Tiger Tutors

Tags

Caligula, CCTV, FT, HowToSpend It, Lamborghini Murcielago, LOL, M&S, mocks, Morris Traveller, Robert Shrimsley, silk purse sow's ear, Taylors port, Terms of Employment, tiger tutors, vocative, WTF

A re-blog, to amuse and cheer…

It was the end of a long day of nine lessons (and no carols) on the trot

and Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was attempting to unwind by flicking through last month’s How To

Spend It FT supplement, which only served to underscore his deep-seated

financial insecurities and general lack of self-esteem.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to drive into the staff car park in a

Lamborghini Murcielago and spray some gravel onto John

Boothroyde-Smythe and Co., accidentally on purpose?

Maybe he should get a tattoo like David Beckham, only with

correct spelling, of course.

He adjusted his frayed M&S tie and wondered why he couldn’t strike

a sartorial pose like the youthful- looking millionaire ‘Tiger Tutor’

of Hong Kong’s Beacon College.

There were just as many tiger mothers in Suttonford and environs, he

mused, as in Hong Kong.  They were just as ambitious for their-what

Robert Shrimsley of the FT termed ‘spawn’- as their oriental

counterparts.

Actually, ‘spawn‘ sounded similar to the contents of dim sum.  He felt

he was well acquainted with the term in human form, as he had to deal

with those wretched twins, often in detention.

Castor or Pollux, translate the following: Dim sum.

I am stupid, sir?

No, judging by the parental modes of transport, there was no

shortage of dollars, banked in Hong Kong, or otherwise.

Why couldn’t Snodbury and himself set up a tutorial agency and gain

significantly higher rewards from legions of costcentres?  Surely the

gratuities would be greater than a fusty and corked bottle of Taylors

Port that had been round the carousel of many a local raffle?  That was

the type of recognition of services rendered that they were wont to

receive at the end of the Autumn term.  He didn’t even drink and had to

pass it on to his mother for her Christmas drinks cabinet.

He opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet which had to be

stationed in the staff room as there was no space in his classroom,

now that several rest stations for the junior fatigued had been installed.

He fished out the Terms of Employment that he had foolishly signed.

Drat!  He was not permitted to coach any of the pupils that he had

been contracted to intravenously feed at St Birinus.  He would have to

solicit external students and that would entail hiring premises, paying

insurance and installing photocopiers etc.  He would even need to apply

for a separate child protection thingy.

If he avoided rental on premises, he would have to visit the needy in

their own homes and then he would have to drive through their

ornamental gates with CCTV, thus recording his arrival in a shabby

Morris Traveller whose wing mirror was fixed to the rusting bodywork

with duct tape.

The sniggering student watching his progress up the lime avenue would

have lost any respect for him before he had even crossed the drawbridge.

They’d be texting snaps of his vehicle with captions such as WTF and

LOL. Even Nigel knew these acronyms did not stand for, Well, that’s

fabulous! or Lots of Love!

As for Snodbury, The Senior Master did not believe in extra tuition, come

to think of it.

Other masters may invite indigestion by bolting their lunch so as to

make a silk purse out of some kid’s ear- a kid who had probably pranked

around and not paid attention when the lesson had been originally

delivered.  Snod had been heard to mutter:

Should have listened the first time.  That’ll teach ’em. Anyway, the mocks are

only an organised shipwreck to see who can swim.  He would then eye the

clock and make himself as scarce as hens’ teeth before the 1 o’clock

bell.

This was especially true on a Wednesday when there was a limited

amount of roast pork on offer in the refectory.  If one arrived in a

tardy fashion, there would be no apple sauce remaining and the little

buggers would have scoffed all the crackling.

Nigel looked at the clock: Four thirty.  Good!  The parents should

have cleared the drive by now and so he should avoid the traffic

scrum.

He gingerly opened the staffroom door and peeked outside to see if

the coast was clear.

But to his chagrin and extreme annoyance, the aforementioned

Boothroyde- Smythe was hovering, with a Maths ink exercise book

in his grubby paws.

Sir! he whined.  I didn’t understand…

Nigel wearily beckoned him towards his classroom.  He wasn’t

even paid overtime!

What exactly didn’t you understand? he asked in a scarcely disguised

attempt to sound concerned.

Oh, just something that Mr Snodbury said about some educational

establishments being loser-making factories that produce the likes of

himself, sir.

Oh yes, add the vocative ‘sir’ to any kind of impertinence and it sanctifies

bare-faced cheek, Nigel thought.  However, he judiciously replied:

I expect that he was being sardonic.  Do you know that word? I suggest

that you run along and add it to your extensive prep for this evening.

But, sir, the precocious one responded, I did all my prep last night

with my tutor.

In that case, take this declension sheet as an extension.  We don’t want

your parents to think that you are being underwhelmed, do we?

Two could play at that game.  And the exercise was in multiple

choice format, so the marking would be easy-peasy.

In some ways, this type of interaction was strangely satisfying in

a way that money couldn’t buy.  Maybe that was why, in recognition,

his pupils called him Caligula.

Who needs to be a tiger tutor when you can be a leopard that

doesn’t need to change its spots?

What’s in a Name?

Tags

acronym, Andy Murray, Anish Kapoor, Avon, Bermuda shorts, Black Hole, Boson particle, Edinburgh panda, FT, hadron collider, hippocampus, Indyref#, Jess the cat, Michael Caine, Mrs Goggins, National Trust card, orthotic inserts, Postman Pat, Premium Bond, root vegetables, Royal Mail, SCD, sea-horse, short term memory, Strictly, terpsichorean, Weekend Section

No, it’s not Avon calling, since no one has rung the doorbell.  Sadly, neither

is it an envelope bearing an address from the Indyref#supporting city of

Glasgow on its rear flap, indicating a life-changing Premium Bond re-

invested win of twenty-five quid.  Nor is it a tax rebate.  No, it is one of

those annoying red and white cards from Royal Mail which commands you

to rise, take up your bed and walk to the local office to pick up your parcel,

which was too large to be shredded through the letterbox.

Wait!  I struggle to put on my shoes with their orthotic inserts and race out,

subsequently hoping I have put my door on its latch.  Where is the wretched

Postman Pat?  There’s no sign of a baseball cap, nor unseasonable Bermuda

shorts.  There’s no sign of Jess, the cat, or Mrs Goggins.

There is a red trolley parked a couple of doors away, standing like an Anish

Kapoor sculpture in a sea of loom bands..  Hey!  Maybe the parcel is still on

board.

Apparently not.  Don’t be stupid.  They never had any intention to deliver it.

Did I detect a smirk?

No, the nuisance package is awaiting my collection at a local office which

has restricted opening hours.  And it won’t be available till the next working

day after the non-event.

That will be Saturday. There is absolutely zero chance of The Husband’s short-

term memory system kicking in at the weekend.  He is unable to simultaneously

hold the concepts of mail retrieval and FT purchase.  Maybe it’s something to

do with his hippocampus. (I think that influences short term memory, but I

can’t remember.)

Anyway, forget seven items’ recall, plus or minus two.  He struggles to

remember two.  He seems to struggle to process what I’m talking about.

Naively, I expected him to follow my simple instructions to buy some carrots

and parsnips, along with his newspaper.  But then, mentally over-loaded,

he wouldn’t have remembered to fetch the package, would he?.

I know that is a total of three things, but he could have grouped both

edibles under a superordinate term, such as ‘root vegetables’ and then he

would have only had two purchases to recall.  You surely don’t have to be

Derren Brown to think of coping strategies.

Probably The Husband’s hippocampus shrank and re-absorbed itself, like

the Edinburgh panda did with its foetus, when he was faced with multi-

tasking.

I bet male hippocampi don’t function like their namesake sea-horses, who

at least have the decency to share the female workload more equitably.

So, I get to go for the parcel and the parsnips.  He’s already deep in The FT

‘Money’ supplement.  He reminds me of that man who had to be rescued from

his bubble in the Atlantic.  Except The Husband doesn’t want to be rescued.

He loves his bubble.  And sometimes I like it too.

There’s a queue and the woman in front of me is being asked for ID.  Okay, I

think smugly, I’ve got some bank cards and a National Trust card:

out-of-date- but nevertheless..

Zut alors!  The parcel is addressed to The Husband.  I don’t happen to be

carrying his passport, or driving licence on me.  Do I have the STD card?

Supposed Time of Delivery?  I think of Andy Murray and his novel

utilisation of the acronym.  He was laughed down for texting his

terpsichorean mother to wish her good luck with the ‘STD’.  I believe

he meant SCD, but he wasn’t being ‘Strictly‘ accurate.

Just keep serving!

Anyway, I digress..

It’s okay, I remonstrate. The postie knows me.  We talk nearly every day,

mainly through the letter-flap, when he fails to close it and a howling gale

like a Boson particle zooming round a hadron collider whooshes down my

hall.  He could push the vast wad of junk mail completely through, if he

feels that he really must burden the planet with it.  Why doesn’t he just

dump it like some of his colleagues are wont to do?  In a Black Hole,

preferably.

This woman is as immoveable as a post-box.

No, we need proof of ID for the addressee.  Names are very important

to us.Just like your custom.

Right, but that works both ways, I parry.  You’re not so particular

when it comes to stuffing any old person’s correspondence and bank

statements through my front door.  Anyhow, I can tell you that the box

contains a replacement fridge shelf.  Not many people would know that.

So, it must be ours.

She doesn’t pick up on the Michael Caine reference.

Okay, you can have it just this once, she concedes, but next time I need

a couple of utility bills in his name.

Not Michael Caine’s then.  I’m having fun.

I return to find The Husband still wading through the pink newspaper.

I picked up your parcel, I say.

(He’s not listening.)

You did get the carrots, didn’t you? I persevere.  I can’t see them in my

fridge.  No, our fridge. When I can’t see them in the first person

possessive plural’s fridge it means they are not there.

Sorry, I forgot, he confesses lamely.

And it’s then that I look in my bag and have to admit to myself that

I have forgotten to buy parsnips.  But I don’t tell him.  I just sneak out

while he reads his way through the rest of The Weekend Section.

I’m not infallible.  But not many people are allowed to guess that.

‘Slothified’

Tags

Aquinas, Charybdis, David Attenborough, FT, Gordon the gopher, Inferno, Lonely Planet, sloth, slothified, The White Stuff, Traveller's Guide to Hell, Vergil

Carrie bounced into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe and

grabbed a tabloid from the rack.  I was on my tablet and so we sat

together, but apart, in a new social category, that isn’t really social.

It is incredibly irritating to have things read out to you when you are

immersed in some text of your own, as The Husband is wont to imply

when I enthusiastically regale him with some witty Proustian quote

when he is trying to read the FT in bed.  I really wish he wouldn’t read it

in the bedroom as newsprint and The White Stuff  linen don’t mix.  Mind

you, who am I criticising for not mixing?!

Ha!  This is all about a woman who got slothified, Carrie whooped.

Mmm, I feebly back-channelled, not encouraging her too much, but

being sucked into a conversational Charybdis.  Do you mean sloshed?

No, Carrie laughed.  A woman gave sanctuary, and still does,

presumably, to hundreds of sloths in Paramaribo, wherever that is.

Two or three-toed?  I asked, interest picking up.

Does it matter?  Both, I think.  She is overwhelmed and so tired that she

doesn’t want to get up in the morning.

Deadly sin, that. I observed.  Sloth.  Probably in that book I’ve just been

investigating.

What’s that?

The Traveller’s Guide to Hell – Don’t Leave this World without it, by Dana

Facaros and Michael Pauls.  It seems to be a kind of Lonely Planet for

sinners. Or a dumbed down Inferno…

Anyway, Carrie interrupted, I can relate to a house being filled with creatures

who sleep, on average 9.6 hours, or 16 in captivity and who hang around, or

hang out, in my kitchen.  I’d probably be sheltering 200 of them too if I went

out with Gyles and Tiger-Lily sneaked her friends round.  The females are

worse. 

They call out for attention, even when they are not on heat.  They browse,

rather than eating regular meals, regurgitate their food and have an obsession

with apples.

I typed ‘Sloth‘ into Google.  Aquinas said sloth is an avoidance

of physical or spiritual work, so that ties in with what you’re

describing.

Then I looked at wildlife sites and came across David Attenborough

outlining how sloths are ‘mobile compost heaps‘ who grow organisms

and who defecate once a week.

That’s more like the boyfriends, Carrie quipped. Monique Pool- I’ve found the

name of the woman-says the toilet habits makes them ideal house guests,

Carrie added.  I know I hate tradesmen and strangers pooing in my house. 

Sloths could be preferable. But maybe they are the same genus.

Or anus, I giggled.  She ignored me.

I’ve noticed Tiger’s friends, though leaf-eaters, don’t eat enough fibre,

so at least constipation is a bit of a bonus.

Not for them, I disagreed, but too much information.

The woman goes on to say that what makes her furry guests so attractive is

the permanent smile on their faces, Carrie continued.  But most of my

week-enders have a sullen look about them and get their emotional claws out

at the slightest provocation.

Emotional apathy.  Carelessness in the performance of their obligations, I

underlined, reading more Aquinas, but still listening..

Actually, sloths are solitary if they have the choice, Carrie read on.  Tiger,

I’d say, is happier when she is just getting down to some revision on her own. 

She’s not really a team player and I haven’t seen a smile on her face for some

time.

I’ve got a vintage Gordon the Gopher, I suddenly remembered.  I’ll bring it

round and give it to her as a mascot for her exams.  Don’t worry, I’ll have it

steam- cleaned first, in case of any organisms.  It might cheer her up.  Failing

that, I’ll get her The Traveller’s Guide to Hell.

I’m going to get that anyway, Carrie said.  Sounds like every mother can

relate to it, because, in spite of all our good intentions, we seem to be deemed

to have paved the way to our progeny’s final destinations.

Look at this. I showed her a cutesy photograph of a baby sloth.  And, sure

enough, it brought a smile to her face. Many of God’s creatures are angels

in disguise, or are Heavenly harbingers, poets, like Vergil, who lead us out

of the gloom.  Or gophers who motivate us or, in soft toy version, relieve

stress and  help us to love the other and to laugh at ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

The Importance of Copyright

Tags

69th position, Andrew Graham-Dixon, Chlamydia, Chow Mein, copyright, Culture Show, FT, Gilbert and George, How To Spend It, Jake and Dinos Chapman, Marriage of Reason and Squalor, Spitalfields, symbolic acceleration to high value, Turner Prize

Clammie and I were sitting in the corner of Costamuchamoulah must-

seen cafe.  We know each other well enough to be rude, so I was deep

in Saturday’s FT and she was reading the Style section of some other

publication.

Hey, Clammie, I suddenly expostulated. Did you know that the Chapman

Brothers..?

As I said, we are impertinent to each other, so she cut me off

with: Who?

The Chapmans- Chapmen?-those guys called Jake and Dinos who do

joint artworks..

I thought that was Gilbert and George?

No, same kind of concept, but different people, I explained.

I think they both had connections with Spitalfields.  Anyway,

they..

Who?

The Chapmen…produced an artwork that depicted the 69th

sex position, in 2003.

Gosh!  Are there that many?! Sounds like Friday night in our house

when we  order a Chinese takeaway and I just say, ‘I’ll have a No. 69’.

Yeah, and if I’m there, I just say, ‘I’ll have what she’s having’.

We laughed like drains.  So immature!

But no one has made an artwork out of a takeaway, have they?

Clammie pondered aloud.

We could always get in first with an entry for the Turner Prize, I

suggested.  Clammie and Candia interviewed by Andrew Graham-

Dixon on The Culture Show. ‘Chow Really, Really Mean’.

No use, Clammie pointed out.  Everyone would think you were related

to him and we had been promoted through nepotism.  It’s the Dixon

surname that’s the problem.  Candia Stuart doesn’t sound as artistic

as Candia Dixon-Stuart, so I don’t think you could just ditch it!

Oh well, what about these Chapman guys?

She had looked faintly annoyed at having been interrupted in her

investigation through some glossies to determine whether antlers

were passe, or not, in current interiors, as accent pieces.

Well, the brother called Jake mentions that he wrote a novel in 2008

called ‘The Marriage of Reason and Squalor’ and they are planning on

making it into a film.

So?  The title sounds like some relationships I know of.

I told you we could be rude to each other.  Actually, my house is tidier

than hers.

They’re planning on calling it ‘Chlamydia’, after the female character,

I clarified.

Hmm, well I’ve had that name for over thirty five years, she grumbled.

But no doubt my parents didn’t have the foresight to take out a

copyright.

I hope it won’t result in any embarrassment for you, I observed.  They

might be having a go at the comfortable classes, such as ourselves.

How so?

Jake is quoted here as saying:.. our psychodramas furnish the bourgeoisie

with the sense that their world is radical and dangerous and audicious.

Say that again, Clammie requested.  Is there such a word?  Doesn’t he

mean ‘audacious’?

It’s probably a subversion of language, I reflected.  Or a deliberate

lexical sabotage on the part of the FT. They probably don’t appreciate people

who say, as Dino does, that anyone who has surplus money at the end of the

week after feeding themselves and paying for their fuel is a criminal.

No, I suppose not.  I mean the FT takes them out to lunch and then they

insult the readership of their host’s How To Spend It magazine.

She crumpled up her paper napkin and wiped her mouth with it, then

rudely grabbed the article from me and started reading it for herself.

It also says that they are-quote-‘voyeurs of their own work, not authors of

its meaning’, she informed me.  It sounds as if you are in good company,

Candia.  Surely that’s what informs your creativity!

I should hope that my behaviour is not so audicious, I laughed. But I

seriously question whether many people- even in Suttonford- have surplus

money at the end of the month nowadays.

I, for one, don’t, agreed Clammie.  Lattes have gone up so much

recently. It makes me feel radical to be sitting here.

Perhaps you have the answer in your own hands, I suggested.

What? She looked puzzled.

They say that you just need to learn a few tricks about symbolic

acceleration to high value.  Take that napkin..once the film comes out,

with your name, you could sell your authentically crumpled and/or doodled

napkin to a dealer.  Picasso and others did it, so you’d be in a tradition.

You could frame it and claim that it had exophoric reference.

So, you reckon stags’ antlers may be on the way out?

Post-Christmas, I’d say so. Think trash with attitude.   Or sell them the

rights to your name.  Should keep you in cappuccinos for life.

Audicious! she concurred.

Democracy Has Bad Taste

Tags

Bentham, Charles Saatchi, Damien HIrst, Dan Snow, Ernest Hemingway, FT, Grayson Perry, List of Reith Lectures, Manet, Nigella Lawson, Olympia, Proust, pushpin, Richard Hoggart, sociology, springer spaniel, transformation, Trinny Woodall, Uses of Literacy

Brassica could hardly hear herself speak for the frothing of the coffee machine

and the screech of a toddler.

Yeah, it’s that bloke in a frock who’s giving The Reith Lectures, she informed

me.

Who?  Grayson Perry?  Suddenly I was interested in what she was saying.

Yip.  I liked his tapestries on class but I admit that I used to think they-

the artists, I mean- actually made the stuff themselves.

What?  You thought that Damien Hirst went out and caught his own shark,

like Ernest Hemingway?  I was somewhat surprised.

Well, I thought they would weave the tapestries, or, say, Henry Moore

would cast his own bronzes in his back yard.

Right.  Before the scrap metal guys nicked them.  Brass, you’ve just got

to understand the difference between craft and art.

Which is?

Some philosophers have described it as the difference between pushpin

and poetry.

Pushpin?

It’s like shove halfpenny. I tried to clarify the analogy.  Look,

I addressed her.  Read the front page of the Life and Arts section of the

FT.

I reached up and took down the pink pages of a grease-stained

newspaper from the wall rack.

You see, I gestured, take a look at the artwork in this cafe.  I think it comes

from The Suttonford Art Society’s Annual Show.  You be the judge.  Is it art?

If it goes by financial value, then I’d say not, she deliberated.

Emmm, yeah.  Not many of them have a reserved sticker.  I suppose that

they could come under therapeutic, or popular art categories.

Some of them could be improved by more sympathetic

presentation, she decided.

Yes.  Proust wrote that we can only see beauty if we look through a

gilded frame, I expanded on the theme.  I wonder what Charles Saatchi

is collecting now..? Certainly not portraits of Nigella!  Maybe Trinny

Woodall woodcuts?  Skinny Trinny as Olympia.  Not a good look!

My granny used to commission oils of sunsets to match the colours in her

swirly carpets, Brassie mused.

(You could never accuse Brass of being a snob.)  She was reading the

front page by now and she came out with:

Are individual works of historical significance, or do they exhibit aesthetic

sophistication?

No, I replied quietly, looking carefully round the room for any paint

stains on clothing.  There is an acrylic over there which shows the oldest

pub in the town, though.  It all comes down to Bentham’s pushpin/ poetry

distinction again.

But, endorsement is surely part of it?  I mean, if we placed a label under that

unconvincing representation of a Springer Spaniel and it announced that it was

by Dan Snow, would it change our perception of it? Brassie probed.

No, but it would change my perception of him, sadly, I replied.

Brassie began to show enthusiasm for this debate.  Didn’t Richard Hoggart,

who incidentally lived not too far from here, discuss some of this in his book

on popular culture, The Uses of Literacy?

Yawn.  Early sociology, I said dismissively.  Mind you, he made some good

points.

Brassie pushed on, paraphrasing as she read: Apparently, what the’ lovely

consensus’ agree on is seriousness.

Mmm, some of these are seriously bad.  I tried to be generous and failed. Okay.

Who is going to validate them?

Brassie brightened up.  I expect their mummies, grannies, aunts, husbands

and wives might rescue them from ignominy.  They’ll probably buy them.

So, laying aside meritocracy, they will be saved for posterity by love? I

ventured.

The greatest ennobler, breathed Brassie.  The Art of Human Understanding.

Compassion. An act of grace.  Love for the unlovely.  Transformation!

 

Chelsea Flower Show (Not)

Tags

Alan Titchmarsh, Bank Holiday, Ben Weatherstaff, Chelsea Flower Show, Cromwell, Dadaism, Diarmuid Gavin, dogulator, Existential, FT, geometrie vegetale, Hans Arp, How To Spend It, leaf spreader, leprechaun, mauvaise foi, NGS Garden scheme, Nihilism, pension forecast, pikestaff, Poundcafe, Roundhead, Secret Garden

Depressing news.  Depressing weather for the Bank Holiday.  Diarmuid Gavin

even pronounced the hundredth Chelsea Flower Show unimaginative and

somewhat disappointing.

Chlamydia looked out at the rain-soaked patio of Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.  Leaves swirled around and became mulch on the

flagstones.

She picked up an NGS brochure which was advertising various local gardens

which were to open in Suttonford to support the Anacondas In Adversity!

charity: a cause which she and her daughter, Scheherezade, fervently

espoused.

She prayed for a meteorological change while stirring her Mocha, thus

destroying its award-winning fern imprint in choco-powder.

How much had she paid for this caffeine indulgence?  As much as could have

bought her three houses in Stoke-on-Trent. Really, social and even solitary

caffeine was becoming a luxury she could ill afford.  If her pension forecast

was anything to go by, she would be better supporting a Poundcafe

expansion from Kirby.

She flicked through last week’s FT supplement, How To Spend It.  Maybe

someone could publish a spoof version and add a final ironic Not to the title.

She picked up a less pretentious publication and started to read an article on

dogulators.  This had nothing to do with the abominable practice of dogging,

but was concerned with the various means and strategies for calculating

one’s canine friend’s true age.

Clammie thought that the formula was fairly simple: multiply by seven.

Apparently, like pension forecasts, it was a lot more complicated and involved

the recognition that some breeds age at different rates and that there are

periods when the pace accelerates and then slows.  No wonder she was so

confused about how her age of receipt of pension contributions kept varying

and she found it hard to focus on the ever-receding pot of gilt as it miraged

out of sight under the insubstantial rainbow of her transient life.

She would have to do some work to increase her contributions.  Maybe she

could create a garden design and take it to next year’s Chelsea show?  It

couldn’t be so hard to gain a gold medal.  There seemed to be a plethora of

them.

She had heard Alan Titchmarsh, no doubt irritated by Gavin’s criticisms, use the

terminological inexactitude: iconoclastic, in reference to some of the designs.

She had conjured up the image of a Cromwellian regiment of out-of-control

Roundheads smashing up garden gnomes with their pikestaffs.

Hey! What if she created a moving installation using such a – she hesitated to

adopt the over-exposed abstract noun that had broken out all over Chelsea-

using such an innovative concept?  She was sure that Diarmuid would be up for

a bit of Celtic licence as long as no one smashed a fibreglass leprechaun.  An

art garden would be the answer to her spiritual stagnation.  No- wait!- an Arp

garden.  Now she was really feeling her creative sap rise!

Yes, Hans Arp had made woodcuts of leaves and forms and had just thrown

them together at random.  She could imagine sitting on that elevated bench

with Alan T, discussing her concept.  She would refer to Dadaism and

geometrie vegetale and might even call the plot an Existential Garden for an

Age of Nihilism.

It would be a space where she had lost the plot!  She would have at its centre

two huge sculpted dice which would turn on an axis, like swivel-headed loons.

People might have to return a six to enter; or not.

She would impress Titchmarsh by echoing Arp: My garden represents a

secret, primal meaning slumbering beneath the world of appearances.

Chance points to an unknown but active principle of order and meaning

that manifests itself in the garden’s secret soul.  Alan would be blown away

as if by a giant leaf vacuum.  And the non-existence of any supporting

rationale would contain the ambivalence of the aforesaid appliance, as it

would contribute to a kind of chaos theory that, just like the leaf blower,

moved concepts around rather than forming them into a neat structure

and creating something useful, such as a compost heap.  The leaf vacuum-

a metaphor for our time.

Secret Garden?  She could place a rusting metal outline of a Ben

Weatherstaff figure leaning on a spade at its centre and a robin

could buzz around on elastic over an empty wheelchair.  That might

suggest hope.  On alternative days she would replace the wheelchair

with a vandalised shopping trolley, representing mauvaise foi.  Brilliant!

Next year Diarmuid would not be bored, she could assure him.

Tiger Tutors

Tags

Augustus Snodbury, Beacon College, Caligula, Dim sum, FT, Lamborghini Murcielago, Morris Traveller, Mrs Moneypenny, Nigel Milford-Haven, Robert Shrimsley, Taylors port, Terms of Employment, tiger tutors

It was the end of a long day of nine lessons (and no carols) on the trot

and Nigel Milford-Haven, Junior Master at St Birinus Middle School

was attempting to unwind by flicking through last month’s How To

Spend It FT supplement, which only served to underscore his deep-seated

financial insecurities and general lack of self-esteem.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful to drive into the staff car park in a

Lamborghini Murcielago and spray some gravel onto John

Boothroyde-Smythe and Co., accidentally on purpose?

Maybe he should get a tattoo like David Beckham, only with

correct spelling, of course.

He adjusted his frayed M&S tie and wondered why he couldn’t strike

a sartorial pose like the youthful- looking millionaire ‘Tiger Tutor’

of Hong Kong’s Beacon College.

There were just as many tiger mothers in Suttonford and environs, he

mused, as in Hong Kong.  They were just as ambitious for their-what

Robert Shrimsley of the FT termed ‘spawn’- as their oriental

counterparts.

Actually, ‘spawn‘ sounded similar to the contents of dim sum.  He felt

he was well acquainted with the term in human form, as he had to deal

with those wretched twins, often in detention.

Castor or Pollux, translate the following: Dim sum.

I am stupid, sir?

No, judging by the parental modes of transport, there was no

shortage of dollars, banked in Hong Kong, or otherwise.

Why couldn’t Snodbury and himself set up a tutorial agency and gain

significantly higher rewards from legions of costcentres?  Surely the

gratuities would be greater than a fusty and corked bottle of Taylors

Port that had been round the carousel of many a local raffle?  That was

the type of recognition of services rendered that they were wont to

receive at the end of the Autumn term.  He didn’t even drink and had to

pass it on to his mother for her Christmas drinks cabinet.

He opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet which had to be

stationed in the staffroom as there was no space in his classroom,

now that several rest stations for the junior fatigued had been installed.

He fished out the Terms of Employment that he had foolishly signed.

Drat!  He was not permitted to coach any of the pupils that he had

been contracted to intravenously feed at St Birinus.  He would have to

solicit external students and that would entail hiring premises, paying

insurance and installing photocopiers etc.  He would even need to apply

for a separate child protection thingy.

If he avoided rental on premises, he would have to visit the needy in

their own homes and then he would have to drive through their

ornamental gates with CCTV, thus recording his arrival in a shabby

Morris Traveller whose wing mirror was fixed to the rusting bodywork

with duct tape.

The sniggering student watching his progress up the lime avenue would

have lost any respect for him before he had even crossed the drawbridge.

They’d be texting snaps of his vehicle with captions such as WTF and

LOL. Even Nigel knew these acronyms did not stand for, Well, that’s

fabulous! or Lots of Love!

As for Snodbury, The Senior Master did not believe in extra tuition, come

to think of it.

Other masters may invite indigestion by bolting their lunch so as to

make a silk purse out of some kid’s ear- a kid who had probably pranked

around and not paid attention when the lesson had been originally

delivered.  Snod had been heard to mutter:

Should have listened the first time.  That’ll teach ’em. Anyway, the mocks are

only an organised shipwreck to see who can swim.  He would then eye the

clock and make himself as scarce as hens’ teeth before the 1 o’clock

bell.

This was especially true on a Wednesday when there was a limited

amount of roast pork on offer in the refectory.  If one arrived in a tardy

fashion, there would be no apple sauce remaining and the little

buggers would have scoffed all the crackling.

Nigel looked at the clock: Four thirty.  Good!  The parents should

have cleared the drive by now and so he should avoid the traffic

scrum.

He gingerly opened the staffroom door and peeked outside to see if

the coast was clear.

But to his chagrin and extreme annoyance, the aforementioned

Boothroyde- Smythe was hovering, with a Maths ink exercise book

in his grubby paws.

Sir! he whined.  I didn’t understand…

Nigel wearily beckoned him towards his classroom.  He wasn’t

even paid overtime!

What exactly didn’t you understand? he asked in a scarcely disguised

attempt to sound concerned.

Oh, just something that Mr Snodbury said about some educational

establishments being loser-making factories that produce the likes of

himself, sir.

Oh yes, add the vocative ‘sir’ to any kind of impertinence and it sanctifies

bare-faced cheek, Nigel thought.  However, he judiciously replied:

I expect that he was being sardonic.  Do you know that word? I suggest

that you run along and add it to your extensive prep for this evening.

But, sir, the precocious one responded, I did all my prep last night

with my tutor.

In that case, take this declension sheet as an extension.  We don’t want

your parents to think that you are being underwhelmed, do we?

Two could play at that game.  And the exercise was in multiple choice

format, so the marking would be easy-peasy.

In some ways, this type of interaction was strangely satisfying in a way

that money couldn’t buy.  Maybe that was why, in recognition, his pupils

called him Caligula.

Who needs to be a tiger tutor when you can be a leopard that doesn’t need

to change its spots?

The ‘C’ Word

Tags

007 fragrance, C word, Clanger, Dottling Pauline, Fake or Fortune?, FT, Glenelg, Goya, Grayson Perry, Judith Leibner, Life of Riley, Monica Vinader, Philip Mould, Sarah Brightman, Strictly Come Dancing, Theo Fennell, Visnja, www.howtospendit.com, Zanzan Avida Dollars

Suddenly the temperature has plummeted here in Suttonford.  (Yes, it’s Candia.)

Why have you not been regaling us with the antics of your Suttonford friends and neighbours?  I hear you ask.  Why did you publish all that poetry recently?

Well, dear readers, I had OTHER THINGS TO DO and I thought the poetry would keep you amused till I got back on track.  You see, my geraniums- the ones that didn’t even flower this summer, owing to lack of sun- had to be uprooted and brought indoors before the first frost.  Then I searched in vain for seed from my sweet peas, but they hadn’t flowered either, so there were no pods.

Now I am continually hearing the ‘C’ word bandied around town.  Yes, Christmas will be upon us and I, like my female friends, will be found prostrate over the kitchen table, my head being attacked by Goyaesque, bat-like creatures representing the nightmarish oppression of trying to figure out what to purchase for all the individuals on my festal recipient list.  Our spouses, who take little to do with such trivialities, may be found prostate from other causes, but that’s another story…

What to buy for Sonia, our clairvoyant neighbour…?

The vicar solved this one, as when I attended the Curs in Crisis event at the local church hall, I bought an auction promise of a Bell, Book and Kindle exorcism which he had donated and which our medium might like to activate against her cavalier, in every sense of the word, ghost.  A signed copy of a media-friendly London art dealer’s book: Sleuth: The Awesome Quest for Lost Art Works might be appropriate as a souvenir of her having been featured on the BBC programme, Fake or Fortune (see earlier post.)  Sonia would probably prefer the author himself, but you wouldn’t want Mould in your stocking, would you?

Gyles’ mother Ginevra is easy-peasy:

a bottle of Dewlap’s Gin for Discerning Grandmothers always hits the spot.

Unfortunately one of her family will have to invest in their future by supplying her with a Theo Fennell USA Space Shuttle Tequila shot set. £15-18,000 is somewhat out of my league.

The Husband:

likewise no problem.  Vouchers for Pop My Cork!  and a DVD of Great Cricketing Moments fits the bill.  Maybe a Life of Riley bottle trunk if he is good. (No more ogling at Ola Jordan’s hot pants in Strictly Come Dancing.)

Starstruck Cosmo, who sleeps in his observatory-or that’s his story:

James Bond OO7 fragrance and an alibi.  Or maybe a certificate twinning Suttonford with a Martian market town. ( Don’t laugh. It’s already happened in Glenelg.) Cosmo could be registered for a Space Tourist flight with Sarah Brightman and could have a promissory note in a nice envelope. (Come to think of it, SB always sounded a bit like a Clanger.)

But does he wear man perfume?  I think of Tatiana in To Russia with Love: she tried to persuade the spy to dab a little and coaxed, Russian men use scent and James Bond replied tersely: British men bathe.

Gyles:

alligator loafers. Smooth.

Tristram:

a Dottling Pauline safe- no, wait a minute!  That’s £90,000. That’s a couple of years’ school fees. I suppose he could rent out the drawers for B&B in the manner of those mortuary file hotel rooms in Tokyo.  No, he can have a set of Grayson Perry The Vanity of Small Distances table mats instead- only £360.  He likes laying the table. Clammie told me.

Carrie:

a Visnja Power brooch.  Oops- no, that is £48,000.  She’ll have to make do with some Zanzan Avida Dollars sunglasses@ £260.  Wasn’t Avida Dollars an anagram of Salvador Dali, dahling?

Brassica:

Okay, she might have sent a note up her chimney to Santa Baby for a Judith Leibner Starfish clutch bag covered in Swarovski crystals, but at £3,125, she might just have to accept a less expensive Monica Vinader Agate-print scarf.

Clammie: Pippa Middleton’s Celebrate book.  Actually, no.  I’m keeping that for myself.  She can have a tube of anti-cellulite cream to assist her in maintaining a rear formidable like the Duchess’ sister.

And so on… You see, all you have to do is visit the FT howtospendit.com– simples!

Now I can concentrate on Clammie’s Guy Fawkes Party…

 

Horological Heartbreak

Tags

Biennale des Antiquaires, Cartier, Clock, FT, Horology, Lord Alan Sugar, Nick Foulkes, United States, Watchmaker, water clocks

Hi!  It’s me- Candia again.  I have been so busy with all my Suttonford girlfriends and relating the minutiae of their riveting lives that I have somewhat merged into the background: is it possible?!

At the weekend I relaxed by reading the FT and, in particular, the Style section.  Then I realised that I could read my favourite columnists online at www.howtospendit.com

Diagram of a fancy clepsydra. Water enters and raises the figure, which points at the current hour for the day. Spillover water operates a series of gears that rotates a cylinder so that hour lengths are appropriate for today’s date. The ancient Greeks and Romans had twelve hours from sunrise to sunset; since summer days are longer than winter days, summer hours were longer than winter hours. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nick Foulkes, or Swellboy, as he is wont to be called, seems to be big on desk accessories (and I don’t mean those Rubik cubes or metal suspended orbs in a frame that might grace the consoles of executives, such as Lord Alan Sugar).  No, he tends to frequent venues, such as the Biennale des Antiquaires in order to lavish prose on luxury goods, such as Cartier timepieces and water clocks which he insists are not clepsydra of the ancients. The latter seem to feature elegant lilies which float in a crystal pond, the flower making a full circuit every twelve hours, moved by a rotating magnet.  Goodness knows how it is adjusted when BST ends.

This reminded me of a poem that I wrote some years ago about a magnetic attraction which had somehow ceased.  Maybe the chain had come off!  Here it is for all you passionate horologists out there:

 

A CLOCKWORK AFFAIR

The alarm rang.  I finally awoke.

He who had admired my hourglass figure

could never analyse what made me tick;

was unsympathetic to my moon phase.

(His mood swings were like a pendulum.)

Sometimes he seemed like an automaton.

At other times he would look raised daggers.

Yet people seemed to bracket us together.

My best friend thought he was rather striking.

But I felt he was winding me up-

like when he told me he had a pierced cock.

Although he had an open face, duplex

movements were second nature to him.

Now he’s not the mainspring of my life

any more.  We’d got into a bezel.

Tempus fugit.. it had been a long case;

it was time someone regulated things.

Mother said a man should be the hunter

and a girl’s best friend would be her jewels,

but I preferred to make my escapement

before my life was utterly screwed up.

Ultimately I ran like the clappers

to avoid horological heartbreak:

Now I don’t have fecit written on me.

Big Bang!

Tags

Big Bang, Black Hole, Border, bottling, boutique gin, Brassica, craft gin, flugelhorn, FT, Horizon, Kirstie Allsopp, Milford-Haven, Nobel Prize, preserving, Volvo

Brassica was collecting the twins from St Birinus Middle School.  The Autumn term was frantic.  She had so much bottling and preserving to do in the afternoons, even though there was a dearth of some fruits after the rainy early summer.  It was also a real nuisance that EU legislation was making it very difficult to sell her jams and jellies in the table top sales on behalf of the Parents Who Care Association. What was the world coming to when a member of airline security had fairly recently confiscated her damson jelly, with its pretty calligraphy label, which she had specifically made for an ex-pat friend?  She felt as though she was being treated as a terrorist.

But it isn’t liquid- look!  It has set beautifully.

The security frisker had looked as if she should take the argument no further.

Hello, anybody!  Do you want a free jar of jelly?

There were no takers and she had to watch the jar being consigned to a transparent bin.  Privately she bet that, as soon as the shift was over, the staff would be having lovely jam on their airport croissants.  Or maybe they would be too afraid of being poisoned.  Really! She thought of the school bully’s nickname for Castor, but then put it out of her mind.

She had been out early that morning, walking the family Border and had discovered some hugely plump sloes, so she filled her mini-trug with them and hid them under a new packet of poo bags, just in case she met anyone else and it gave the game away as to the spiny bushes’ location.

By three o’clock, they had been pricked with a thorn; sugar had been measured and they were added to some cheap gin – not from Pop My Cork!  That would have been too expensive.  The bottles were now laid down in the cellar, awaiting festive consumption.

The FT had re-assured her that she was ahead of trend yet again.  An article discussed how gin sales had risen by 27% over the past year or so and, in particular, boutique or craft gins.

She had been puzzled by these neologisms, but then the penny dropped: these were the good, old hedgerow tipples that she had been making for years, to her grandma’s recipes.

She felt that Kirstie Allsopp would have approved of her thrift, but then she wondered why that should matter.

As she drove around the semi-circular school drive, which was one-way, she glared at John’s mother’s Volvo.  John was sticking his tongue out at the twins.

Is that boy still bullying you? she asked.

Yes-no. We don’t mind. Actually he is very funny.  He got into trouble today in Assembly.

Oh, why? asked Brassie, genuinely pleased.

He was singing:

All things wise and wonderful

The Big Bang made them all..

He had to write an punishment essay at lunchbreak, which he said violated his human rights, especially as he has learning disabilities, but Caligula, we mean Mr Milford-Haven said that it was, nevertheless, an A*.

A*! Humph! grunted Brassie, almost making contact with the car in front’s bumper, which just happened to be the same Volvo which we described previously.

John said that there was an expandable universe before the Big Bang and then it bounced, just like a cricket ball.  Then there was infinite expansion, said Castor.

Infinite expansion of that child’s ego! muttered Brassie.  He simply stole all of that from ‘Horizon’    I saw it the other night. Mr Milford-Haven should mention the dangers of plagiarism in his end of term report.

But sometimes boys that get very poor reports end up getting the Nobel Prize, do they not, Mum?

Don’t you two assume anything.  Daddy and I expect wonderful reports about you or else.. She couldn’t think of any sanction, but then.. or else, she repeated, no new cricket pads.

We are both second top equal for Science.

Brassie dumped their satchels in the hall, along with the flugelhorn case.

Who’s top? she tried to sound nonchalant.

Don’t worry: Ferdy.  John’s third.

There was a puddle in the hall which she had to step over.   Wretched Border!

Mind out! she cautioned and went down to the cellar to fetch a bucket and mop.

The twins heard a cry of dismay.  They climbed down the steps.  There had been a Big Bang in the cellar.  The sloe gin had exploded and there was glass and chaos everywhere.

Oh, Mum, that’s just what John said.  Infinite expansion, commented Pollux.

You should have left some room at the top of the bottles, lectured Castor.

Brassie could have consigned them both to a Black Hole.  She stepped back into the puddle:

Shut up and go and do your prep!

And that was because she was a Very Bad Parent.