In the Doghouse

Tags

Alliance Francaise, Bernard Ingham, Black Bun, Crunchie, Dewlap Gin, doghouse, Hogmanay, Jumelage, Maggie Thatcher, Memory foam, multum in parvo, NASA, Pet Nappers, Richter scale, Sherpa Bone pillow, shortbread, Slumberland, snorterino, Top Paws Fashion pillow, Tupperware, Ugg boots

Pooh-Bah, Algy and Humbug, the Brewer-Mead family pugs, were

snoozing on their new Tempur-pedic loungers and nothing was going

to persuade them to move for a post-Christmas waddle through the

churned-up byways of Suttonford.  Once they had settled on their

Memory Foam, it would have taken something about point seven and

above on the Richter Scale to displace them.

Santa had been over-indulgent.  They had their Top Paw Fashion

Pillows (chewable-resistant) and the odour of polyurethane was

already fading.  They should have thanked NASA for their new-

found comfort.

Mrs Hatch-Warren, the femme-de-menage, as Carrie called her was

on her two week break, so Gyles was clearing up in the kitchen while

his wife and sister, Victoria were hitting the sales.

Victoria had travelled over from The Charente, where she ran a

reclamation business, but had been stuck for sixteen hours on a ferry

which couldn’t berth.  She was stocking up on items which were difficult to

find over there and was seeking next year’s Christmas cards, in particular.

She would sell them to expats at Alliance Francaise parties next December

at 100% profit.  Sante!

Gyles checked his ninety plus mother who was ensconced in the sitting

room, finishing her e-book.  Her carer, Magda, was visiting her predecessor

in Normandy.  Ola had bagged the remaindered widower on the Jumelage

Exchange between Suttonford and Bric-a-Brac.  Magda wanted to see their

new baby, Georges, born at the same time as The Little Prince.

Ginevra, Gyles’ mother was awaiting the visit of her old friend, Sonia, from

High Street.  When she arrived they could progress through the Maggie

Thatcher spectrum of drinkies as reported by Sir Bernard Ingham-ie/

opener, brightener, lifter, tincture, large gin and tonic without tonic; snifter,

snort, snorter and snorterino.

Tiger-Lily walked into the kitchen.  Hi, Dad, she smiled, uncharacteristically.

Take those muddy Ugg boots off before your mother goes ballistic, Gyles

cautioned.  I’ve just washed the floor.

Chillax, Tiger muttered.  She balanced one hand on the edge of the granite

island and tried to kick an Ugg off.  Dad, in despair, came to the rescue and

tugged.

Three yapping pugs leapt out of their Pet Nappers, discarding their faux-fur,

ultra-plush throws and formed an excited circle round the extended limb.

Gerroff! Tiger shouted in an extremely unladylike fashion, which only

encouraged them.

What’s to eat? she addressed her father directly.  She started to open tins

and Tupperware containers.

The boys finished the Christmas cake, I’m afraid.

Great!  I didn’t even get any, she complained.

Well, Grandma Morag sent us some shortbread, but Mum’s keeping that

for New Year.

Hogmanay, corrected Tiger, who knew the difference.

Whatever, said her father,  And don’t eat the Black Bun.  She’s keeping

that too.

Tiger surreptitiously helped herself to a Crunchie from her brother, Ferdy’s

Selection Stocking.  He’d never notice, she reasoned.

Go and speak to your grandmother, Gyles suggested.  She’s in the sitting

room.

Do I have to?

Gyles threw her a meaningful glance, so she went.

Ah, Tiger!  Would you like a Dewlap Gin? her grandmother asked

immediately.

I’m not allowed.

Oh, I forgot.  Well, could you top my glass up, darling?

Tiger hopped back into the kitchen, still wearing a single Ugg.

Humbug! she yelled.

A naughty pug crawled out of her fleecy boot and leapt back onto

his monogrammed coverlet, putting his little head onto his Sherpa Bone

pillow.

Tiger retrieved her Ugg and found it curiously heavy.  She turned it upside

down and a mass of black currants and pastry crumbs cascaded onto the

clean floor.

Dad! she screamed.  Dad!

But Gyles had retired to the marital Slumberland mattress which was

more than a decade old and considerably less supportive than the

deep dish slumber divans on which the pugs reclined.  He was fast

asleep and snoring like one of his brachycephalic pets- or like all three of

them together.

There was nothing for it but to sweep the remains of the Black Bun into the

wheelie bin and she just hoped that her mother wouldn’t notice.

Tiger!

Drat! Coming, gran.

She took a little swig of the Dewlap Gin for Discerning Grandmothers.

Yuck!

And through the haze of the unaccustomed fumes, she saw her grandmother

in a new light.  They said that owners sometimes began to look like their pets

and, to be sure, Ginevra was very wrinkly, short-muzzled, not to say, stubborn

in character.  Tiger had read that the breed were often described as multum in

parvo  and, thanks to her GCSE Latin. she knew that this indicated that

one got a lot in a little package.  Certainly Ginevra had a

remarkable personality for her size and, though lovable, like the pugs, she

was definitely high- maintenance and attention-seeking.

Actually, that sounded very like the implications in Tiger’s summative end-of-

term report from Miss Fotheringay.  Golly!  Maybe she was inbred!

Drrring!

Oh no!  That must be the other old biddy.

DRRRRING!!!

Yip, that must be Sonia.

Noteworthy Females

Tags

Ada Lovelace, Bank of England, Calendar Girls, Churchill, Currer Acton Bell, deep maths, Deep Throat, Elizabeth Fry, Ellis, Elsie Inglis, George Eliot, Good Queen Bess, Helen Mirren, Jane Austen, Katherine Jenkins, Lady Godiva, Linda Lovelace, Maggie Thatcher, Mark Carney, Mary Slessor, Mervyn King, Saatchi, Wimbledon

So, The Bank of England is withdrawing the face of Elizabeth Fry, the social

reformer, from our fivers, I remarked to Brassica, as I handed over a

couple of the aforementioned notes to the Costamuchamoulah cafe

assistant, in exchange for two Mochas and a shared chocolate slice.

Yes, but apparently there is a mystery female in reserve, in case

Churchill doesn’t turn out well  in the engraving, Brassie elaborated.

Oh yes! I joked.

Brassie had a choco-powder moustache, but I wasn’t about to lean over and

erase it from her upper lip; Saatchi has deterred cafe goers everywhere from

making physical contact with their companions in public.

So, apart from the Queen, we are to have no female physiognomies on our

banknotes, I continued.  Except in Scotland. I suppose that still

counts as the UK. The Scots have Mary Slessor, the missionary, and Elsie

Inglis, the suffragette, on their notes.  But I bet they wouldn’t be accepted if

tendered in Costamuchamoulah.

The Scots or their currency?  Brassie quipped.

Possibly both, I replied.  I certainly couldn’t envisage a frugal Mary Slessor, nor

an earnest Inglis dropping by for a cappuccino and a tranche of Polenta cake.

Well, Brassie kept up the conversational momentum. There are some 

names being currently proposed, such as Linda Lovelace.

I think you mean Ada Lovelace, the mathematician, I clarified, rather

pompously. There is a difference between deep maths and Deep Throat. 

Anyway, your suggestion was an American.

Was she? Brassie said vaguely.  She had detected the chocolate smear

and was concentrating on removing it.  I thought Jane Austen had been

mooted too.

Well, she certainly understood currency, I agreed.  And her brother, Henry had

a branch of his bank not too far from Suttonford, didn’t he?  At least, before it

went bust and he joined the church!  As someone who supported the concept

of thrift, maybe Jane would be a good choice.

We ought to canvass Costamuchamoulah customers, said Brassie brightly,

and then we could present a petition containing the most popular female

names to Mark Carney, when he takes up his new job as Bank of England

Governor, at the beginning of July.

Oh, he’ll probably be too busy at Wimbledon, I said.  Mervyn King is always in

the Royal Box, so he’ll probably reserve a seat for him.  Mind you, there’s

probably some Suttonfordians heading for Centre Court in the next week or

so.

We could ask them to present our findings to him, even if he is off-duty, I

suppose, I granted.

Good idea! concurred Brassie and she was off with her paper napkin and a

pen before the starting gun had been fired. (I think she gets her prematurity

of behaviour from Cosmo, by all accounts.)

The first caffeine addict she approached was too quick to promote Maggie

Thatcher, which was predictable, given the territory, but I could see one or

two others within earshot- not difficult in Costamuchamoulah!- looking flushed,

or maybe enraged by the suggestion.  So, before any iced cupcakes were

hurled by covert Lib Dems, I turned to an intelligent-looking female with a

laptop, in the corner.

What about George Eliot? she proffered.

Nah, love, interrupted one of two local workmen who could afford a daily fix

at this elite establishment. (I had previously observed their regularity of

attendance at about 3pm each day-an unsurprising habit, supported by the

prices they charge for basic DIY and maintenance.  Mid afternoon seemed to

be their premature knocking off time.  Not in any way a reference to

Cosmo’s entirely different, connubial activities, I must add.)

Nah!  We were discussing wimmen, weren’t we?  Not blokes!  That Katherine

Jenkins is a bit of all right, i’n’t she?  Whoarr! I wouldn’t mind seeing her on

a fifty quid note-preferably as Lady Godiva.

Yes, I suppose you handle a fair few of those denomination, I remarked

caustically. But she is Welsh, isn’t she?  Maybe they will get their own

currency, or perhaps they’ll revert to Anglesey Druidic pennies.

I bet they wouldn’t charge her as much as they do for services rendered to

local households headed up by femmes d’un certain age!

Educated conversation is completely lost on the average Suttonfordian, I find.

No wonder they didn’t recognise the pseudonym of dear old Mary Ann Evans.

I expect that is why I seek an international audience, Dear Reader. So, I

refrained from adding my own Trinity of female talent: Acton, Ellis and Currer

Bell.

I especially like the way that the male has been airbrushed out of the

picture. (Branwell knew that he wouldn’t be appearing on any bill of promise.)

The girl behind the counter suddenly said: What about Good Queen Bess?

Better, admitted Brassie, but there is a new book out by someone called

Steve Berry, which suggests that she was a man in disguise.

Maybe she had a moustache.

Or drank too many Mochas, I teased.

Women sometimes had to dress as men to achieve recognition, said

Brassie thoughtfully.  You know, like Pope Joan.

I know, said the girl, who clearly hadn’t bee lstening.  What about Helen

Mirren?

Well, I faltered.  She was born Mirronoff, but I suppose she is as English as

the present Royals , so maybe she is as good a choice as any.

Yeah!  Get her name down on your list, girls, approved what we might

laughingly term the ‘workmen’.  She looked pretty good in Calendar

Girls and Costa here could supply the strategic cupcakes, couldn’t you,

ladies? Whoarrrr!

I’m sorry, sirs.  We don’t accept these, said the assistant, returning their

Mary Slessor.  She would have in the normal scheme of transactions, but

customers who cheapened their brand by abbreviating its title were

personae non gratae. They had to substitute the note with another from

their rubber-banded wads of paper currency but left, quite cheered by their

ideal candidate for financial commemoration.  They were only aware of one

promotional photo of the aforesaid actress and it was from a fair number

of years ago.  They thought it would do nicely.

Number One: Helen Mirren, wrote Brassie on the napkin.