Guy Fawkes Party

Tags

Chinos, curried pumpkin soup, dechetterie, Dress Down Friday, forever house, House Hunter, Kirstie and Phil, Meadowgate, property regeneration, pyrotechnics, Roman blinds, Roman candles, Stratfield Saye, upcycling, Waterloo cheese

Another older post, but topical…

I bumped into girlfriend’s husband, Tristram, this morning in Divas’ Deli. He

was looking a whiter shade of pale, or one of those infamous shades of grey,

but I can’t remember which one of the fifty. I told him that I was looking

forward to their fireworks party, but he looked somewhat glum and then

proceeded to give me a potted version of the unsuccessful viewing of their

must-have forever house on High Street, in tow with Phil and Kirstie.

The worst part of it is that I was planning on making curried pumpkin soup for

everyone, to warm them up at the party, but now I can’t use up the leftover

lanterns, as curry is a sore point with Clammie.  It’s my speciality too.

Why? I asked. Does Clammie not approve of pumpkins?  I’m sure they are

organic.

(Apparently Clammie and Tristram been gazumped by the proprietor of Benares

Balti House.)

Don’t worry, I soothed him.  She’ll soon forget the gazumping.  You’ll see.  It’s

not the best time of year for house-hunting.

You’re wrong there, he contradicted me.  Now she’s gone and downloaded Kirstie

and Phil’s House Hunter app on her iPhone.  She’s got it into her head that we

need to find a property like Meadowgate, only more twee.

Meadowgate?  It sounded like someone’s nemesis.

Oh, that cottage that Kirstie re-furbished on her renovation programme.

I helped myself surreptitiously to a second sample of Waterloo cheese from the

Stratfield Saye Estate. Come to think of it, Clammie will be after a house like that

next.  Upcycling and upward mobility: two of her many obsessions.

Tristram must be telepathic:

Yes, her latest obsession is to upcycle everything, so she spends half the week

hanging around the dechetterie- I mean, re-cycling centre, looking for anything

that she can transform.  She’s taking on all the latest jargon- ‘property regeneration’

etc.. And I’m being trailed up to Kensington Church Street to look for some bird’s eye

maple burr toilet seats when we have a huge contract to deal with at work and now

I’ll have to think of an alternative recipe for the party.  He looked really stressed.

I’m surprised at the craft interest, I said.  Clammie has never been known to sew

on a button, let alone create a Roman blind.

Oh, she just has the ideas and lets someone else actualise them, he said.

A bit like Kirstie then?

No, Clammie wanted to make Roman candles for the party, but I drew the line at

home-made pyrotechnics.  She did supervise the boys making a very realistic guy,

though.  He looks exactly like Caligula..

Oh yeah, I laughed, their form teacher, Mr Milford-Haven!

Except that they appropriated my very best Chinos which I was going to wear for

Dress Down Friday at work. 

He suddenly perked up: Actually, I suppose the party will be a lot easier, socially-

speaking, as Brassie has now been convinced that Cosmo is not having an affair

with Magda.

How did that come about? I was all ears.

Carrie phoned Clammie on her tablet and said that we needn’t erect the gazebo, or

invite Sonia to read the Tarot cards to warn Cosmo and Magda off each other. Sonia,

being nosy, had got the wrong end of the stick and Brassica had jumped to

conclusions- the wrong ones.  She has seen sense.

Good! One less thing to worry about, I assured him.  I’ll phone Brassica later and

get the low down.

Don’t say that I said anything.  He looked worried.

Of course not.  Do you want me to bring anything on Saturday?

Just a fire extinguisher, he quipped, already looking a mite happier.

Well, if I can do anything..

There is one thing, he volunteered.

The deli assistant was becoming rather annoyed as we had cleared the

plate of cheese samples.

Mmm..

Have you any ideas for Christmas prezzies for Clammie’s stocking?

Stockings!  No, tell you what..Kirstie was raving on her official website about

a hand-embroidered tea towel which had been painstakingly crafted by an

ancient Italian lady of 108, whose family have owned a shop for more than 400

years.    Bet Clammie’d love one for her new kitchen, when she gets it.

(when, not if)

Are you serious?  He was aghast.  You’d think at that ripe old age they’d let the

poor old dear sit back in the sun and drink her pension away.

Like Gyles’ mother? We laughed.

Yes, I don’t see Ginevra doing too much in the way of fancy work, I added. And,

as for Sonia, she only embroiders facts!

Ciao!

Ciao!

Must phone Brassie when I get home!  Oops forgot to buy cheese.

 

A Fish Called Steve

Tags

Ananias and Sapphira, Aquatic Centre, Bearnaise, casting bread on water, Compleat Angler, exemption clause, Feeding Five Thousand, Granny Smiths, hog roast, joint and several liability, Kirstie and Phil, Land registry, Lulu Guinness, Make Poverty History, Nicola Sturgeon, Parson's nose, Pharisee, Romsey, St Birinus, Steve the sturgeon, tithe pig, Wallbank case, widow's mite

I was just finishing off regaling Brassica about Steve, the fish who went

missing from the Aquatic Centre in Romsey during the February floods.  The

metre long sturgeon has now been discovered in a deep puddle in a car

wash and has been repatriated.

It’s a parable for our times, I quipped.  What about that fishy pair up north-

Nicola (surely related), and Alex the Salmon?  They’re both about the

same length and will surely end up in a deep muddle, up the political creek,

without a paddle.

Very droll, Candia, smirked Brassie.

Chlamydia looked pale and drawn as she flopped down at the bistro

table outside Costamuchamoulah, the must-seen cafe.  What are you

two laughing about? she inquired.

Oh, just matters piscatorial, I joked.  After all, we are in Compleat Angler

territory. Have you heard of a fish called Steve?

No, said Clammie and didn’t appear to want to discuss him.

See you later.  Must go!  Brassica breezed off.

What’s up? I asked. (Note that I didn’t say, Whazzup?)

Look at this!  She took a letter from her Lulu Guinness handbag and cast

it across the table.  Read it!

It was from the Land Registry and its gist was that she was to be

appraised of her liability- joint and several– for repairs to the chancel of

Suttonford Parish Church.

I don’t understand, I said.  How can you be responsible for financing

maintenance and repair work to an ecclesiastical building?

Apparently it is an ancient law which can force home owners to pay if they

live in the parish of a church built before 1536, she sighed.  You live in the

Parish of St Birinus, so you are okay.  This will finish Tristram off, she groaned.

He’s already stressed over the twins’ school fees.  We might have to cancel

our sailing holiday to Sardinia at Whitsun.

It’s just as well that you were gazzumped over that 8 bedroomed Nemesis

House that Kirstie and Phil tried to encourage you to bankrupt yourselves

for, I remarked.

Maybe you’d have to pay the PCC proportionately, according to the size of

your property.

I have spent the whole morning Googling, Clammie moaned, as if she hadn’t

heard my observation.  They say that the clause doesn’t even have to show

up in your title deeds.

Sounds like hogwash to me, I tried to mollify her.  It’s probably just that the 

government has told the Church that they have a fixed period of time to

clarify stipulations on their title deeds- you know, for their charitable status,

or something.

No. No.  It’s all about precedent, she said knowledgeably.  I read about the

Wallbank case.  A couple had to sell a farm they had inherited in Warwickshire,

as they found out that they were responsible for maintenance and repairs to

the church, incidentally, where Shakespeare’s parents married.

Theoretically, I suggested.

Theoretically married?

No, theoretically pay, I elucidated.

No. She wrung her hands.  Actually pay. They lost £250,000 in legal fees.

I’m sure they could have bought an insurance premium, I said.  Maybe they

just opposed the principle and got lawyers involved..

I think they were willing to pay something, she answered. I think you can pay

£50 for an exemption clause, though.

Well, there’s your answer, I said, pouring her a second cup of tea.  It’s nothing

new.

In days of yore, people had to support their vicar with a tithe pig.  The

parson’s nose was reserved for him, probably, too.  We should all support the

heart of our community.  The Husband and I were giving our vicar bushels of

our windfalls last Autumn in lieu of spiritual comfort.

Why didn’t you give me some? she demanded.  You know I bought a new

juicer.

You don’t bring me spiritual comfort, I sparred.

She changed tack. It is just the fact that they can extract money from

you, she complained.

Well, they have to.  Very few people give anything freely now. If people

gave their tithe..

Tithe?

Ten percent, I clarified, then there would be little poverty.

Oh, like ‘Make Poverty History’ she cottoned on- slowly.  I prefer the

widow’s mite.  It’s not as much.  Nice story. But I suppose not so appealing

if you are a Pharisee.

Precisely, I directed her.  And remember: the widow’s mite was

proportionately her all.  If you want to take things further, don’t emulate

Ananias and Sapphira. They promised and didn’t deliver.  That was the

worst kind of behaviour of all.

We stopped in front of the Parish Notice Board.  There was a bright

poster inviting the purchase of tickets for a hog roast in the vicarage

garden, in aid of the stretched middle income bracket.

I can relate to that, Clammie nodded. Someone must have donated their

tithe pig. I bet it wasn’t that miserable farmer. If we go, I suppose what goes

out comes in.

What?  Explain yourself, please.

If someone donates something, then more people benefit, including the

giver. A bit like the feeding of the five thousand.  Clammie was getting the

point.

Which takes us back to fish, I agreed.  And I think the practice is called

casting your bread on the waters.  It returns to you- sometimes after a long

while. Sometimes tenfold.  Or a hundredfold.  When you least expect it.

Think of Job.

I have and I always wondered what he could have done with all that excess

stuff at the end. But, seriously, if everyone buys a £50 exemption clause…?

It helps to save an ancient building and the heart of the community.

Well, if we pay up, what will you do, other than donate your bruised

Granny Smith rejects? she asked me confrontationally.  After all, you

have no compulsion in your parish.

The left hand won’t know what the right hand is doing, I reproved her.  If I

told you, I would have my reward on Earth.  I prefer to invest in the Heavenly

Kingdom more discreetly.

Well, are you going to support the hog roast then?  Clammie challenged me.

Depends who else is going, I replied. Since the poor we always have with us,

I suppose I’d better support the extended middle.  That fish in Romsey was

lucky. One of those yummy mummies who push husbands’ credit to the limit

might have tickled him- I mean Steve- and served him up with a Bearnaise for

one of her ladies-who-lunch events.  Everyone knows how there are fewer and

fewer of these gatherings in our cash-strapped times.

 I don’t think Steve is a very credible name for the spouse of a yummy

mummy, Clammie objected.

I meant the sturgeon, silly. I ground my teeth in exasperation.

Sometimes Clammie simply doesn’t concentrate.  I don’t think I could take

a whole evening in her company, so I’ll give the event a miss and just make

a donation.  Maybe ten percent of the ticket price?  After all, it’s a worthy

cause and I suppose they think they’re worth it!

A Covey of Partridge

Tags

Andy, Baldrick, covey, flintknapper, Gore-Tex, kilo, Kirstie and Phil, metrologist, OS Map, Parliamentarians, Phil Harding, Royalists, Time Team, Tony Robinson, Wet Ones

Even the kilo has put on weight, Carrie announced in

Costamuchamoulah yesterday, lamenting her spare tyre.

Yes, I read that too, I said. The world’s official unit of mass is not an

unvarying standard, apparently.

Did you see how they are going to strip it back to its original weight?

Who?  The metrologists?

Yes. They are going to give the surface a sun tan by exposing it to

ultraviolet light and ozone.

So, we all just need a holiday? laughed Belladonna, who had joined

us for a jasmine tea.

Actually, we could have a kind of holiday once a week and, when the

kids are in after-school clubs, on a Wednesday, we could go out for a

long walk, suggested Carrie.  They don’t need to be picked up till

about 5pm.

So, not enjoying our full-body profile, we decided to take some

exercise locally.

Carrie had bought an OS Adventurers’ Map 150 and a book of

suggested circular routes that ended and began in hostelries.  These

would provide parking, if you patronised their establishments- and I

don’t mean by saying how pathetic you found their premises and

menus.

The pugs were deemed too short-legged to benefit, so they were left

at home.

Bella had new Gore-tex boots and a couple of Nordic poles.  Carrie

had a new mobile, in case we had to contact rescue services:

Officer, hi!  We have forgotten where we parked.  

WALK 1

Walk round the site of The Battle of Suttonford, 1644.

Distance: 6.3 miles

Time: 3.5 hours (4 in Ugg boots)

Refreshments:  The Cavalier Arms; The Gauntlet at Sutton-le-Grange.

Norton Grainger suggested a perambulation which encompassed the

perimeter of the old battle site and which incorporated pleasing

views of the tiny hamlets of Sutton-le-Grange and Dean Sutton.

There was a cosy little pub not mentioned on the guide, at

Suttonfield, which was conveniently situated at about the half way

point, before you had to climb Suttonford Down, but Norton was

keeping that little jewel to himself. The Down was the location of

the mustering of the Parliamentarian troops, just before they swept

down like the Assyrians on the field and routed the Royalists.

As we trekked around the path, I collected a large broken branch,

which would almost fit nicely in my woodburner.

We went over two stiles, traversed a farmer’s fallow field and

crossed the A72B, before circumventing the old battle site.

Time Team should come here, said Bella.

No, said Carrie, as we entered a cathedral of beech.

(Nice collective noun that, I always think.)

No, she said.  They don’t broadcast that programme any more.

I never liked that Tony Robinson, I said.  He gave me the creeps.

What?  Even as Baldrick? said Belladonna.

Especially as Baldrick, I said.

Well that Phil Harding was a flintknapper par excellence,

remonstrated Carrie.

Okay.  Oil drink to that, I agreed.  Was that a Wiltshire accent he

had?

Oil say it was!  Mind you, added Carrie, even he said that the

programme had been dumbed down and they were all prattin’ about.

Like we are! laughed Bella.

Well, I don’t expect that there’s much left here after all those metal

detector types rotovated the field, I said.  You’d have as much chance of finding

anything significant as a Spitfire hunter in Burma. Look! There’s a covey of

partridge!

And an exaltation of larks, added Bella.

No Parliamentarian owls, though, quipped Carrie.

See that little cottage over there, I indicated by waving my branch, it

has had a For Sale sign on it for 7 years.

Probably a pre-credit crunch price, stated Carrie.

No.  It has a plaque above the porch with its name: River Rise

Cottage.  You’d have thought that they would have twigged by now

that anything that mentions water is a no-no.  Kirstie and Phil would

be the first to tell them.

By now the heavy clay had clogged the treads of our boots.  We

stopped to scrape some out with a stick.

What’s that on the ground? Bella asked.  She bent over and picked

something up- a mud-encrusted metal disc.

Let me see, urged Carrie.  Bella, I think you may have struck gold!

She took a handbag-sized pack of Wet Ones from her pocket and

wiped the find.  It looked for all the world like a muskateer’s button,

with a loop on the rear.

I said: I can see a C on it.  Maybe it stands for Carolus?  Bella, we

must show this to Sonia.  You know how she’s always going on about

the cavalier fugitive who fled the battle and is now haunting her attic

in Royalist House.  Maybe it came from his shirt.  It’s likely to be from

that period.

Don’t you think we should take it to the museum or to The Historical

Club?  said Carrie firmly.  It may be treasure trove.

Hmm..I considered.  It depends on the percentage of precious metal

in it, although it would be about 300 years old, I suppose..

I saw a programme where a silver button of Charles I’s reign made

about $600, Bella volunteered.

Oh well, here comes our glimpse of sun and sniff of ozone! I laughed.

Just then a partridge whirred up and flew off, pursued by an excitable

dog.

A slim woman wearing a Pipes of Pan multi-coloured woollen hat

with dangling fluorescent pompoms emerged from behind the

hedgerow.

Andy! she shouted. Leave!

I waved my branch.

It was Brassica.