Location, Location, Location

Tags

Balti House, Boden, forever home, Kirstie Allsopp, Listed Building Consent, Little Greene paint, Location, micro-brewery, One Direction, Phil Spencer, poppadoms, Rumpelstiltskin, Skyfall, Welsh flagstones

Sorry, Cindy, this a re-blog!

Clammie had succeeded in getting her own way, as usual.  Tristram, her longsuffering husband, had been instructed to come home early from work, even though there was a big contract in the offing, as she had arranged a viewing of the eight-bedroomed, double-fronted Georgian house in High Street, Suttonford- (the one she had lusted after through the window of Shelley’s Estate Agency.)

Tristram had been unenthusiastic-understandably so-, given that their outgoings on school fees and mortgage were already crippling them financially and they had not even put their own home on the market.  So Clammie had brought in the big guns, namely Kirstie and Phil from the programme, Location, Location, Location.

Tristram was on a hiding to nothing and he knew it.  He had dutifully returned early, but Clammie had already smoothed most of the logistical difficulties by arranging for her boys to go to an early screening of Skyfall with Brassica and her twins.  Scheherezade was going to stay over at Tiger-Lily’s to work on their joint art project, while listening to One Direction.  Seven pm was an annoying time for a viewing, but Kirstie was a busy woman and that was the time they had been given.

Clammie had laid out his best, but casual Boden gear and then she had spent most of the afternoon trying to look cutting-edged, but understated.  This meant that she hadn’t organised a meal for their return, so Tristram telephoned and placed an order for an Indian takeaway with Benares Balti House.  He just hoped that the salt content wouldn’t do irreparable harm to his kidneys.

When Kirstie- certainly not understated- opened the door and ushered them into the hall of Nemesis House, Clammie fell instantly in love.  It would have made more economic sense if she had fallen for the rather dishy cameraman, but they squeezed past him as if he was invisible and the first soundbite to be recorded was Clammie uttering the totally original : Wow!  She then produced the suspect sentence that she had been invited to use in order to promote the programme:

Our priority is Location, Location, Location.

The camera focussed on Tristram, but not picking up the appropriate expression, swivelled to Clammie again, who said:

The large kitchen-cum-dining room has just the dimensions we crave for family bonding at mealtimes.

Kirstie felt she had it in the designer handbag, so she allowed them to go upstairs with Dan, the cameraman and then she texted Phil, who was sinking a pint in The Peal o’ Bells around the corner.

Get butt here pdq.  Sense sale.  Wild card not needed.  If no deal will eat espadrille. Kirstie addressed him differently off-camera.  She’d been on her feet all day and so she slipped off her wedged platforms and cooled her stockinged soles on the Welsh flagstones in the kitchen.

Phil thought: In my own time, hussy.  (He was enjoying a third pint of the local micro-brewery’s Old Badger and was getting the low-down on the market from some of the locals.)  However, he knew all about being shown the red card, so he drained the glass, wiped the froth off his upper lip and hared it round the corner.

Clammie rushed into the kitchen, flushed and exclaiming:

Most of our furniture would fit and a lick of Little Greene paint would cover the cinnabar in the hall and the cardamom in the boot room.  Listed Building Permission for a few things and hello! –I mean, Voila! – Our Forever Home!  She looked into the lens, hoping that the entire nation would recognise her bilingual skills.

So you want me to phone Shelley’s in the morning to make an offer?  Kirstie could see a sunbed featuring on her horizon.  I think we should go in at the asking price.

Tristram wanted to put his foot down, but he knew that even Rumpelstiltskin could have put his foot through the floor and it would have made no impression on his wife.  The cameraman gave him a sympathetic look.  Both women ignored him.

Phil let himself in with the spare key.  Before he could enter the kitchen a make-up girl powdered his receding hairline.

Quick work, Kirstie, but just before you get too excited, I have something to say.  Do you want the good news or the bad news?

I don’t like these infantile games, Phil, Kirstie scolded, nodding to the cameraman to switch off.

A guy in the pub has just told me that the owner of the Balti House put in a good offer this afternoon and they’ve taken it off the market.

What did he offer? shrieked Clammie.

The full asking price, I believe, said Phil, who just wanted to go home.

But we would have offered more. Gazump them! screamed Clammie, turning the colour of Vindaloo.  Clearly she planned Montezuma’s revenge.

Sorry, said Phil.  He sealed the deal with a promise of complimentary poppadoms for life.

Kirstie spat, Poppadoms are SO last century.  It was difficult to make out what she was saying, though, as true to her word, she was beginning to eat her espadrille.

It dawned on Tristram that Balti, along with something else, was going to be off the menu for a very long time.  He hoped Kirstie and Phil, or the cameraman and make-up girl, might like a doggy bag at eight thirty. Meanwhile, the indignity of it: he would have to join the queue for pollock and chips at Frying Tonite.  He’d never get the smell out of his new Boden Chinos.

 

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Celebrity Sightings

Tags

Boris Johnson, Caribbean, celebrity sighting, doppelganger, Edward Scissorhands, George Osborne, grog, hoop ear-rings, Jack Sparrow, Johnny Depp, Keira Knightley, Kirstie Allsopp, kohl, New Forest, Phil Spencer, Pilate, Pugwash, Somali pirate, True Cross, Ugg, walking plank

Scheherezade and Tiger-Lily were still on their Easter break from school.

They’d decided to go to their favourite coffee shop, Costamuchamoulah,

to be seen and to give autographs to any members of the Lower School

who might happen upon them.

But suddenly-Aaaaagh!!! Did you see who that was? shrieked Tiger.

Yeah, I think that was him, verified Sherry, hot-footing it down High Street

as fast as her Ugg boots would permit.

Johnny Depp had reputedly bought a house in The New Forest and several

local publications had printed “evidence” of his having graced local sylvan

hostelries in his quest to quench his thirst with some grog.

If all these sightings were to be summarised then they would far outnumber

the multiple venerations of the True Cross in Medieval Europe and would,

no doubt, be as authentic.  It was fantastical to think of any unities of time

or place in these much vaunted protestations of having witnessed a real

presence.

No, mum, I swear it was him, hyper-ventilated Tiger.

Maybe it was a doppelganger, teased Carrie.

What’s that?

A double, someone who looks like him, suggested Carrie, peeling some

potatoes. She wondered if Keira Knightley peeled vegetables and what

hand cream she would use if she did.

Sherry added: The Daily Mail reported that it might have been Johnny Depp’s

son who was with him, although the boy spoke perfect English.

And what would that sound like, man? laughed Carrie.  I thought that the

prescriptive idea of language was old hat. Everything in linguistics is organic,

like these potatoes!

I bet his son’ll go to a private school, said Tiger dreamily.

Anyway, interrupted Sherry, two reporters from The Suttonford Chronicle

cornered him- Johnny, I mean, but he made a getaway by going into Tesco

Express.  He came out carrying a 12 pack…

..of beer? asked Carrie.

No, Andrex. Actually it was a 14 pack, as there’s a special offer on at

the moment and you get 2 rolls free. 

I wonder what the reporters were asking that so annoyed him?

mused Carrie, making a mental note of the special offer, especially as

she had a double points coupon that needed to be cashed in by the end

of the month.

They had got a little confused, explained Tiger, taking the peelings to the bin,

in an uncharacteristically altruistic action which was completely for Sherry’s

benefit.  Sometimes Carrie felt that she was expected to be Edwina

Scissorhands with all the domestic chores with which she was

burdened when the cleaner was on holiday.

Johnny wasn’t the only skilled thespian on the planet. Tiger wanted

to look good in front of her friend, so she put on an Oscar-worthy

performance of a dutiful daughter.

They thought he was a Somali pirate and that they had some sort of Channel

4 scoop, she elucidated.

Carrie typed in “Depp” and “Suttonford Chronicle” and sourced the article on

her tablet.

Oh look, she commented, they can’t spell Caribbean! Ah…they say

that he also has a thirteen year old daughter called Lily-Rose.

I bet she’ll be coming to our school, breathed Sherry.  She’ll probably be in

the year below us.

Well, said Carrie astringently, he’d have to be a Somali pirate to afford the

increase in fees.  If George Osborne has anything to do with it we will all be

walking the financial plank over shark-infested seas. Let’s hope Captain

Sparrow has the vital pieces-of-eight.  Oh, it says that he is going to return

  to the role in 2015.

Wow! enthused Tiger that means…

Yeah, interjected Sherry, that kohl, bandannas and hoop ear-rings are

going to be mega!

Tiger regained the conversational floor: And everyone will want to go to

Somalia for his/her gap year.

It’s not in the Caribbean, lectured Carrie.  Honestly, what did they learn in

Geography now?  Pupils seemed to be out and about doing street surveys

on celebrity sightings, but most of the kids couldn’t distinguish one

international shopping mall from another and didn’t know if they were in

Dubai, or Doncaster. They seemed to know as little about location as

most of Kirstie Allsopp and Phil Spencer’s clients.

On second thoughts, she didn’t think the students she knew would be

familiar with Doncaster…

She had seen past articles in The Guardian and The Sunday Correspondent  on

Captain Pugwash, where journalists affected confusion over the names of

cartoon pirates and simply fabricated the facts- and were sued.  (Maybe

Boris Johnson had learned a trick or two from them about sexing up details.)

She sincerely hoped that the girls would be able to distinguish fact from fiction.

But, as Pilate said, What is Truth?  And he had had its prime example standing

right in front of him.  Still, veracity was an educational objective, surely?

Who could tell? Had it been Johnny Depp in Suttonford, or was it a case of

mass hysteria and mistaken identity?

Hogwash/Pugwash?  Nowadays it was increasingly difficult to distinguish

the two!

Citric Acid

Tags

Agrumes, Americano, Arborio, cashed up bogans, chamois, Citric acid, Dorothy Wordsworth, George Formby, Jane Austen, Kirstie Allsopp, Madeleine Morris, Mocha, quantitative easing, scurvy, Tesco Express, urban rednecks, Vitamin C

What on earth will I cook tonight? I thought, rushing up

the road to Tesco Express.  Let’s see, we have had lamb,

pork, fish, beef.. Oh, I know: prawns! A nice risotto with

Arborio rice. What ingredients do I need to buy?  Ah, a

lime. 

What! Thirty five pence for that tiny green agrume!

Well, I am not the only one to moan about the price of

citrus. Madeleine Morris, the BBC’s Australia correspondent

was griping that a lime in the Antipodes will set you back the

equivalent of £1.50.

No doubt, on paying for it, you would have a face that would look

as if you had sucked its larger yellow relation.

Morris said that Australians didn’t know that they had

it so good, as there has been no recession Down Under and

the drives of urban  rednecks, or cashed up bogans are often

full of boys’ toys which demonstrate this particular species’

spending power.

Unfortunately she felt that being able to afford garnishes for

their gin and tonics and Margaritas did not always go hand in

hand with a display of common sense. She considered that the

moneyed do not always have a wealth of education to match.

Note that she said that, not me!

Anyway, with no sunshine here, I have got to stump up, or

I will probably succumb to some kind of deficiency.  However,

I once read that a lemon has about 75% more Vitamin C than

a lime, so maybe I should just buy an unripe lemon, or a plastic

one and squirt the liquid into the risotto when no one is looking.

I was recounting my experience of rising prices with Carrie in

Costamuchamoulah café. We are not cutting back on caffeine yet.

She was moaning about the price of having her windows cleaned.

You could just clean them yourself with newspaper and vinegar, I

suggested.

She looked at me as if I was mad.  Vinegar smells, she said.

Well, use lemon, but don’t clean them in sunlight.

You’ve just told me the price of citrus, so how many would I need?

she asked.

Okay, I see your point. My chap has put up his prices too and

when he said that he couldn’t clean some of the panes at the rear

of the house as it was too slippery to put up the ladder, I deducted

a percentage of the cost.

That was bold of you, she remarked, but what did he say?

He said he wanted a cup of coffee then, with four sugars.

Scurvy knave!

They all are, I agreed. Different if you offer. Then I thought

that as coffee is expensive, I’d charge him £2.50 for every cup

that he wheedles out of me.

Good idea, she said.  That’s quite cheap compared to here. 

You could sprinkle some cocoa powder over it and call it a

Mocha and charge him one pound more. Or, –now she was

becoming excited – you could put a few mini-marshmallows

on top and have your windows done for free.  Unless we have

more quantitative easing, we will all be going back to barter. 

Imagine Kirstie Allsopp’s next programme. She is capable of

showcasing herself as a kind of expert on haggling: ‘If I give you

a crotcheted egg warmer, will you replace the tile on my

roof?’

There have already been quite a few programmes where

so-called celebrities try to hassle people to give away their

goods for next to nothing, I observed.

Yes, and apparently, when the shop owners and dealers see the

television cameras coming now, they lock their premises, or flee.

Hmm..I replied. I don’t think barter would work somehow. Even

for Kirstie. I think it would alienate my window cleaner.  He told me

he could get £40 per hour elsewhere if I didn’t want him to come any

more. I replied that qualified and experienced invigilators of public

exams with multiple degrees and years of teaching experience earn

less per hour than a Suttonford dog walker. I was trying to get him

to be reasonable.

So did it have an impact?

I don’t know, but I felt better when I only put three spoonfuls

of the old Demerara into his mug.

Do you think that you are becoming bitter? she asked, sipping

at her Americano.

No, I have just reached the age when I could teach my grandmother

to suck eggs and, if I look as if I have sucked a lime, well, it may be

the last opportunity I have had before I eschew the little blighters for

ever!

Well, be careful, Carrie advised.  Remember George Formby.  In his

song he made the point that window cleaners get to see a lot.  They

could blackmail people.  Here, for instance, neighbours would

love to know if you hadn’t made the beds by ten o’clock.

Do you make yours by then? I asked.

Don’t be silly, she said.  My cleaner makes ours.

Don’t you worry that she will gossip about all your business?

Of course not.  We pay her protection money.

So, maybe my coffee bribe is a good idea?

I’d say so.  And, if you want to be kept out of the town limelight,

a Christmas bonus would be a good idea too. Make a tangible

commemoration of the anniversary of his first visit and offer to

carry his buckets and chamois to the van.

Maybe I will just do them myself from now on.  Then I can afford

the odd spurt of acidic.  In fact, I feel a large G and T coming on

at the very thought.

Anyway, if you think about it, it rains so much nowadays, that

there’s little point in doing them at all, mused Carrie.

I’ll drink to that! I said.  After all, Jane Austen and Dorothy

Wordsworth weren’t known for their sparkling windows.

They weren’t known for wasting their time, writing silly

blogs either.

Touche.  Sourpuss!

 

 

Austerity Round Robin

Tags

Artem, Danny Alexander, Duchess of Cambridge, Eminem, Grayson Perry, Harriet Harman, Kirstie Allsopp, Lynne Truss, meggings, nausea, onesie, Portsea Island, Strictly Come Dancing, Tiger, Tracey Emin

Dear Victoria,

Am slightly ‘put oot,’ as they say north of the border, by Lynne Truss, that

witty journalist, nicking my idea for a satirical response to the Round Robin

letter, especially as I was just about to write mine.

We wish you and Andre a healthy and prosperous New Year.  You’ll be glad to

know that Kirstie Allsopp has popularised the de-worming, not only of pets,

but of all kinds of old skip-rescued furniture, so you will be able to continue

shipping your trove of tat over here for some time to come.  Austerity is good

for business.  Or your line of same. Sounds like it should be a proverb.

It’s been a hectic year as usual, with it being Suttonford’s turn to host le

jumelage exchange visit with Bric-a-brac.  The exciting news is that Ola,

Ginevra’s erstwhile carer, –the one who went off for some deeper mutualite

with the widower who had been billeted with your mother- is in a state of

infanticipation and her EDD coincidentally matches that of The

Duchess of Cambridge.  Magda, the replacement carer from the agency,

has gone over to Normandy to visit her compatriot and to help see

her through the period of la nausee – (wasn’t that a book?  I must

look it up on Amazon.) She might just be doing some research on the

the availability of spare widowers.

Gyles is fine.  Working hard to pay all the school fees.  Of course,

Tiger being a scholarship girl helps a bit. (15%)  I hope he likes the meggings

I have purchased for his Xmas.  I also hope he agrees to wear the onesie I

bought him for Brassie’s Strictly party on Saturday Night.    It’s either that or a

bare-chested Artem glitter special for his samba number.  We all have to do a

dance, but he said that he wanted to cover up and wished everyone would.

Spoilsport.

Talking of Tiger: it was an amazing privilege for her to have been

asked to carry the Olympic torch in the summer.  Gyles and I were

annoyed that she refused to wear the uncool white tracksuit.   It

wasn’t so very different from her polar bear onesie, I thought, and she never

takes that off.  Grey onesie, really.

Rollo went on a Parisian parkour programme in the hols and Ming

went wingsuit skydiving.  We did not tell their grandparents, though.

They were very proud of Ferdy winning the Mini Scientist of the Year

Award, all because Mr Milford-Haven had the foresight and nous to send his

essay on recessive genes and hair colour to Danny Alexander and various

government nobs.  Spelling? After the Harriet Harman episode, the Treasury

was only too happy to provide a generous grant for the newly instituted

award.  They seem to have the finances for some things. Of course, Gyles

spent half a term helping Ferd with the wretched thing, bless.

Ming was singled out for his ceramic project and has been making

pots with Grayson Perry.  He has to wear an overall to protect his

school uniform from all the slip clay, but wonders how his mentor

manages in those baby dolls.  He tries to remember to call him Clare.

Of course, Tiger’s heroine is Tracey Emin, or Eminem, as the boys have

dubbed her.  I don’t think Tiger has made her bed for a year now and

she refuses the cleaner entry to her room in case she disturbs her

work-in-progress installation.  I still have to pay the woman the full amount,

though, so no Chrissie bonus for her, since she takes that attitude. She earns

more than Gyles’ PA, in any case.  Or Gyles?-can’t remember which.

Gyles and I fancied island hopping in the summer, but in these times

of austerity, we only managed Portsea Island, Hayling and the Isle of

Wight.  We skipped Lee-on-Solent after remembering Alan Bennet’s portrayal of

it in Talking Heads (First Series) – the one with Julie Walters and the film crew.

More anon,

Have to make my mincemeat!  No suet.

tbc

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.

 

 

No Mansion Tax

Tags

Deborah Meaden, drovers' inn, Duncan Bannatyne, George Osborne, Hilary Devey, Kate Moss, Kirstie Allsopp, mobile phone mast, Phil Spencer, Prosecco, Ready Brek, Suttonford, Vladivostok

Clammie has had to hop over to Well-Shod, the Suttonford cobbler, rather a lot recently.  She has the heel of her Coltsfoot nude patent court shoe re-glued every few days.  Well, she will stand on the metal grille over the log chute outside Shelley’s Estate Agency, gawping at their revolving carousel of desirable properties, which are actually well out of her reach.

She has kept her eye fixed on the housing market ever since the recession, as keenly as she used to follow the ball in Under-15 lacrosse championships in her schooldays.  Should some old biddy pop her clogs, thus vacating a property, Clammie will strike as efficiently as a cobra.

Unfortunately, she has not yet sold her own house.

Basically, she is after a double-fronted, Georgian town house in the best street in Suttonford.  Garaging would be essential, so should one with an attached carriage house come up, it would be a-ma-zing, darling.

When her husband, Tristram, drags himself in from work and sets to in the kitchen, she offers to lay the table and, pouring him a Prosecco,  she begins her assault, as carefully planned as the logistics for an Everest expedition.  The only difference is that he has no Sherpa support to aid him with familial burdens.

But, Clammie,..he expostulates, we can only just cover the mortgage and the school fees for our beloved bratlets.

Don’t call them that, she counters swiftly.  Look, I can always do a couple of days in “A la Mode” to help out.

But you’d just spend everything you earned on their stock.

Yes, but I’d get a staff discount, so think what that would save you.

I don’t get your logic, her husband sighed.

Well, if I worked there, a scout might see me modelling the designer gear and may just see my suitability as a Kate Moss stand-in.  Then think what I could earn. You know I enjoy spending, so I could derive gratification from seeing other people spend their husbands’ salaries.

Ah, but if you are going to be out all day, then why do you need a bigger house?

To store all my clothes, silly.  It’s a false economy to have to stuff all my outfits into wardrobes that I can’t easily access and have everything creased to kingdom come.  I can never find what I actually possess, and so I end up buying last minute alternatives.

Tristram sliced his finger while chopping an onion:

Ouch!  Will you get me a plaster, please?

You’re just not listening and probably cut yourself deliberately, whinged Clammie.

She burst into tears.  She didn’t know if it was the onion that had precipitated the flow, or her own thespian tendencies.

Look, said Tristram, sucking the bleeding digit, stop crying.  You don’t even know if anything on the High Street has come on the market at the moment.

Oh yes, I do!  Clammie was triumphant. The eight-bedroomed house in the middle of High Street- the one that was a seventeenth century drovers’ inn- was in “Shelley’s” window this morning.  It’s cheap because it sits on a geological seam which has something to do with radon.

I’m not having the bratlets develop a “Ready-Brek” glow, Tristram shouted, waving the knife rather dangerously.

It’s no worse than the mobile phone mast in their school playing fields, Clammie countered.  And it is a small price to pay for social cachet.

Then she realised that the au pair was in the adjoining study, Skype-ing her friends in some Eastern European city.

Please to keep quiet. Alyona glared through the open doorway.

Clammie backed down immediately.  Sorry.

Then, turning to Tristram, she continued, but in a more subdued tone:

But will you at least consider it?  After all, I have asked Kirstie and Phil to meet us there tomorrow, at seven, after you get back from work.

What!  Tristram forgot Alyona for once. I’m not having that Allsopp woman patronise me and expose my lack of compromise on prime time tv.

No, you are perfectly capable of exposing your own lack of compromise, Tristram.  Actually, Kirstie and Phil have been really helpful and even have a first time buyer in mind for our place.

Oh yeah, he was becoming sarcastic and hypoglaecemic.  You mean, a ninety year old who has had a lifetime to save up a deposit.  Don’t be naïve, Chlamydia- ( he always used her full name when he was annoyed)- we haven’t even had a survey done.

Oh, suit yourself, but Duncan Bannatyne didn’t get to where he is by missing opportunities.

No, his trip to the top of the greasy pole has given him the ultimate reward of a cardiac arrest and the chance to spend a lot of time with Hilary Devey and Deborah Meaden.  Lucky man.  But at least he had the sense to start small and kicked off his entrepreneurial activities with the purchase of a clapped out ice cream van.

Ooh, you are so bitter, Tristram. By the way, the risotto’s burning!  Take it off the heat.

Well, will you take me off the heat, if I just go along for peace’s sake?

Okay.  But you’ll be on my back burner if you don’t and Alyona says if we don’t go for the house, she will ask her syndicate to buy it and then I will probably end up looking after her kids.

Simples, mouthed Alyona, without even removing the headset .  But I let you rent the carriage house. Boyfriend with Mercedes has deposit. He say me not just pretty meerkat.

Tristram knew the battle was already lost.  He’d be working till he was seventy five, or would have to emigrate to Vladivostok.  George Osborne had a lot to answer for by not pursuing mansion tax, as a husband’s ultimate get-out clause with over-aspiring wives.

Counting the Count

Tags

Count von Count, Countess Backwards, Countess Dahling von Dahling, Guy Smiley, Hunter virus, Jerry Nelson, Kirstie Allsopp, Marbella, Sesame Street, Sesame Street Muppets, The Tempest, Thought for the Day, Wallis Simpson

Dull and cool, but dry.  I suppose we should count our blessings.  At least we are not burnt to cinders in Marbella or incubating Hunter virus contracted from a holiday stay in log cabins in Yosemite.

Don’t you just hate smug people telling you to count your blessings- especially when you are sinking into The Slough of Despond and they are planning their third cruise in as many months?

But, if you were Count von Count from Sesame Street, you would adore enumerating the little positives in your day-to-day existence. Imagine him having a literal field day at the County Show when La Allsopp enters her baking efforts in all four categories:

One, two camera crews,

three,  four becoming a bore;

five, six, old dog; old tricks; 

seven, eight- rabbits a-mate;

nine, ten a big fat hen

has just waltzed off with all the prizes.

The Count’s bats were called Grisha, Misha, Sasha and Tatiana.  Their names will shortly be appearing in a kindergarten near you.  He also had a cat called Fatatita.  Maybe he was not keen on Kirstie A.

The Count’s girlfriends were Countess Backwards- don’t worry, she liked to count in reverse. This could have earned her positive discrimination in any Maths exam, as evidence of Special Needs.

His other enamorata was Countess Dahling von Dahling and she was last seen entering Costamuchamoulah in Suttonford, where she ordered a Wallis Simpson latte.  Plenty of The Anything People frequent such establishments- you know, the faceless muppets who could be anything you wanted them to be: Guy Smiley or, the lavender ones, such as Smart Tina, or the Various Kids.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:

The Count used to hypnotise people by waving his hand and stunning them.  Surely the police might study this technique to prevent them from shoving helpless, old newspaper sellers to the ground?

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

No Mud Slinging

Tags

Drone, Kirstie Allsopp, Phil Spencer, Suttonford, Victoria Sponge

Suttonford Show…In the very recent past the Show has had to be cancelled, as wallowing in mud might be popular if you are a hippopotamus, but not if you have to park a vehicle and drive it away again at close of play.  So we all hope for a dry day and one in which Kirstie Allsopp will keep her distance and will refrain from entering her creation in the Victoria Sponge section, even under a pseudonym.

She is quite capable of purchasing one of those £200 drones that could hover outside the kitchen window of the WI member who has taken First Prize for the last umpteen years, all to bag her recipe and rosette.

If she persists in this behaviour she will end up face down in the quagmire behind the judges’ marquee, with one Coltsfoot welly missing and a threatening slogan daubed in cochineal on the canvas behind her.  On closer inspection she will have sustained a blow to the head from a shooting stick, which may/ may not bear the fingerprints of Phil Spencer’s long-suffering wife.

Having had to examine myself before taking communion, I have to add that I quite like Kirstie Allsopp, but I also enjoy having a satirical dig at her. I wouldn’t attack her with a shooting stick myself because the pen is mightier than the sword.

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

Strictly Come Prancing

Tags

Ann Widdecombe, Brassica, Dan Snow, dressage, DVT, hanging baskets, husband, Kirstie Allsopp, Madonna, Moscow, NHS, OAP, Olympics, pelargonia, riot, St Kilda, teaching, Tiger Feet

Thursday

I went out with Brassica to buy some reduced pelargonia for my rotting hanging baskets. A crowd of orange lycra clad OAPs were showing off in the local garden centre café.  They should have been extras in the Opening Ceremony Tiger Feet number. They’d probably arrived by car and parked their bikes at the entrance for pure effect.  Nothing worse than the elderly behaving badly, I said to myself. They just propel themselves to the nearest sylvan cheapeatery to save on winter fuel in the coming seasons, which saves their annual allowance for luxuries such as ostentatious cycling equipment.  Mind you, they probably prevent DVT by squeezing themselves into such tight gear, so may be saving the taxpayer on NHS expenses.

I enjoyed the elegance of the Strictly Come Prancing dressage.  The winning horse, whose name was a bit like Viagra, could have shown Widdi a thing or two about dancing.  And she couldn’t have complained about the decency of what both horse and rider were wearing.

Madonna isn’t being very restrained in Moscow. Supposedly she had been asked there to sing.  A deputy minister told her to remove her cross and to put on some knickers, which wasn’t a bad idea.   She seemed to have inspired some girls in Leeds to lipstick the strapline: Moralising Slut over their boobs. It all seems rather adolescent and, as a teacher, I could have told them that the best thing to do with juvenile protest was to ignore it.

A poor athlete heard his leg snap during a race but carried on out of a misplaced sense of duty. I have always believed that one’s joints have a finite amount of wear or tread on them and so long ago I decided never to overstretch them.  My husband is a chief exponent of the theory too.

It is almost a year to the day since the London riots and several youths have been sent down for their part in the destruction. Dan Snow had been passing when some looters had run out of a shop, bearing trove.  Big Dan had tackled one and made a citizen’s arrest.  If it had been a female, I can guarantee that she wouldn’t have struggled too much. Dan could have taken wrongdoers to St Kilda for re-hab and could have introduced them to a fitness programme that included running up that chimney gully, or he could have made them harvest gannets, enduring fulmar spittle, as they abseiled down vertical cliffs.  Even worse, Kirstie Allsopp could have redesigned their psyches by forcing them to crotchet drag nets. Or Putin could have offered them judo training in Siberia.

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

Opening Ceremony

Tags

Andy Murray, Arctic Monkeys, Daniel Craig, Danny Boyle, Great Ormond Street, Helen Mirren, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Kenneth Branagh, Kirstie Allsopp, Minack Theatre, MRSA, Neil Oliver, Olympics, Paul McCartney, Pierce Brosnan, Roger Federer, Sean Connery, Sergeant Pepper, Sir Chris Hoy, The Queen, The Tempest

I decided to watch the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games.  The only clouds over the stadium were Danny Boyle’s ingenious examples on sticks. I felt my brain was in candyfloss as I witnessed Kenneth Branagh in a stovepipe hat, spouting lines from The Tempest.  I felt that Boyle could have saved some money by hiring Neil Oliver as he had recently been reciting the same speech at the Minack on Coast.  I suppose he might have forgotten his lines by now.

But why was Isambard Kingdom Brunel – his middle name another possible question on Mastermind-ranting on Glastonbury Tor?  Why were child patients, bouncing in Great Ormond Street beds? They can’t have been so ill, being subjected to the terror of huge spidery monsters. Maybe the long-legged spinners represented MRSA bugs and other virulent and difficult to cure infections which seem to swarm all over our wards.

Why were Sergeant Pepper and his entourage hot on the heels of men in the trenches? I felt rather confused.

Then I was stunned that Daniel Craig brought in HM, and I don’t mean Helen Mirren. I wondered if both ladies might not have preferred Sean Connery, or Pierce Brosnan as an escort.  I know I would have.

At a crucial point, when Sir Chris Hoy was carrying our flag, the cameras scrolled to The Queen, who was examining her cuticles.  She may have been wearing a fascinator, but fascinated she was not.  She would probably have preferred watching it all on the telly.  She didn’t even get to light the flame, and she was probably the most qualified to do so, as she was Corgi-registered, according to some wag.

The Czech team made me laugh with their preparation for our weather.  Kirstie Allsopp was probably admiring their wellies with attitude.

Argentina marched past.  I was hoping that they would be overwhelmed by British confidence and would give up all claims to the Malvinas.

Some athletes were chewing, or texting on their mobile phones.  I thought of the minimum standard of behaviour that I had expected from my pupils and I bristled at the parade of bad manners.

There seemed to be an accompanying toga-ed young person who cradled a copper shell which looked like a begging bowl for contributions for the country being represented.  There was one Indian woman volunteer who was not in a toga and who simply muscled in on all the attention.  Later she did not seem at all apologetic.  I supposed that she had had her fifteen minutes of fame.  That Andy Warhol has a lot to answer for.

When Switzerland marched past I was disappointed that Roger was not carrying the flag.  He had sensibly gone to bed early as he had a match the following day.  He was very wise, as it meant that he avoided having to repetitively sing, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, at the instigation of a curiously puffy-faced Paul McCartney, who looked as if an early night and a healthy microwaveable Linda-meal would have done him good.  He needn’t have felt threatened by the Arctic Monkeys, at any rate.

Rafa wasn’t there either, but half of Spain seemed to be in their parade, so no one missed him.  I suppose that it gave Spaniards something to do, seeing as they don’t have any jobs.

There was a Hong Kong team and a mainland China one.  No wonder they win so many medals. They cheat by entering twice.

The fireworks and pixel lighting were sensational and Heatherwick’s copper petals came together symbolically and formed a flaming cauldron, worthy of Andy Murray’s mother’s spell-inducing incantation:

Make Andy triumph over ditch-delivered drabs.

It was one thirty before I hit the sack: I knew I’d regret it over the weekend.