Riding on a Donkey

Tags

bampot, Baxter's marmalade, Black Pudding, Derren Brown, dunderheid, Financial Times, Full English breakfast, gobstruck, Highland Laddie, Houdini, illusionist, independence referendum, king riding on donkey, Lallans, linguistic repertoire, Montreal, Prof Brenner of McGill, Quebec Separatists, Riding on a Donkey, Scotland's crest, shanty, Shard, sovereignty, straitjacket, Toronto

Mrs Connolly was serving a full English breakfast, shortly under threat

of being replaced with the gut-busting alternative: the full-on Scottish

All-day.  She was intoning a little ditty while she turned the fried eggs.

What’s that tune you are humming, Mrs C? asked Diana.

Och, it’s an adaptation of ‘Highland Laddie’, but the words I was taught

at school were ‘Were You Ever In Quebec?’

It sounds like a sea shanty, said Murgatroyd.  What brought it to mind?

I know we all may be on a sinking ship politically, but..

Precisely Mr Syylk.  I think I was subliminally thinking aboot the line:

there’s a king with a golden crown/ Riding on a donkey.

Wae Alex’s Messianic delusions, it’s a real possibility.  I say a wee prayer

that the old folk tune’s original title might percolate into these dunderheids’

consciences.

Murgatroyd was about to pick up his Lallans dictionary, but he managed to

work out the general semantic content of the dialect word.  It seemed

synonymous with ‘bampots‘, which he had just assimilated into his linguistic

repertoire.  A kingdom divided by its languages…

Diana sighed:  There will probably be a new crest as well as a new flag.

Aye, mused Mrs C, it could incorporate another line from the song:

See the lion and the unicorn? Riding on a donkey.

Murgatroyd looked down on his groaning plate suspiciously.  His palate

was unsure about the Black Pudding. Trust the Scots to fortify themselves

with a sanguinary product!

He propped his Financial Times against the toast rack and turned his

attention to page 2.

Hah! he expostulated.

What is it, darling? asked Diana, spreading her toast with Baxter’s

marmalade. Gosh, she hoped they would still be able to get it in the

dystopic future.

This Robert Delaney journalist from Toronto is perfectly right, Murgatroyd

opined.  He’s talking about how money reacts to secession or even the

mere threat of it.  He says that in 1976 Quebec Separatists  beat the

Liberals and the very next day literally truckloads of money rolled

out of the province.

But didn’t they vote down independence in 1980? Diana racked her

political memory.

Yes, but the economy never recovered.  The money went to Toronto.

Aye, added Mrs C, and Montreal was no longer the most populous city. 

Its bank headquarters moved to Toronto, along with most of Canada’s

largest financial institutions.  There isnae ony financial sector there noo.

The breakfasting ones continued to be ‘gobstruck‘- was that the word?-

by the housekeeper’s shrewd acumen.

Professor Brenner of McGill would agree with you, Mrs C, said Murgatroyd,

trying not to get grease on the pink pages.  He has said that when critical

masses of talent move out, the affected places do not recover.  Quebec is

now the largest recipient of the federal government’s equalisation payment

system, which helps to spread revenues from the wealthier provinces to the

poorer ones.

Wasn’t there a second independence referendum? enquired Diana.

Yes, it was an even closer shave.  Professor Brennan warned that

countries can declare themselves ‘sovereign’, but should they have no

access to credit, sovereignty becomes a costly illusion.

Aye, agreed Mrs C, and I, for one, don’t want to see ony illusionists

running the country.  They a’ watch too much Derren Broon and they

are that gullible that they fa’ fur a’ they so-called miracles. Take that

Shard trick: even noo he’s been discredited as ony fool can see the

strings attached. Aye, and ony self-respectin’ body can see a’ the strings

that wee self-styled Houdini’s sleights of hand are pulling.  But he’s no’

the escape artist he thinks, and mebbe he’ll end up tyin’ us a’ in knots

afore he’s feenished.  And Ah’m no’ even’ goin’ tae suggest a straitjacket.

That’s fur others tae debate!

And she exited the kitchen humming Riding on a donkey even less

melodiously.

Cabinet of Curiosities

Tags

cabinet of curiosities, Calypso Carol, Carmen, Daily Mail, Easter Island, Financial Times, Hawaiian shirt, huzun, Istanbul, Moai, Monteverdi, Nobel Prize, Orhan Pamuk, oxymoron, Panama hat, Rolls Royce, Royal Yacht, Simon Schama, Singer sewing machine, The Longs Arms, Weekend Magazine

I always feel guilty when I destroy the barista’s carefully created fern on the

top of my coffee, but, then, one has to drink the frothy arrangement.

Goodness knows, one has paid enough for it, especially at Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.   At least The Financial Times Weekend magazine can be

appropriated from the public wall rack, to compensate.  The Yummies always

go for The Daily Mail, I find.

Oh, the ecstasy of finding Simon Schama and Orhan Pamuk in the same article.

I loved the novel Istanbul and was fascinated by the concept of huzun, a state

of collective memory.

Pamuk has gathered a series of objects which he stores and displays in

cabinets and these items resonate with memory traces of significant moments

in his characters’ lives.  Once these memories are categorised, they can be

stored and owned.

I wondered if I could rent or purchase a building in Suttonford where I could

collect objects connected with the narrative of my characters’ lives?

Re-winding some of my posts, I could imagine the first vitrines exhibiting a

crystal ball which belonged to Sonia, the medium who lives in Royalist House.

An empty bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for the Discerning Grandmother would

represent Sonia’s neighbour, Ginevra.  The latter’s e-novel based on a meeting

of geriatric hearts and minds could be referred to by a mobility scooter, which,

of course, would take up a large glass box on its own- something like the one

which protected HM’s Rolls Royce on The Royal Yacht, Britannia.

Doomed romance would be conveyed by the original Valentine, complete with

its proposal of marriage (never received) which the youthful Augustus

Snodbury slid under the nubile lax mistress, Diana Fotheringay’s door all those

troubled years ago.  The diamond ring which fell down the cracks in the

floorboards at The Longs Arms, but which was recovered, though not without

embarrassment, would also speak volumes to the tender-hearted.

Perhaps there could be an unmade bed which still belongs to Tiger-Lily and a

string of knitted women bishops which was removed from the cathedral

railings in Wintoncester, having been yarn-bombed there by Juniper, the

increasingly famous, gender-fluid, street graffiti artist.

The town’s canine lovers might donate a diamante pug collar belonging to

Pooh-Bah and the ever-present risk of animal vandalism might be portrayed

by the photograph of the priceless Pre-Moai figure from Easter Island, which

Andy, the Border Terrier so thoroughly digested.

Academic life could be shown by the Hawaiian shirt which one of the

Willoughby twins wore when he played the solo marimba in The Calypso Carol

at the end of term concert at St Birinus, and which provoked a caution

regarding the upholding of school rules regarding uniform.

Staying on a musical theme, the programme notes for the Monteverdi concert

in Bath which so riveted Drusilla, Diana and Gus would be interesting to study

in future years, as the cast list so clearly displayed Geoffrey Poskett and Nigel

Milford- Haven, of whom much more has to be said in future posts.

Snod’s battered Panama hat, which he sat on inadvertently at the

aforementioned concert and which Nigel effectively ruined by wearing it

when painting his mother’s bathroom ceiling, should be juxtaposed to set

up a dialogue with the alternative headgear which Nigel’s mother fished out

of her black sack and gave to him to wear to the opera, Carmen.  Placed side

by side, the museum-goer should be able to detect that this hat which Nigel,

or Caligula as he is affectionately called by the children in his care, is going to

return duplicitously to his older colleague in lieu of the original- oh, drat, I’ve

given away the plot..- will be seen to be a size seven and a quarter, and not

the seven and three quarters which Snod has always sported on his rather

large dome of a head.

History, and family history at that, will be brought to life by the inclusion of a

Singer sewing machine which belonged to Jean Waddell, Carrie’s maternal

grandmother.

I am excited by the prospect of making the intangible tangible.  Oxymoron

creates such dynamic tension!

Thank you for the idea, Orhan.  I won’t expect a Nobel Prize for it as it would

be akin to plagiarism, but imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

(To understand the exophoric references and intertextuality of this entry,

please refer to previous posts!)

Transfiguration

Tags

Balaam, Birinus, Bradford on Avon, compassion, Damascene, David Cameron, epiphany, Feast of the Transfiguration, Financial Times, Fleury Abbey, lax, Loiret, Paul Gilbert, Snodbury, St Paul, Sully sur Loire, The Carpenters, The Longs Arms, The Shrink and The Sage, Weekend Magazine

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk, prematurely retired ‘Lax‘ Mistress from St Vitus’ School

For The Academically-Gifted Girl, had been trying to read The Weekend

Magazine from The Financial Times while she was being transported around the

Loiret by her local coach firm from Bradford-on-Avon.  She was staying in a 2*

hotel near Sully-sur-Loire, along with other members of her town’s Twinning

Association.

She had been allowed to bring along a ‘friend‘ and her daughter, since two

people had dropped out at the last minute and there had been seats left

vacant.

Behind Diana was her erstwhile lover, Augustus Snodbury, who was still in

educational harness, so to speak, at St Birinus Middle School.  Their daughter

Drusilla had closed her eyes, but this did not shut out the low, burring sound

which emanated from her father’s rather hairy nostrils.

And what exactly is a Lax Mistress? I hear you question, Dear Reader.

It was a trainer for a particularly vicious outdoor team game played by

innocent-looking maidens, armed with strong lobster nets on poles.

Innocent-looking, in general, but the goalies were of a different, scary

order.

Diana was trying to concentrate on her favourite The Shrink and the

Sage article.

This guide to modern dilemmas by a psychotherapist and philosopher

duo fascinated her.  Diana was looking forward to being a member of the

congregation at The Feast of the Transfiguration in Fleury Abbey and the

rhetorical question which headed the columns struck her with a force as

convincing as the Damascene beam of light which had struck St Paul and

floored him.

It read: Are we compassionate enough?

Diana had been seeking a spiritually significant experience by venturing

on this trip.  Nothing less than an epiphany would satisfy her.  She had

opened her mind and heart to receive any messages that might be

forthcoming.  But could the divine voice speak through The Financial

Times?  She then remembered Balaam’s ass and thought that all things

might be possible.

A psychologist called Paul Gilbert was being quoted as having stressed that

one must be kind to oneself, as well as to others.  He warned against two

evolution-shaped drives-firstly, the detection and subsequent escape from

danger and, secondly, the drive to acquire things we want, such as food

and sexual partners.

The article recommended a David Cameron-like state of sensing that we are

all..on this journey together.

Here Snod’s snoring seemed to rise in volume and objection.  Already she

was in danger of lapsing into compassion fatigue.

When we are irritated by others, Gilbert said, we should remember that

they are mere humans, like ourselves, who cannot help getting things

wrong sometimes.

But she didn’t snore, did she?  She would check with Drusilla later on,

since they were sharing a room.  Come to think of it, she remembered Dru

buying some ear plugs in Boots, before they set off.

Gilbert mentioned something called compassion under the duvet, which

fortunately was only a practice of reminding ourselves to be kind to others

before we climbed out of bed in the morning.

Suddenly, the scales fell from Diana’s eyes and she realised that she could

now forgive Gus for his appalling ineptitude, if not for his snoring.

He had been clumsy at their attempted reunion at The Longs Arms, but maybe

it had been down to nerves and possibly they could travel hopefully together

and arrive at the same destination one day- so long as it did not involve any

sharing of duvets, other than of the moral variety.

The Sage explained the etymology of the abstract noun, compassion.  It came

from com and pati, meaning to suffer together.

Having both taught for a number of years, they could empathise with each

others’ pain.  She determined to avail herself of any lessons that she might

be offered during the service, but she could sense that her transformation

had only just begun.  Pity that it sounded like a song from The Carpenters.

Sunglasses in the Rain

Tags

Ben Ainslie, Boris Johnson, Coltsfoot, Financial Times, Flybe, Jesus, matthew pinsent, National Trust, NHS, Prince Philip, St Swithun's Day, sunglasses, The Queen

Maybe I’ve got it wrong, I considered. Maybe it is Ben Ainslie who is going to carry the torch.  At least he won’t be fazed by a little water, since he is practically a Merman.  I admired his full page b&w endorsement of sunglasses in the How To Spend It section of The Financial Times, with his sexy stubble.

I like cool shades as much as I like cool dudes.  My optician advised me to wear sunglasses, even in the rain, as you could still be affected by glare.  A medic had commented, however, that over-use of reactive lenses was positively linked to high levels of neuroticism and madness.  Oh well, they are cheaper than a blepharoplasty and Jackie Kennedy carried them off.  The only problem is that I fail to see much in the murky gloom of the present summer and so I fell to wondering how Posh Becks could keep an eye on what her husband was up to, if she continually resorted to those owlish lenses.  They probably don’t prevent her from seeing well enough to put in his pin number, however.

You don’t see the Queen wearing sunglasses much.  Not that she’d needed to for her Regatta thingy, when a soaking band of singers stood before the Royal party and Prince Philip had nearly burst his bladder trying not to wet himself, laughing at the state of them. The old boy had become extremely enervated at the hornpipe music, what with having been a naval officer.  At least the rain had held off for most of the day, though you couldn’t have seen anything from the bank side, whether you were wearing sunglasses or not, I’d heard.

I also wondered if the Queen was a fan of Who Do You Think You Are?  Clearly, she is fully aware of her own identity, but she might have been alarmed that she was related to Boris Johnson.  Matthew Pinsent is less embarrassing.  So long as there are no Germanic links to Boris Becker or Angela Merkel!  As Pinsent rowed by, with his back between his knees, did she wonder if he had more of the seed of the Conqueror in him than she did?  All that barge stuff and burnished throne imagery might not compensate if he had.

As for Philip, he was Greek and possibly partly responsible for their huge deficit and possible default. However, he has always shown a good example as to how to survive a rainy stint at Balmoral, or wherever.  You’ve got to admire the man’s resilience: all those damp corgis and midge-infested  puddles!  Still, the water is soft in Scotland and gentle in a good malt.  So there are compensations.  But even a stalwart such as he had to be hospitalised after his thorough soaking.  The medics didn’t tell him there was no such thing as a chill or invite him to phone NHS Direct. He’s probably got BUPA.

Water- there is so much of it about this summer, I concluded. People used to say when I was younger that I had so much enthusiasm that I could have bottled it.  Now, with all the talk of water meters and reservoir repairs and Victorian pipework renovation there was a certainty that prices would rise.  The fashionable thing was to dig a bore hole.  I could produce my own label: Suttonford Soft – straight from Izaak Walton chalkstreams.  In smaller print: culled from the countryside of the Compleat Angler.  Maybe Alan Titchmarsh could launch it. He seemed to be everywhere.  Raymond Blanc and Jamie Oliver might take a few bottles for their local eateries.  It would be good to exploit the stuff that was ruining my life.  Maybe I could light a candle to St Swithun in Winchester Cathedral, begging for financial success, and, as a back-up, apply to The Bank of Dave for a handout.  If Theo is to be let down by his investment in Dyas, he may be interested in-say-a 40% stake for £100,000, reducing to 10% after three years of unmitigated success.  The thought of Duncan Ballantyne and Peter Jones fighting it out for my attention gratifies me.  Step back, Deborah Meaden.

Hello! I blinked. I’d wakened up and found that it was St Swithun’s Day.  Perversely, it wasn’t raining-at the moment- I qualified.  I was getting into the swing of  Mark Tully’s aquatic compilation of watery readings on Something Understood on Radio 4 with the joys of The Raindrop Prelude. One had to  admit that Tully compiles an interesting melange.  He included Longfellow on the dreariness of rain, protesting that behind the clouds, the sun still shone. Yeah, right. Maybe through a Flybe porthole, but not this far down.

Ella Fitzgerald had sung:

Into each life some rain must fall

but too much is falling in mine. 

Now I could identify with that.

It was all very well for Thoreau to say that rain made us feel at one with Nature or God, but he was referring to the Spring or Fall variety, not the unseasonable cascades we had been experiencing. Yet I seemed to recall an old part song called As torrents in summer, so all this perception of climate change might be old hat after all.

There might have been something Romantic about a full-blown orage, such as that portrayed in Debussy’s Jardins sous la Pluie and something very like special pleading in Sitwell’s positive focus on the rain at the Crucifixion.  Apparently it could not dampen Christ’s love for us.  Maybe it helped to wash away our sins.

Well tried, Mark.  You must have had some kind of placatory response from the Rain God after your paeon of praise for the pluie.  You seem to have held it off for one day, but let’s not get up our hopes too quickly.

In the couple of hours in which the drizzle desisted, I stepped out gingerly into my back garden, tripping over my Coltsfoot wellies, which I’d forgotten were sitting on the doormat and which were now waterlogged.   Cascades of rotting rosebuds and blossoms required dead heading.  However, the hostas were- as yet- ungnawed.  The dispersal of coffee grounds from the trendy shop had caused the slugs to limbo under someone else’s fence, in a caffeine-induced high.

Every time I type wellies into my computer, it corrects me and produces willies.  What is going on?  I thought willies was an acronym for people who work in London yet live in Edinburgh.  Somebody is having a laugh.

It had been announced by The National Trust that this year had been apocalyptic for birds and other wildlife, but slugs and mosquitos were lovin’ it.  I congratulated myself for having given them a hard grind- literally-by emptying out the cafetiere straight into hostas at my back door.  (Or is that hostae?)

I tried to harvest as many redcurrants and blackcurrants as I could, before the wood pigeons descended.  They were not having any kind of Apocalypse now, as far as I could determine.

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

Rain, Rain….

Tags

Andy Murray, BIrnam Wood, Boris Johnson, Damien HIrst, Dunsinane, Ed Balls, Financial Times, FT, George Osborne, husband, Macbeth, Mastermind, Olympics, Roger Federer, Scottish Play

How did the Porter scene begin in the Scottish play?  Rain. Rain. Rain?

No, Knock, knock, knock.”  I had to keep re-testing myself, as if checking that I was free of doping substances. I might have to revise my chosen subject if I were ever to appear on Mastermind, with earthrob, John Humphries.  He was the one with the wrinkly face like that canine breed whose name I could never remember.  Better not choose anything to do with dogs as a special subject.

Drip Drip.  Yes, if Andy hadn’t had to have the roof on, he might not have had to creep out his petty pace from day to day.  Victory was looking as likely as Birnam Forest coming to Dunsinane.  But, hang on!  A wood, or moving grove, DID come to Dunsinane. Think metaphorically, Andy.  Don’t lose any sense of irony you have.  Was Roger untimely ripped?- that could be the question.  Only one man of woman born could destroy Andy’s hopes and that was the gorgeous, hunky, balletic…. No, stop that! I reproached myself.  It’s tantamount to imaginative adultery.

For, yes, I have a husband.  Not that I would notice now that the Olympics were approaching.  He would probably watch every event, whether the rain continued or not  Why did he take such an interest in sport, when his personal exercise regime was restricted to removing a stubborn cork, or picking up The Financial Times from the newsagents which was all of a hundred yards away.

Yes, I would shed no tears if rain stopped play, flattened Boris’ hair and soaked every Trades unionist who might decide to march on the Millennium Dome, in spite of the missiles trained on them from residents’ roofs.  Talk about over-reaction.  Al Quaeda’s resolve would be as dampened as the rest of the inhabitants of these wondrous isles.  Even terrorists would be affected by SAD and the unremitting precipitation, so might seek sunnier climes.

And what about the economy?  What if we taxpayers had forked out all that dosh for a damp squib?  That Bob Diamond  banker guy could put something back in the collection plate- maybe a bonus or two.  Or Damien Hirst could stud a few financial wizards’ skulls with precious stones and flog them off for the nation’s benefit.

I had heard on the radio that George Osborne’s name was actually Gideon.  From what I remembered from Sunday School, Gideon had received divine signals by leaving a fleece out overnight and then inspecting it to see if it was wet or not.  There would be no guesswork in that activity this summer, but he might as well try to get some guidance on the economy.  Heaven knows, it would seem as good a strategy as any other.

Dry!  So, we should stay in Europe. Wet- I should probably apologise to Ed Balls.  I’ll just do best of three.

I sat down with a takeaway latte.

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