Love-Lies-Bleeding

Tags

Botox, Bradford on Avon, Diana, Drusilla, Fifty Shades of Grey, lacrosse, Love-lies-bleeding, Mary Berry, Snodbury, Syylk, Valentine, Victoria Sponge

It was almost half-term, but Drusilla had taken staff leave of absence

under the medically advised all-purpose condition suggested by the

sanatorium sister: allergic attack.

She was recuperating in Bradford-on-Avon with her mother, Diana,

who had a lovely little honey-coloured cottage near to the centre,

with a garden full of perennial favourites such as Love-Lies-Bleeding.

She would remain there as dust from the school renovation had to

settle, as must the nuclear mushroom cloud which had been raised

by the discovery of the Snodbury communication from years gone

by.  A blast from the past some vulgarians might have dubbed it.

Her mother had slowly come to understand the swings and arrows

of unrequited love and outrageous fortune.  She accepted that

her immature over-reaction to a lover’s tiff, though personally

interpreted at the time as a mere flutter of a social butterfly’s wing,

had instigated a tsunami of overwhelming heartbreak for everyone

concerned, including unborn generations.  One of the unborn was

sitting before her, very much post-natally present. Diana had

paid for her foolish revenge and acknowledged that she had been

wrong to marry Syylk and to pass Drusilla off as his daughter.  Syylk

had been her man and she had done him wrong. This had been as

crass as some country music lyrics, but she had had no excuse. It had

been painful to see her daughter becoming more and more like her

biological father as she aged in teaching.  At this rate she was going

to need a blowtorch, not Botox!

There were tears, recriminations, justifications and apologies, but

how to respond to the discovery was the real dilemma. Diana felt

that she owed Snod an apology for her years of deceit.  Drusilla

wasn’t sure that she, personally, could face the truth.  What if it

became common knowledge between the staffrooms?  She would

lose all credibility.  Parents’ Evenings could become problematic.  He

might want to catch up on all the occasions he had missed in her

personal development.

Mother, do you still love him? Drusilla asked, crumbling a

monumental slice of Mary Berry’s Victoria Sponge.

Dru, I’ve never stopped, cried her mother, nevertheless gathering up

all the crumbs on her plate and licking them greedily from the tines

of her cake fork.

Then we must do him the honour of replying sincerely to his ill-fated

missile, said Drusilla decisively.

Missive, corrected Diana.  Honestly, her daughter was supposed to

be a teacher!  Dru’s missile! You wouldn’t have heard such poor English

in their day.  (Their being the times and mores of Snod and herself.)

Diana was increasingly tired of having to proof-read her daughter’s end

of term reports.  Even as a lax mistress, Diana had known how to spell

practise as a verb.  Yes, we will reply very soon, agreed Diana.

No, you will, mother.  It is your responsibility.

I know, Diana, said.  I will send him a Valentine. Let’s find one that is

suitable.  What about this for the verse?:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If you ask me again,

I’ll answer: I do!

Drusilla blanched.  No, she said. How about:

Roses are red,

Like my eyes as they water.

But here’s a surprise-

We both have a daughter!-?

That’s quite good actually, said Diana.

I was joking, said Drusilla. I think we have to be a shade more subtle.

Like that ecru you picked out for your floor paint?

Precisely, answered Drusilla. Tone is all –important- in life and

lifestyle.

Yes, there are fifty shades of grey, I believe.

Drusilla could only hope that her mother hadn’t read it.  Less is

more, she explained.

There speaks the art teacher, sighed Diana. (But it was never the

case in lacrosse, she thought privately.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Heap of Broken Images

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Bradshaw's Guide, David Dinnie, Edinburgh Military Tattoo, Eurozone, Fifty Shades of Grey, Forth Rail Bridge, Highland games, Iron Brew, Isaac, Lysistrata, Merlot, Michael Portillo, Neil Oliver, New Orleans, Only Connect, Patrick Moore, Perlmutter, Scotland the Brave, The Sun, The Waste Land, Togo, Top Secret, University Challenge, Victoria Coren

Bank Holiday Monday

Someone sent me an attachment this morning which was headed Fifty Shades of Grey for Men.  It was a paint chart.  There is nothing remotely sexual about Elephant’s Breath, I think.

Tropical storm Isaac is heading for New Orleans on the 7^th anniversary of Katrina’s cataclysm.

The geographical feature that is characterised by cataclysm is deluge and not earthquake, as one panellist on University Challenge mistook tonight.

It was an evening of quizzes, with the return of a slightly more overweight Victoria Coren on Only Connect. Watching this programme, I feel like a character in The Waste Land:

I can connect

Nothing with nothing..

Victoria is like Madame Sosostris, the wisest woman in Europe, with a wicked pack of cards.  She apparently loves poker.  She stands by The Wall which is a heap of broken images and :

 uncorseted, her friendly bust

 Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

I wish that she had retained the Greek letters of the alphabet on the question choice blocks.  These were replaced through attacks on elitism.  Now, if the women of Togo read The Lysistrata, then why the general dumbing down in this country?  After all, the substituted hieroglyphics are just as refined, though pictorially evident, I suppose.  My favourite is horned viper.

Curiously, Victoria’s dresses are becoming tighter and tighter and her fantasies more curious too- she admitted to a desire to find a naked Michael Portillo in her dressing room, seated on a case of Merlot.  The Merlot you could understand… Personally, I would prefer to read Bradshaw through, cover to cover, in a single sitting.  Still, there’s nowt so queer as fowk.

The Edinburgh Military Tattoo was next and the best bit was the drumming cohort from Switzerland, Top Secret.  I looked carefully but our friend, Roger, was not of their number. The second best bit was the mass formation for Scotland the Brave. You can keep all thon fancy film scorey type tunes and I think Alex Salmond would have been pretty annoyed at them playing There’ll Always be an England, unless it conveyed the proviso:  doon there and no’ up here.

The whole evening was devoted to tartan programmes about Highland Games all over the world, in places such as North Carolina. There are more games held worldwide than in Scotia itself.

The only interesting programme was Horizon with its explanation of the infinite expansion of the universe. If Scotland keeps expanding exponentially then it should be good for Pitlochry looms and kiltmakers in general.  As a nation it will grow vaster than empires and more slow, no probably even faster.  However, the programme stressed that we were all in this together and could not go it alone, as multiple galaxies are swallowed.  So, Alex, we need to remain united so that we can fight all the dark matter in the Eurozone and in other global economies together.

A programme on the Highland Games showcased David Dinnie who had been the world’s most renowned athlete in times gone by.  Women used to faint away at the sight of his torso, in much the same way as they do now when they see pictures in The Sun of every Tom, Dick and Harry letting their hair down. (Not.)  Leave the hair business to Neil Oliver, I say.

Anyway, Dinnie used to endorse Iron Brew, as I think it was spelled back then- (Scotland’s other national beverage- made frae girders.)  He looked as if he had licked the Forth Rail Bridge.  Maybe a wee taste of A G Barr’s fizzy drink’s 0.002% ammonium ferric citrate was what Andy Murray had doped himself on before winning Olympic gold.  Aye, Alex Salmond, ye can take the man oot o’ Scotland, but ye cannae tak’ the iron oot o’ his soul.

Alba gu brath!

Tuesday 28^th

My scientific observations seem to be confirming Professor Perlmutter’s Nobel prizewinning research about exponential expansion of the Universe.  I am quite taken with cosmology now.  I noticed a very large, docile dog on a lead at the local Lavender café.  It was very like a lurcher, but much larger.  I asked its owner what breed it was and she said, A fat greyhound.  Also there are all these sightings of lions in Clacton-on-Sea etc which turn out to be large feral cats.  Some can be four foot in length so you could be mistaken for thinking that they are pumas, especially if you have been on the old Merlot for the evening.  Stick to Irn- Bru, I say.  It puts hairs on your chest and dampens down the Portillo fantasies.

Anyway, everything is becoming larger- Patrick Moore, Victoria Coren and the whole Universe.  No wonder I can’t get into my favourite jeans.

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