Basic/Better/ Best

Tags

Antiques Roadshow, Basic/ Better/ Best, Blackberry, Border Terrier, breach of promise, Easter Island, Fiona Bruce, Flog-It!, flugelhorn, marimba, Miller Guides, Moai, Moorcroft, Polynesian figure, Quorn, Radio 4, Rocky Road, Sotheby's, Tesco, The Moral Maze

Some archival material which, I think, deserves a second airing!

There was an amateur Antiques Roadshow in Suttonford’s Community Centre on Saturday afternoon, on behalf of the charity, Curs in Crisis.  The organisers had asked local auctioneer, Hubert Wormhole, to give of his expertise and they charged £5 per valuation.  The queues snaked out into North Street, but thankfully it wasn’t raining.

Ginevra Brewer-Mead had donated a quirky, mystery object as a prize.  It was to raise fifty pence a guess as to its identity and use.  The winner would be allowed to keep it.  It was all good fun.

Ginevra had bought the ugly thing many years before, at a jumble sale.  It usually resided on her mantelpiece and her carer, Magda, had encouraged her to get rid of it, as it freaked her out.  (Magda was becoming more and more proficient in her utilisation of Slanglish.)

People were laughing as they wondered aloud which of their friends and neighbours most resembled the figure with the over-sized head.  Pollux nudged his twin and whispered: Caligula!  They both sniggered, but their mother, Brassica, reproved them and said that it was rude to make comments about their teacher.

Hubert had set up a table with Basic / Better/ Best cardboard signs, which was an idea that he had stolen from the real BBC show.  Three examples of Moorcroft pottery stood behind the labels.

Again, people were invited to pay fifty pence to guess the relative worthiness of the three items and, if they were correct, they were given a delicious cluster of Rocky Road from a Tesco bucket.

Brassica’s twins had been issued with their pocket money that morning, and, miraculously, still had some left.

Castor walked over to the table with the hideous figure and realised that he had seen it before, at Ginevra’s house, when he had been visiting with his mother.  He had been fascinated by it and had looked up similar objects online.  He knew that such figures dated from the Pre-Moai period, when Easter Island had been afforested.  A similar object had sold at Sotheby’s in the eighties for £100,000.

He was hopping up and down with suppressed excitement when he asked the woman on the stall, who happened to be Sonia, if he could borrow a pen.

Then he concealed his writing with his arm crooked, as he was wont to do in school tests, so that John, his partner on the double desk, would not copy his answers.  He wrote very carefully:

Rair deety Ester Iland

He appended his father’s mobile number.  Thankfully he was more numerate than literate, so there was a chance of the adjudicator being able to contact him.

He posted his entry in the cardboard box.  Sonia said, I think you might be a lucky boy.

Pollux usually did the Arts subject preps and he did the Maths and Science ones.  Between themselves, they did quite well.  However, on this occasion, he did not collaborate with his twin, nor did he inform him of his entry.

Some people were becoming annoyed as they had guessed the Moorcroft conundrum correctly, owing to an over-exposure of such ceramic art on Flog-It!  They thought that they should have won the best object of the three, but even the Rocky Road was unavailable, as it had been consumed by little boys with light fingers and sweet tooths, no, teeth.  And, in particular, by twins who had been feeding their Border Terrier who lay under the table, with the chocolate and marshmallow moreish morsels.

These small-minded adults had paid and guessed in vain and they were very disgruntled and said that charities should put humans before canines. They expressed other sentiments in terms which little boys should not have overheard.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Brassie was in her kitchen/diner, cooking supper and the twins had been finishing their flugelhorn and marimba practice next door.  She called them to the table.

But, mum, we’re not hungry, they complained.

That’s because you stuffed yourselves with Rocky Road, she lectured.  You know I don’t allow sugar treats and now you can see why.  All this lovely wholesome Quorn is going to go to waste.

The twins simultaneously eyed their Border.   They felt sure that he would oblige in any hoovering up operation to do with leftovers, even though he had consumed a fair amount of the sweet clusters himself.

Darling!  She shouted up the garden in the direction of the observatory.  Supper’s ready.

Cosmo was already coming down the path, fiddling with his Blackberry.

Castor, he said, it’s Mr Wormhole from the roadshow this afternoon.  He says there has been a terrible mistake.

I know, dad.  They didn’t pick up on the Polynesian figure.

What? said Brassie. (The phone always rang at mealtimes).  I’ll take it.   She held the mobile up to her ear with one hand while she stirred the unappetising looking Quorn mish-mash.  Easter Island?  Rare?  Pre-Moy, what?

A similar figure went for an absolute fortune at a London sale of Tribal Art in the Seventies, said Hubert, suddenly very authoritative.  Naturally, Mrs Brewer-Mead had no idea what she had donated.  Even I wasn’t certain until I went home and referred to my Miller Guides.

But Castor guessed correctly, she insisted, amazed at her son’s vast store of knowledge filched from http://www.geekologie.com etc.

What’s all this about? asked Cosmo, confused as ever.

He says that Castor can’t have his prize as he spelled the answer incorrectly.  He’s offering him the best piece of Moorcroft instead, Brassie stage-whispered, holding her hand over the Blackberry.

We’ll see about that, said Cosmo masterfully.  He won it fairly and squarely, as far as I can make out.

No, they’ve had a lawyer on to it already and Ginevra seems to be within her rights to withdraw the prize and to offer a substitute.  Brassie was frantically trying to remember where she had seen the advertisement for No Win/ No Fee legal services. Mr Wormhole thinks that Mrs Brewer-Mead, I mean Ginevra, has already appropriated it, as it was not on the table at the end of the afternoon.

Mr Wormhole rang off, saying that they could discuss things further on Monday.

Now do you see the importance of spelling, you careless boy? snapped Brassie.

Castor’s lip trembled, but he rallied: My teacher says that you can still get an A* so long as she and the examiner people can make out what it is you are trying to say.

Well, now you know that that is a load of rubbish in the real world, stressed Brassie.  I’ll have to have a word with Ginevra on Monday about the EU and Children’s Rights and breach of promise.

Pollux tried to draw the blame onto himself-and succeeded; his father had more experience and kept a low profile.

 I’d have known how to spell the answer, he piped up.

Oh, shut up, Smart-Alec, they all said.

Pollux crept over to the Border’s basket to stroke his little, furry friend and as a tear plopped onto the dog’s wiry head, it looked up quizzically, and, as it did so, it gagged.

Give! ordered Pollux.

After a tussle, he forced open its jaws and a carved splinter of something very Moai-like shot out across the kitchen flagstones.

Mum! he screamed.

Andy, the Border, had evidently carried the figure home in his mouth and had been worrying at it throughout their music practice and Brassie’s meal preparation.

They all agreed to say nothing and to accept the Moorcroft gracefully.  However, Brassie could feel the discomfort on the back burners of her conscience.  She felt that it was the kind of dilemma that The Moral Maze would like to have grappled with on Radio 4 and she felt that they would not emerge smelling of roses.  She wished that Castor had never seen the wretched thing.  It must have emitted some evil power, as she could see how destructive its forces would have been in her family and community.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  * *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Think of all the Dewlap Gins I could have bought, said Ginevra, wistfully.

It freaked me out, replied Magda, her carer.  You only lost 20 pence effectively.  But you still have your friends.

Let’s drink to that, agreed Ginevra.  Bottoms up!

And Magda understood the expression, as her English and Slanglish was coming on.

Prost!

The Missing Years

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, David Dickinson, El Sistema, GovUk, Gustavo Dudamel, Lent, Los Angeles Philharmonic, marimba, poodle moth, Sexagesima, Shostakovich, St Birinus, wyvern

The school chaplain was banging on about Lent in Assembly.

What are YOU prepared to give up for Lent? he had asked the

congregation.

Augustus Snodbury looked at his school calendar surreptitiously.

Last Sunday had been Sexagesima.  Well, there was no issue in

abstemiousness in that line, as he had not had relations with a

woman for thirty years or so.

Maybe he could cut down his Bourbon biscuit intake.  Yes, he would

tell the School Secretary to bring a single biscuit at elevenses for the

next forty odd days.  That was a 50% reduction.  Time off for good

behaviour in Purgatory?  No, that was the opposition’s belief, surely?

His mind wandered to his ‘to do’ list.  It was more than a week since

he had received the Wyvern signet ring from his step-brother in

Venezuela.  He ought to reply and thank him.

After the boys had filed out, he sat at his desk and began to draft a

letter.

St Birinus Middle School,

Suttonford etc

27th Feb., 2014.

My Dear Hugo,

I am writing to confirm receipt of the signet ring on our mother’s instructions.

I realise that finding the cost of its postage must have been challenging for

you at this time of rampant inflation in your country.

I enclose a photograph of your niece, Drusilla, and myself, standing outside

Wyvern Mote.  The lady in the wheelchair is your Aunt Augusta- Berenice’s

sister.

Augusta oversaw my education when our mother- he was going to write

‘scarpered‘, but Tippex-ed it out and replaced it with ‘left for warmer climes.’

The news did not come as too severe a blow to Augusta, as she had

believed her sister had been disappeared years previously.  We did not go

into too many details anyway, as the old dear is now in her dotage.

Wyvern yielded some of its secrets on our visit.  Drusilla spotted a photograph

of the tutor in an old schoolroom and his facial features betray my origin.  Not

yours, of course, dear boy.  Perhaps you have inherited Berenice’s genes in

the appearance department.  In that case, you may resemble Aunt Augusta,

who is said to be her ‘dead spit‘, as some would crudely put it.  Judge for

yourself.

Perhaps you would find it in your power to send us a photo of yourself-

possibly in revolutionary garb, manning barricades or indulging in some

such activity.  That is, unless your post is censored.

Dear old St Birinus must have been watching over us, as my mother

remembering the name of the school led to our successful contact.  An odd

thought came to me in Assembly.  Apparently Birinus could also be spelled

‘Bernius’.  Was our mother given the saint’s nomenclature by a dyslexic

registrar?  What connection did her parents have to the school, or to the

saint?  Our grandmother was Augusta too, if I recall correctly and our

grandfather was a rug merchant, and probably a rogue trader too, by all

accounts, from somewhere in the Bosphorous.  I saw a photo of him once

and he bore a striking resemblance to David Dickinson, that antiques

chappie.

I would love to come and visit you, dear brother, but GovUK advises against

it at present. The site informs me that you have been experiencing heavy rain

and road conditions are poor.  We have a similar situation in Surrey,

Hampshire, Dorset and Somerset.

No doubt your passport has been suspended.  We are concerned

when we read of famous beauty queens and boxing champions being

killed.

Our peripatetic marimba teacher commented that El Sistema, the universally

famous Music Education programme should speak out about your political

situation.  He is disappointed that Gustavo Dudamel, Music Director of the

Los Angeles Philharmonic, has not taken a stand.  But he cannot embed

secret messages in his music, as Shostakovich did, as he is only a conductor

and not a composer, as I tried to point out.

Thank you also for the inadvertent gift of a poodle moth which somehow got

into the packaging of your communication.  The Biology teacher was thrilled.

He posed me a riddle: What is fuzzy, adorable and terrifying all at the same

time?

(He had read this sub-title in one of our staffroom magazines: The Week, as it

happens. Not a publication with which you may be familiar, but no matter…)

I don’t like riddles in general, but I immediately replied, John Boothroyd-

Smythe.

He is a bete-noire of mine.  The correct response should have been Poodle

Moth, naturally.

Take care, little brother.  One day we shall meet and discuss the missing

years.

May St Birinus protect you.

(He scribbled ‘Gus‘) and then signed off with a flourish:

Augustus Snodbury (Acting Head)

Then he crossed out the parenthesis and sealed the personal letter in

a school envelope. The School Secretary could work out the international

postage and use the office franking machine.  There was no fraud involved.

He was, after all, saving the school catering budget a fortune on biscuits for

the foreseeable future.  Or so he rationalised.

For Whom The Bell Tolls 1

Tags

Caligula, deja vu, Evian, flugelhorn, marimba, Piglet, teachers' planner

Never ask for whom the bell tolls, sighed Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master

at St Birinus Middle School.  It tolls for me.

Term had only just begun and the first form time bell had sounded.  Gus

looked at the twenty five fresh-faced, newly kitted-out hopefuls who were

squirming at the tables in front of him.

An overwhelming sensation of deja vu swept over him, like a provincial

tsunami, and he opened his spanking new attendance register to call out the

boys’ names.  Next year registration would be electronic, so thank goodness

he would have departed ere that.

Boothroyd-Smythe, John?

Sir! 

Snod looked over the top of his spectacles.  The little blighters had been

known to call out on each others’ behalf.  Had there been a nuance of

sarcasm in the tone of the response?  Even the process of determination as

to who was actually in attendance could be a minefield.

Really, he had not wanted this particular form, but The Powers That Be had felt

that a known disruptive such as the aforementioned might be better contained

under the eagle eye of an old timer.  Caligula, as the Junior Master was

ironically known, had blanched, or even blenched, as Piglet was wont to do, at

the very thought of being responsible for such a mini-terrorist.

Snod scanned the seemingly endless blank pages in his Teachers’ Planner.

Half-term appeared to be galaxies away.  If only he could stagger on till the

end of October.  A nice little flu epidemic which would strike the boarders

would bring relief in the decimation of numbers, or maybe some hero would

organise a short trip, giving the rest of the staff some respite.  But it wouldn’t

be him-ah, no! He had achieved the full set of medals for that activity in his

considerable past.

The timetable was becoming increasingly difficult to deliver, as each pupil

seemed to have a custom-made schedule with certain periods devoted to

individual activities, such as Performance, Learning Support, marimba, or

flugelhorn lessons with those blessed peripatetics, and so on.

This year things were becoming outrageous.  Two boys had chillax sessions.

They had specially assigned ergonomic chairs and precious space had had to

be sacrificed to accommodate their beanbags, which meant that Snod had

been compelled to reduce the circuit of his classroom model railway.  I say his,

as no one was allowed to touch the track, or the carriages, except himself, as

one unfortunate new kid on the block had found out to his eternal detriment in

1986.

But a mini-bar, well-fridge- for emergency rehydration of students before

Assembly!  He really felt that was going too far,  Still, he could put some

bottles of gin and tonic in there for the end of the school day.  There might

not be room for a lime, but no matter.  He could squeeze the bottles of

Evian to the back.

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- now they needed to be split up.  They were

of an age when individuation was appropriate to their development.  Besides,

he required a volunteer to partner John Boothroyd-Smythe.  The fact that

neither of the twins wanted to sit beside the thuglet was neither here nor

there.  He didn’t want to sit anywhere near him either.

Ah well, one year to go.  Soon it would be over and his forty years of ticking

off the days, weeks, months and years to retirement was almost at an end.

Drat!  He had entered Boothroyd-Smythe twice- once under B and then again

under S for Smythe.  What was it with these double-barrelled nomenclatures?

They took up so much space and time and made one’s wrist ache when writing

reports.

Now his pristine first page was desecrated and despoiled by the correction.

The bell rang again, shrilly and insistently.  Assembly!

Right!  Line up.  Boothroyd-Smythe, you lead the way!  This was a time-worn

ploy to get the difficult ones onside.  It never worked.

From now on, he determined, I’m going to address him as B-S.  No point in

wasting breath.  Conservation of energy is necessary to tide me through.

End of Term Reports

Tags

Beach Boys, Birinus, Calypso Carol, Castor and Pollux, flugelhorn, George Formby, Harriet Harman, marimba, Orwell, PHSE, ukelele

It’s that time of year again, when anxious Suttonford parents await brown

envelopes with the Xmas Letter from the Head, next year’s Calendar of School

Events AND the booklet of reports which, they hope, will validate the great

expense that they have poured into their children’s education and which will

somehow prove that a silk purse can be made out of a sow’s ear, if sufficient

funds have been cast in the right direction.  Bread has been cast on waters

which MIGHT return after many days.

It all depends, of course, on whether the precocious pupil remembers to

deliver the parentally-addressed missive from their backpack, so that an

inspection can be made regarding progress, or the lack thereof.

St Birinus Middle School                    December 2012

William Brewer-Mead (Bill)

Another hyperactive, but productive term for Bill.  His Attention Deficit

Disorder could be seen to influence his pick n’ mix engagement with

the broader curriculum.

His Geography project on sustainability lacked focus, but evidenced

the predilections of a polymath.  (Renaissance man was ever thus!)

If he could persuade himself of the value of physical stillness, he would

perform more consistently and with less impact on his peers.

Nevertheless, what was I saying?  Oh dear, I seem to forget.  Forgive

me.  It’s been a lengthy term.

A*

N. Milford-Haven.

Ferdinand Brewer-Mead  (Ferdy)

Ferdy’s PHSE essay: Ginger and Proud of It!  gave the class much to consider

regarding the school yard persecution of minorities.  His linguistic points on

gender difference: foxy lady (positive); ginger minger (pejorative) were

insightful and far-reaching. Cross-cultural relevance, an important assessment

objective, was achieved in the apposite integration of the Welsh proverb: os

bydd goch, fe fydd gythreulig.  (We will take his word on the translation.)

Political comment was pertinent regarding Harriet Harman’s cruel comments

regarding rodents.  Are rats our brothers? Orwell would have been proud of

him.

1^st for Science-well done! A*

N. M-H (PHSE Dept.)

 

John Boothroyd-Smythe

John’s George Formby impersonation at the House Evening in November

was an example of ukulele playing at its finest.  Some of the lyrics were

somewhat infused with innuendo which may have been considered

unsuitable for some of the Juniors in the audience, as one or two irate,

though perhaps narrow-minded, parents were prompt to point out.

John shines in solo work, as his 25% extra time allowance can detract

from the musical experience of other members of the school orchestra.

Science: 3^rd.  An admirable effort and a foundation which he can build

on as he contemplates future public examinations.

A*

N. M-H (Form teacher)

Castor and Pollux Willoughby- Dual report                    Dec. 2012

Always adept at blowing his own trumpet, Castor’s flugelhorn fluctuations

added a triumphalist tone to the descant of Hark! the Herald Angels Sing

at the Carols n’ Collection for this term’s chosen charity: Curs In Crisis, outside

B&Q.  He coped remarkably well when an inebriated member of the public

inconsiderately rammed a 2x roll packet of Andrex into his instrument.

Twin, Pollux, practised assiduously his marimba accompaniment to The Calypso

Carol for the Junior School Nativity play and showed that his sense of syncopation

and rhytm- (sic) is increasing.

His sporting of a Hawaiian shirt was interpreted as an attempt at ethnic

authenticity, but we beg to remind you that such garments do not conform

to our policies and regulations regarding school uniform.

PS- May I ask where one could buy one?  I am such a fan of The Beach Boys.

Thank You.

A*

Nigel Milford-Haven B.A. Hons., B.Ed.