as well, Ginevra stated firmly.  She’s decapitated that statue.

Yes, said one of the women.  And she’s broken its arms too.

Ginevra didn’t enlighten them that it was a reproduction of the Venus de Milo.

Still, it was a very satisfying start to her outing. And the girls in the coffee

shop gave her a free sweet beverage , in case she was in shock.   While

Magda was looking at the cake domes, the sly pensioner slipped a little

brandy into the cup.  The waitresses even insisted that she take the table

decoration with her as it still had some buds on it which would come out if she

kept it on a sunny window sill.

It was definitely going to be an interesting day and the nice policemen who

took a statement from them were so young- looking! One of them reminded her

of Russ Conway!

She asked him if he played the piano, but he merely looked puzzled

and asked her if she could try to focus and keep to the point.

Threatening and menacing behaviour you say, Mrs Em- what did you say your

name was?

Magda made sure that they noted her name accurately and her address and

mobile number.  She wasn’t phased.  After all, her passsport was in order.

Wondering

Tags

Anthony Gormley, Day of Judgement, eBay, gold medal, Jesus, London 2012, Mervyn King, Olympics, Robert Peston, Usain Bolt

Ah, what it is to live in the Isles of Wonder, I mused.  We are so lucky, except for those immigrant workers who are ripped off by rotten landlords in Newnham and squeezed into Supersheds, with no planning permission.  I hope that, post-Olympics, they will be offered  de-commissioned flats in the defunct Olympic village. At least those didn’t have missiles on their roofs.  Will those weapons be taken down afterwards? I wondered.  Maybe the security services are hoping that people will not notice if they leave them in situ, like Gormley rooftop sculptures, going rusty.

The Chinese seemed to be taking most of the gold medals at this juncture.  I wish that they would stop biting them in their photo sessions.  Maybe they think that they are chocolate Euros, like the ones in plastic net bags.  They might think that they are worthless and had better be eaten quickly before the sell by date, which no one, not even Mervyn King nor Robert Peston knows.  It is like the Day of Judgement, where even the Son does not know its precise date of arrival, though plenty of American evangelists claim that they have insider knowledge of the same.

I was devastated to read that the gold medals were actually silver with a thin gold coating.  After all that the athletes had renounced, they might have given them real gold.  Later I was outraged that The Bolt hadn’t been allowed to keep his relay baton.  He could have got a lot for that on eBay and, let’s face it, he has expenses, and clubbing in London isn’t cheap, especially when you have to treat a bevy of beach volleyballers.

The American coach looked as if he wanted to bite the Chinese girl who had suddenly shorn five seconds off her personal best.  The Chinese National Anthem was played and the victors lined up, dutifully mouthing every word, unlike Brits, who universally tend to get stuck on verse two of their own.