Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Tags

amphibious vehicle, BBC, Drambuie, Dyson, Garden of Gethsemane, High Priest, James Bond, Jeremy Clarkson, Judas, Lent, MacQuarrie, Malchus, Mardi Gras, Oisin, Pearly Gates, Peter, Popemobile, Sanhedrin, Van Gogh

Diana decided to sit quietly in the barmkin and study her Lenten passages.

Murgatroyd was at an auction, so theoretically she would get some peace.

Mrs Connolly kindly brought her a Drambuie coffee before she took out the

Dyson.

A bit early in the day, Mrs C? Diana queried.

Ach, it’s cold outside.  It’ll warm the cockles of your heart and put some

hair on yer chest, Mrs C opined.

Diana wasn’t really desirous of becoming hirsute in that- or any-

department.

Could you…eh, would you mind not hoovering yet?  I have to meditate

on some passages.  You could polish the silver first, if you like.

Nae bother, Mrs C agreed.  You meditate on yer passages and Ah’ll

clean the passageways. But whit’s that yer reading noo?

Oh, it’s just about Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane…you know,

when He was betrayed by Judas’ kiss.  Peter became really angry and

lashed out at the High Priest’s slave, who was probably compelled to

be there.

Sounds like that Jeremy Clarkson, sighed Mrs C.  These bullies always

go for the soft target.  The poor wee soul was only trying to do his job.

Or not, according to Clarkson, replied Diana.  Anyway, it says here in

my notes that the victim was probably called Malchus.

I thought he was called Oisin, ken? said Mrs C.

No, I mean the High Priest’s slave.  Fortunately Jesus healed his ear.

He wisnae oan hand fur Van Gogh though.  But his wis self-inflicted,

Ah suppose.

Diana wished that Mrs C would stop dusting and leave her in peace.

Ah suppose Peter wis a big chap like Clarkson.  He wis probably famished

after a long day of discipleship and jist lost his rag and threw his weight aroon.

Ah don’t fur wan moment think he’d have had a private helicopter tae take

him tae a boutique hotel.  He must have taken the sword aff wan o’ the

crowd.

Still, he didnae lose his joab over the stramash, did he?    He wis actually

promoted tae chief bouncer at The Pearly Gates, as far as Ah recall... Och,

fools rush in where angels fear tae tread, but once they’re oan the side o’

the establishment, they’ll keep ithers o’ their ilk oot.

Like making the bully Head Boy? Diana developed the thought.  She’d

never been a fan of the idea at school.

Ah’m no’ sayin’ there shouldnae be consequences fur the belligerent,

Mrs C continued. Clarkson is goin’ tae be hauled up before the Sanhedrin,

or The High Heid Yin.  MacQuarrie’s his name, Ah think.  He’ll proabably be

crucified upside doon.

Well, if Clarkson had been observing Lent, he’d have been saying cheerio

to meat anyway and he might have stayed out of trouble till Mardi Gras,

Diana laughed.  Brawn and brain.  Clarkson has both, but needs the

latter to control the former.

If Peter wis alive today, smiled Mrs C, whit kind o’ car wid he hae

driven?

A Popemobile? ventured Diana.

Mebbe an amphibious vehicle, Mrs C pushed on.  Like that James Bond

wan.  Then he could have driven over water.

I suppose Judas shows us that there is hope for villains such as Clarkson,

Diana tried to conclude the session.

But whit aboot the poor wee producer fellow?  His masters might not like

him if he’s seen as damaged goods.

He’s probably had his fifteen minutes of fame now, suggested Diana.

He’ll lapse into Malchian obscurity, but will, no doubt have sustained lifelong

scars.  At least he will have a story to tell – or sell.

So, that’s where we get the phrase  ‘givin’ somebody a severe Malky’ ? 

Ah’ve never thocht o’ it before.  Mebbe Ah should dae some o’ thon

studies an a’… Right, Ah’ll leave ye tae it then.  Whit did ye fancy fur

yer lunch, did ye say?

Just a cold platter, said Diana.  Thank you.

Blowing in the Wind

Tags

Bird's custard, funeral pyre, Gandhis, Jeremy Clarkson, memento mori, pacemaker, Richard the Third, The Ashes, The Crow Road

Dru fed the glass empties into an orifice in the bottle bank.  Gus assisted.

Hang on!  What’s this?  I thought that bag was jolly heavy, she exclaimed.

At the bottom of the jute carrier was a large urn with a paper label

sellotaped to the lid.  It read: A R- his mortal remains.

Matron must have put it in the bag, said Gus. It’s quite heavy, relatively

speaking. 

What do you mean?

Well, in comparison to The Ashes.  I was surprised to see how

insignificant they looked, given how seriously countries fight over them.

Trust you to think about cricket at a moment like this.  What about

Aunt Augusta’s remains?

Oh, I think I just left them in The Garden of Remembrance,

Gus admitted sheepishly.

How very unfeeling, chided Dru.  Anyway, what are we going to

do with these?

Take them to Wyvern Mote, I suppose and scatter them over

the aconites when no one is looking.

Dru handed the jar to her father, who promptly dropped it on

the tarmac.  The lid came off and the wind scattered the ash

over the parking bays.

Dru was horrified.

It’s the thought that counts, Gus whispered lamely.

Oh yes, and now when you think of him you will associate

your father’s resting place with…

Maybe we could scrape some up… Gus took out the spoon with

which he had been eating the trifle.  We could put some in the

Tupperware.

And have him mixed up with some Bird’s custard!  No, I think

we should say a prayer or something.  Dru bowed her head.

Eh, bless this spot, O Lord.  Greater men than my father have

been laid to rest in car parks…  Richard the Third, for one…

Oh, get in the car! expostulated Dru.  What’s that object on

the ground?

Oh, it must be his pace maker, Gus brightened up. I remember

seeing them remove one from an Indian funeral pyre.  One of the

Gandhis, perhaps?

It’s lucky it didn’t explode, said Dru.  Haven’t you read The

Crow Road?

I’ll keep it as a memento mori, said Gus.  I should have asked

for Augusta’s hip replacement.  They could have been twin

paperweights on my desk.

Suddenly a voice broke into their discussion.  It was a traffic

warden.

I did give you a few minutes before I was going to write out the

ticket, but you are parked illegally between two bays.

Here, hold this!  Gus put the remains of the urn into his hands,

along with the pacemaker, then jumped into the car.

Dru screeched out of the car park like Jeremy Clarkson leaving

Argentina.

Pity about the puncture they had to address a mile up the road.

They must have driven over the shards.

Surprised By Joy

Tags

agape, Bradford on Avon, C S Lewis, centaur, Cubist painting, Evac chair, Galahad, Inkling, James May, Jeremy Clarkson, jousting, Lancelot, Lothario, Monteverdi, Mr Tumnus, petrol head, Stannah stairlift, Surprised By Joy, The Four Loves, Thora Hird, Top Gear

Nigel Milford-Haven was rushing down the stairs which led to the school

vestibule when he almost bumped into Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master,

who was struggling with two suitcases on the landing.  Nigel was just about

to volunteer to sherpa at least one of them, since Old Snod seemed to be

moving in a curiously painful fashion, but then the erstwhile boy scout noticed

the damsel in distress and offered to take her arm and hold her crutch while

she zoomed down the flight on one of those institutional Evac chairs, like a

marginally more attractive Thora Hird going in the opposite direction to her

usual demonstration of a Stannah Stairlift.

He thankfully failed to observe Augustus’ clutching of his own bruised

and battered crotch as he descended the stairwell like a Cubist painting

in motion.

You know, I think we’ve met, the Junior Master said thoughtfully when he

reached the bottom and unstrapped Dru from the safety belt, in a curiously

intimate gesture of assistance.

Yes, it was at the joint schools’ evensong, Drusilla replied, holding onto

the polished banister with both hands, now that they were free. I teach

at St Vitus’.

Mr Milford-Haven, my daughter, Drusilla.

Nigel nearly lost his footing on the last step.  Daughter!  He hadn’t known

that Snod was a married man.  Oh, maybe he wasn’t!  Nigel knew that he,

himself, was rather conventional when it came to that sort of thing.  But who

would have guessed that Old Snod had hidden fires.  Maybe he was a

widower?

Nigel had always viewed Gus as a kind of non-Christian Inkling, if that wasn’t

an oxymoron.  He would ask Matron, Fount of All Information, if she had any

inkling about it. (He was rather pleased with that joke.)

Hmm, Snod as Lothario! Mind you, he was a law unto himself. He had been

known to skip Assembly and Hymn Practices when the Spirit did not move him,

so any level of debauchery was theoretically possible.

Now that he was able to glimpse the woman, she did bear a resemblance

around the jawline.  Did women have jowls?  Would it have mattered to C S

Lewis if they did?  He would probably have still married anyone who needed

a British passport, out of sheer agape.

But it was one of the stronger Four Loves than agape that struck the youthful

form teacher.  He felt Surprised By Joy.

Enchante, he said in his best Franglais. You do seem to have been in the

wars somewhat. I trust that the injury is not too severe?  He shook her hand

vigorously, forgetting that her equilibrium was not yet steady.

He glanced at Snod, but decided to say nothing about the old boy’s

wounded expression.

Let me carry your cases out to your car, sir, he offered in his new-found role

as Sir Galahad.  You look as if someone has kicked you in the..

Yes, all right, Milford-Haven, Snod interrupted, nodding towards Dru, to remind

Nigel that he was in the presence of a female.  Sir Galahad and Lancelot

would not have been employing such non-courtly language, so Snod wasn’t

about to award his daughter as jousting prize to a Knight with No Garter of

Gentilesse.

Having safely stowed Snod behind his own steering-wheel, like Polonius behind

an arras, Nigel carefully took Dru’s crutches from her and placed them in the

boot.

Going anywhere nice then? he enquired, according to the textbook of chat-up

lines.

We are going to my mother’s house in Bradford-upon-Avon, she volunteered.

It’s to be a nice surprise.

Well, that is a surprise indeed, said Nigel, who was completely on the ball

now that the term was over.  You see, I’m going to Bath with Mr Poskett,

the choirmaster, to take part in a Monteverdi workshop for countertenors.

Perhaps you could all come to the final concert on the Saturday?  He felt in

his pocket and took out a crumpled flyer.

Drusilla accepted it and couldn’t help thinking that her father should join

the class as his voice had been elevated by a couple of octaves after the

attack on his crown jewels.  However, she suppressed this amusing thought.

Can’t say it’s my cup of tea, said Gus, winding down the car window and

signalling his eagerness to depart.

Having helped Dru to swivel her fairly attractive legs into the small car, Nigel

mimed a telephone call as Gus reversed.

Call me, he shouted enthusiastically.  The number of the music school is on

the back of the leaflet.

He leapt out of reach of a spray of gravel as Snod pretended to be James May,

or Jeremy Clarkson.  He was showing off to his daughter, who actually

detested Top Gear and all it stood for.  She preferred centaurs to petrol

heads.

I’m surprised that he’s lasted more than a term here, said Snod, a shade

ungraciously, given the logistical assistance that they had just been given.

But Dru had always found the counter tenor voice very alluring.

What is he called? she asked airily.  I didn’t catch his name.

Secretly he reminded her of Mr Tumnus.  Bless!

Two Brains Are Better than One

Tags

amygdala, bliss point, blueberries, fight or flight, frontal cortex cells, frontal lobes, hippocampus, Jeremy Clarkson, Man Flu, Mocha, multi-task, showrooming, Stick Cricket, Superfood, tend and befriend, Tesco, walnut oil, Weetabix

Aaagh! sighed Carrie, dropping her shopping bag on the floor and settling

herself onto the awkward height of a Costamuchamoulah trendy bar stool.

What’s the matter? I asked.

Oh, they’ve just run out of blueberries in Tesco- again.

Not a major tragedy, I think.  This was unspoken.

Well, it’s all the mummies in Tiger-Lily’s class. They bulk buy just before

the exams, as blueberries are supposed to be super foods for the brain.

I know, sympathised Clammie.  Sherry wanted Weetabix and stocks are

running out because of the poor wheat harvest.  Brown cereals are so big

this year.

Quick! Look! nudged Brassie.

What?

It’s that woman whose daughter is in the accelerated set.  She’s

showrooming, breathed Carrie.

What’s that? we enquired, annoyed that we weren’t au fait with the latest

argot.

It means, explained Carrie, that she just zooms around Costamuchamoulah

and suchlike premises, noting what they stock and their prices.  She then

stores the information on her phone and orders, more cheaply, what she

fancies online.

How very enterprising! I ventured to remark.

No! I was contradicted.  How can shops and retail premises survive, if

customers don’t support them?  We like coming in here for over-priced

coffees, but management have to cover their council tax and cost of staff.

That’s why customer service and ambience is so important, reinforced

Brassie.

So where is that Mocha you ordered ages ago? I asked mischievously.

Apparently some stores are going to charge for entry, to combat such

behaviour from people who have no intention of purchasing, Clammie added.

Then, if you buy something, the entry fee would be deducted from the

purchase price.

Well, there she goes.  She’s just noted the price of that

virgin-pressed walnut oil.  What a brass neck!

complained Clammie, monitoring Mata Hari’s

modus operandi.

Some people are just wired differently from you and I,

soothed Carrie.

Yes, I agreed.  And most of them are men.

What do you mean, Candia? 

Oh, I was reading the BBC news online today, and there is research to show

just how differently the brain works in the two genders.

But are there only two genders? Brassie asked, provocatively.

I ignored her.

Oh yeah, interjected Carrie.  I read that a man’s amygdala

triggers a fight or flight response, like whenever I ask Gyles to

do something practical, such as taking out the bin.

Whereas, contributed Brassie, a woman’s response would be

to tend and befriend. That’s why we meet here, isn’t it? 

To support each other. I read the article too.

Yes, and all that talk about men not being able to multi-task is

apparently another male diversionary ploy, I confirmed.

Men multi-task 39 hours a week, but women have to do it for

48 hours per week. (Brassie substantiated my point, showing that

she had, indeed, studied the report in depth.)

That’s why guys have 9 hours more spare time than we do, so they can

play Stick Cricket online, or watch Jeremy Clarkson, I agreed, with

feeling.

Men are supposed to be decisive, owing to their strong frontal lobes,

added Clammie, but I seem to make all the important decisions in our

house.

In the report, I continued, it said that in evolutionary times, women

had to be alert at all times, as they had responsibility for looking

after the children.

So, we are not living in evolutionary times now? queried Brassie.

Well, nothing has significantly moved on, pointed out Clammie.

Oh, come on, girls: men do cook sometimes. Carrie defended her

spouse.

Yes, but do they ever clear up properly? I retorted.

Women can remember things better than men, observed Brassie.

That’s true, we all agreed.

It’s something to do with the hippocampus, she elucidated.

Well, you seem to have forgotten that you ordered a Mocha

some time ago, and so has the waitress, so where does that

leave our theory? I joked.  Everyone ignored me.

Gyles is always amazed that I remember everyone’s phone number and

I send out all the birthday cards- even to members of his family that I

have never met, Carrie elaborated.

Such as? I pressed.

Oh, I forget- his aunt so-and-so and uncle Thingy.

Brassie changed tack: And men always claim to feel pain more

intensely.

Man Flu!  We all laughed.

They’re really just little boys, Brassie pronounced.

Yes, that’s why they bite people on the football pitch when they

get over-excited, stated Carrie.

Yes, agreed Clammie.  But women have been shown to have superior

planning skills and with more frontal cortex cells they govern their

impulses better.

Oooh, look! They’ve got blueberry slices! Carrie couldn’t contain

herself. The waitress had just placed a plateful beside the till.

A Dutch study has shown that women need to eat more to achieve a

feeling of fullness, or satiety.  We crave sugar more than males and store

fat to support babies through gestation, I informed everyone.

I’ll have one now that my Mocha has arrived! enthused Brassie.

What? A baby? I teased.  She ignored me.

See! I told you the waitress hadn’t forgotten. And she selected one of

the biggest cakes on offer.

But, remind me- you are not pregnant, I cautioned.

No, but I recognise my bliss point, she tried to say, while stuffing the goo

down her throat.

Which is? asked Carrie.

Oh, I forget!  Something to do with the balance between food and joy..;

the precise level of sweetness that makes consumption enjoyable.

You mean when you transgress that feeling of guilt? I suggested.

Absolutely, she laughed.

Let’s all have one and another round of coffees, Carrie tempted us.

Sugar lights up the brain, so let’s fuel our grey matter and keep ahead

of our families, Clammie encouraged us.

There’s no harm in that, agreed Carrie.  And, let’s face it: we are only sinking

our teeth into a fruit slice; not into our fellow man.

Mmmm! Certainly more palatable, I agreed, forgetting the calories.

Must check these out online.  They must be cheaper elsewhere.

Oranges Are A Versatile Fruit 1 and 2

Tags

Arkwright, Cif, Civet coffee, Clairvaux, D H Lawrence, horned viper, Jean Le Pen, Jeanette Winterson, Jeremy Clarkson, Lady Chatterley, Mrs Dalloway, Oliver Reed, Only Connect, Open All Hours, Oxford Dictionary Quotations, persimmon, Prof Brian Cox, Ronnie Barker, Seville oranges, Sodom, Thomas Hardy

Chlamydia quietly inserted her key in the lock, stealthily crept into the

hall and deposited her A La Mode carrier in the downstairs loo.  Even

sashaying down The High Street she had imagined a universal disapproval,

rather than registering the global admiration she had been wont to

expect for toting such an item.  There was a recession on, after all,

and, even though she had received a 70% discount, she could hear a

self-justifying voice- probably emanating from her Bad Angel, who was

misquoting D H Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley:

A woman has to live her life, or live to spend, not having lived..

It also whispered:

The cataclysm has happened.. (agreed: we’ve fallen off a fiscal cliff like a

bunch of lemmings)..We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies

have fallen.

Oh!

Tristram had just come into the kitchen to help himself to a second

Balmadies Estate Civet Cat from the cooling cafetiere.

(Why did a brew which had been circulated through the digestive

system of an Indonesian monkey taste that good?

I dunno. Try it for yourself and tell me.)

She jumped.

Everything all right?

Yes, eh.. (Why wouldn’t that wretched D H Lawrence voice go away?

There it was again):

What the eye doesn’t see, and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.

Imagine trying that one on –say- Prof Brian Cox, if you were married

to him.

All very well, but she hoped Tristram wouldn’t feel a sudden urge to

use the downstairs cloakroom.

No, there’s no loo paper in there.  Go upstairs, she advised

breathlessly.

She felt…. that she had come to the real bedrock of her nature, and

was essentially shameless…And it felt exciting!

Okay, she had paid for the outfit from her own account, but that

Morality Play Horned Viper was hissing, or wasn’t that a

hieroglyph on Only Connect? 

She was beginning to feel like Mrs

Dalloway. All this stream of consciousness was so exhausting and

tangential!  What was the reptile hissing?

You’re spending your life without renewing it…

True.  She knew this only too well.  When was it that she would

be getting her pittance of a pension?  It was a receding crock at the

end of a metaphorical rainbow.

Tristram decided to go out and buy some Seville oranges.  It was that

time of year.  It was his thing. He’d sterilised the jars that morning

while she was out.

She couldn’t deceive him.  He was good-natured about his wife’s

furtive behaviour.  A quotation from D H Lawrence came to mind:

If you could only tell them that living and spending isn’t the same

thing!  But it’s no good.

2

At home, the Rev Bernard Ockham settled into his study, ready to

apply his usually razor-sharp mind to his Sunday sermon.  He felt well

prepared for his day.  He had been out early to purchase two bags of

Seville oranges, for it was that time of year and preservation was his

sinless predilection, though he blushed to recollect his faux pas at his

host’s table in Bric-a-Brac. (twinned with Suttonford, you

recall.)

Yes, his host had been explaining how the French have bread at

every meal and Bernard- he was being relatively informal en

vacances and had been exchanging tus and using first name address-

had mentioned that, in England, he did not like to eat too much bread

because, and here he launched unwisely into Franglais,

..car en Angleterre le pain est plein de preservatives.

Everyone choked or suppressed cris de horreur and his host gently

supplied le bon mot: conservateurs.

He would never again discuss preservation off cultural terra firma,

but he was still enthralled by the process.  He had sterilised his Kilner

jars that very morning.  Well, they were made by someone related to

that earthy Jeremy Clarkson, so you couldn’t be too careful.  Selah.

Just a gospel draft to get under way and then a spot of male culinary

activity.  He’d noticed Tristram Percival was buying his dented citrus too.

Be sure your sins will find you out, especially if you are married…he

scribbled.  Wasn’t that from D H Lawrence?

His wife crept into the study, bearing a cup of tea and two of his

favourite fig biscuits.  Keeps him regular, she thought.  And didn’t Ronnie

Barker as Arkwright connote fig biscuits and loo rolls in Open All Hours?

Was the latter phrase the title of the episode or the physiological effect on

the consumer’s digestive system? Hmm..Sybil didn’t want to go there.

She was in a very good mood and was flushed and radiant, but Bernard-

named after the regulator of Clairvaux- but I digress, Bernard.. had been

married for a long time. (The vicar, I mean.)  He knew that sufficient unto

the moment is the appearance of reality, so he wisely joined in the charade

of connubial bliss.

Back to the sermon.  He had lost his drift.  Oranges are not the only

fruit.. No, wait a minute!  Ancient scholars have said that Eve

tempted Adam with a persimmon.

The apples of Sodom today .. St

Theresa…riven with an ecstasy, a rapture.  Synonym for rapture,

ideally alliterating with r?  Ah, yes, ravishment.  Could fit with

banishment.  Is it a noun?  Oxford Dictionary of Quotations–

Some things can’t be ravished.  You can’t ravish a tin of sardines..

And so many women are like that.  D H Lawrence again!

Yes, the flush on Sybil’s face was alive enough to die.  Or was that

from Thomas Hardy?  That bloom only seemed to be engendered on

her visage by a visit to that wretched A la Mode.  As if he didn’t know.

He had used the downstairs loo that morning and had tripped over the

carrier.   Blow it!  He felt quite bereft and negative regarding the

lack of communication and physical intimacy between them. She never

modelled her outfits for him nowadays. What was it that degenerate

Lawrence had advised?  No, not nude wrestling.  That was just typical of

Oliver Reed.

He picked up the Dictionary again:

I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some

marmalade.  It’s amazing how it cheers one up to shred orange and

scrub the floor.

Odd, but Lawrence had probably influenced Jeanette Winterson.

She should write a sequel: Oranges Are Pretty Versatile Fruit. 

Or he could make that the basis for his sermon Sunday next.

Pure serendipity or Providence- whatever!

And scrubbing the floor could be quite sexy, as Jean-Marie Le Pen’s

ex-wife Pierrette had demonstrated to Le Monde Entier.

Quick, where was that Cif?

 

 

 

 

 

Equity Release

Tags

aphrodisiac, Calvados, Charente, equity release, hallowe'en, Jeremy Clarkson, line dancing, Monster Trucks, Northanger Abbey, Richard Hammond, Skype, Top Gear, vide grenier

Gyles Brewer-Mead called in to see his mother, Ginevra, just before her bedtime.  She was ninety-three, but managed fairly well with the help of her carer.  Lately they had had to contact another agency, as her previous live-in assistant, Ola, had gone to live in Normandy with Jean-Paul, a widower whom she had met during Suttonford’s twinning exchange.  Jean-Paul had been billeted with the ladies. Gyles thought he’d drop by unannounced, to see how Magda, the new helpmate, was coping.

Gyles!  Help yourself to a ‘Dewlap’, his mother said.

No thanks, Mother.  I’ve got to go home and help to check the boys’ prep.  Have you had a good day?  How is the new carer doing?

Oh, Magda?  She’s all right.  Pretty strong.  This afternoon she carried two cases of ‘Dewlap’ and a couple of bottles of ‘Jane Austen’s Secret Tipple’ all the way from ‘Pop My Cork!’ and she didn’t even need the shopping trolley.  Mind you, she didn’t know who Jane Austen was!  I read her ‘Northanger Abbey’- just to put her in the picture with a bit of Gothic before Hallowe’en.  It took all afternoon. Actually, she didn’t know what Hallowe’en was either.  She asked if it was like Walpurgis Night.  Wrong time of year, I told her.

Maybe that’s a bit stretching for her, Mother.  She’s only been in England a couple of weeks and the form said that her English was basic, or foundation level. 

Well, that’s why she’s here: to learn! said his mother, draining her glass and looking around for a re-fill.  At any rate, she knows how little tonic I take, so I’ve no complaints as yet. Oh, by the way, I have had two letters today- both from France- and a package.

Oh, from whom?  (Gyles always was somewhat pedantic, his mother thought).

One was from your sister, Victoria.  She complains about having to use escargot mail.  But I’m not getting Skype at my age.

How is she?  (His sister lived with her partner in the Charente and sold cloudy mirrors and rusty garden furniture to make ends meet.)

In Cloud Cuckoo Land, comme d’habitude, said Ginevra.

And the other one?  From anyone I know?

Yes, from Ola.  She’s moved into Jean-Paul’s converted bakehouse.  They sent me a lovely bottle of ‘Calvados’.  We drank it while we were studying ‘Northanger Abbey.’  Ola says Jean-Paul loves line dancing, vide greniers-apparently that’s French for car boots- and they adore Monster Truck races.  It’s so cultural out there.  I’ve seen those Monster Trucks on that programme with Jeremy Clarkson.

I didn’t know you were a fan of ‘Top Gear’, mother.

Well, I really only like Richard Hammond, she pronounced.  You know how one shrinks with age, so he’s more my size.  They call him the Hamster, you know!

Really?  Gyles was always amazed at his mother’s undiminished mental capacities.

Anyway, she continued, they’ve asked me over in the New Year when it’s their turn to offer hospitality to us.  They say the oysters are aphro…I was going to say Caribbean, but that’s not the word I want.

..disiacs, supplied Magda who now entered the television room.

You see!  I thought that ‘Northanger’ would improve her vocabulary! Ginevra crowed.  Magda, you’re going to help me on the ferry and with the steps up to the coach, aren’t you?

Simples, said Magda.

Well, that’s a few months from now. There might be a lot of water under the bridge by then, cautioned Gyles.

They don’t have a bridge over the Channel, silly.  Oh, stop being such a spoilsport, said his mother.  You and your sister are provided for in the will, so I intend to go out on a high and, if I spend it all, that’s my prerog..

..ative, supplied Magda.

Right.  I want to regret rien. 

Indeed, said Gyles, rather taken aback.  We wouldn’t want you to stint yourself or to have to take equity release on your property in order to live comfortably.

But Gyles, that’s just what I’ve done!  What do you think has been paying for my drinkies and carers?

Gyles was shocked.  He would have to break it to Carrie.  If anything happened to the old girl they might have to send the boys to one of the perfectly respectable academic comprehensives in the area and Tiger-Lily would have to leave St Vitus’ School for the Academically Gifted- not that she seemed to value her opportunities.  She was more interested in fake tan as far as he could see.

I think I’ll have a ‘Dewlap’ after all, he said, sinking into the pouffe.

Bottoms up! said Magda.