(original Broadway windowcard: Wikipaedia)
Oh look! Here comes Peabrain Minor’s mater, alias Head of The Grievance
Committee, expostulated Virginia Fisher-Gyles, PA to The Headmaster of
St Birinus Middle School.
Late again, commented Mr Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master, on his way
to Registration via his partner’s office.
The aforementioned parent hopped out of her 4×4, still in a onesie, or
Gives a new aspect to the adjective ‘deshabille’, he added. Mind you, I
wouldn’t mind if you turned up for work in that rather fetching negligee
which the saleswoman persuaded me was entirely appropriate as a Christmas
gift for a friend. I think you would make a better understudy for Shirley
Maclaine than Mrs P does.
Let’s be professional. Virginia stood on her principles- as well as her
four inch stilettos.
Oh, the subjunctive- and so early in the morning, quipped Snod.
You say ‘pyjamas’ and I say ‘pajamas’, countered Virginia, closing the
conversation and starting to hum ‘I’m not at all in Love.’
The Carry On Teaching vision with choreography by Fosse faded from
his magisterial brain, but not before he had noted the similarity
between Virginia’s embonpoint and that of a certain fictional Gladys
Hotchkiss. Yes, they no longer produced the great musicals of
yesteryear. That Lloyd Webber character… Sigh.
(Does anyone out there recognise the etymology of ‘magisterial’ ??
Are we all going to adjust our spelling to ‘ognon‘?) The Editor.
There was a peremptory rap at the door.
Enter! boomed Virginia.
Peabrain Minor’s mother appeared in her usual matitutinal
I’ve just brought a bag with a change of clothes for Noah, if I could
leave it in The Office for him, she announced.
Oh, we are a Left Luggage Establishment now, Snod thought, but
didn’t remark aloud. That was a forbearance that he had learned
from Virginia, in the course of their relationship.
I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, said Virginia.
Well, it’s just for the lesson after break. Noah doesn’t respond well
to formal learning strategies and, if Mr Snodbury doesn’t mind, my
son would be more comfortable in his jim-jams. Oh, Mr Snodbury!
She had just noticed the schoolmaster lurking behind the door.
Ah, his namesake was quite comfortable with appearing in a
Post-Diluvian Apocalyptic public space au naturel, Mrs P, Snod
pontificated. But, unfortunately, even the members of the patriarch’s
family took exception to his informal, nay casual, plein-air approach.
I take it that that’s a ‘no’ then, Sir?
She left, with the Waitrose bag of clothing, looking rather
Not exactly Doris Day, said Snod in his habitual report-speak.
But more intelligent than you’d think.