Photo by Candia Dixon-Stuart
Arundells, Babel, Bishop's Stall, Chapter House, Constable, Creme egg, Dom Perignon, Easter, Jobseekers, Julian of Norwich, Living Water, Mammon, Mocha, National Trust, New Sarum, Old Sarum, Palm Sunday, patens, Pontius Pilate, Salisbury, Simnel cake, Ted Heath, University Challenge, Yasser Arafat
A re-blog as it is timely:
I can’t believe that it’s nearly Easter, shivered Carrie.
Quick! let’s go in and bag a table, I said.
Costamuchamoulah cafe was still doing a brisk trade, even on this
grey day. Amazingly, the smokers were still prepared to sit outside.
We have the routine down to a fine art now: one gets into the queue while
the other nabs a table, much as the disciples snatched a colt.
Yes, Easter’s early this year, I commented, watching a child stuff its face with
a Creme Egg in advance of the Christian calendar. It’s amazing how such
diminutive creatures can incorporate a whole orb of sickly chocolate fondant
into such a tiny aperture.
I bet they don’t know what Simnel cakes represent, I mused aloud.
What do they stand for? queried Carrie. Then, seeing my expression, she
added, I’m sure I once knew.
That’s what I say during University Challenge, I replied.
Then I sipped my Mocha, getting a chocolate powder moustache. You know,
it’s Palm Sunday tomorrow. Are you going to go to a service?
Try persuading that lot to get out of bed, she sighed. They used to like to see
the donkey coming into the church, though. Sometimes they were convinced
that The Dean, giving his dramatised reading, was Pontius Pilate and it scared
Yes, we used to go to Salisbury for the service. That was when Ted Heath
lived in The Close. In fact..
..you have a poem about it, she smiled.
How did you know?
PALM SUNDAY IN SALISBURY
Polythene wraps New Sarum like an egg.
The sky above The Close is Constable’s.
Cream-robed clergy congregate in cloisters,
bespectacled, brandishing dried gray palms,
under a spire as tall as Babel’s own,
while new choristers mouth All glory, laud
and honour.. without comprehending laud.
The tallest lad hopes that his voice won’t crack.
Girl choristers have not been asked to sing today.
Some miniature Yasser Arafats
in tea-towels and trainers coax an ass
from a spreading cedar into the nave,
where all present pray for its continence.
True blue glass provides a continuo.
Ted Heath’s Jaguar, also blue, is parked
on a reserved space outside Arundells.
What if one should loose its handbrake
and say, The Lord has need of thee this day?
Meanwhile we make intercession for all
unemployed, under and over-employed,
while carefully noting the advertised
champagne breakfast on our service schedule.
Dom Perignon: a foretaste of glory.
The Jobseekers can sip Living Water.
Coffee will be served in the Chapter House
among the exhumed coffin chalices,
patens. The bookshop is doing business
in postcards of Julian of Norwich:
All manner of thing shall be well. Mammon
hasn’t felt stings from His whip of cords-yet.
The head which indicates the Bishop’s stall
has a triple face of circumspection.
The Dean and his ordained wife wear the same
as they stand on repro medieval tiles,
trying not to worry about their lunch.
In the cloisters a chill wind chafes faces.
A chair is overturned, but no tables.
Although we have received the sign of peace,
our palm crosses seem ineffectual.
We stick one on Ted’s windscreen, just in case
his residential permit cuts no ice
with the flaming Being at the Close gate,
who curiously doesn’t wear a badge,
but bears authority from Old Sarum.
He tends to let the backpackers pass through,
like Christians, still bearing their large burdens,
or as camels accessing a needle.
But Tory Faithful have to wait in queues,
backs turned to the Celestial City,
while Peter checks their National Trust cards
and the very stones cry, Glory! Glory!
They were off! Praise be for Roadside Recovery!
Just thinking…, said Snod, once they had reached
the motorway and he felt that Dru could concentrate.
You never did go into Bunbury, Quincunx
and Quatrefoil, to arrange to inspect the rest of the
jewellery deposited for you in the bank vault.
I know…It’s just that circumstances changed.
What do you mean? How?
Well, now that you are seeing Virginia, I thought, if you
two get hitched, spliced, or whatever, well…
…well, she would be the due recipient of the legacy, being
your- em- wife and therefore Lady Wivern’s daughter-in-
The bumf said it was for your wife, or daughter.
Well, I don’t have a wife and you are my daughter, so, at
the point of Lady Wivern’s death, you were the only valid
beneficiary. It couldn’t even be argued that Diana was my
common-law-wife, as we never lived together and she was
espoused to Murgatroyd. I suppose you could give her a
token from the hoard…something you are less keen on,
if you feel you must. And, if you give Diana a little
something, I will give you the heart-shaped diamond ring
I kept all those years for her. I don’t think Virginia would
appreciate jewellery bought for someone else and it is
inappropriate for me to give it to your mother now she is
back together with Murgatroyd.
The only thing that truly interested me was The Tindall
Jewel and, as you know, I signed for it to be left on
permanent display at Wyvern Mote. At least they verified
my genetic credentials fairly discreetly in order for me to
assert ownership and do that.
Yes, The National Trust soon co-operated when they
got wind that you were going to be Lady Bountiful to
them, Snod agreed.
I must say I was impressed when the curator came up
with Lionel and Peregrine’s milk teeth in the schoolroom
drawer. It was so lucky that the little yellow stumps had
been kept in labelled drawing pin boxes, along with their
other childhood treasures.
Yes, my half brothers… A lifetime ago, said Snod sadly.
It certainly saved any ‘Alas poor Yorick!’ exhumations.
All we had to provide was that cheek swab and-hey
presto!-proof of identity for both of us. That’s Modern
Science for you. And Modern Life. Somehow spoils the
mystery, though… No, things can’t be changed
retrospectively. Anyway, even if Virginia and myself do…
Father! Dru pulled into the inside lane. Are you telling
me there is a possibility??!
She hasn’t asked me yet, Snod prevaricated. What
about you and Nigel? You don’t give much away yourself.
Maybe we will, if you will.
Sounds like that song from The American Songbag, Dru
laughed. Then she started singing:
She’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes…
She stopped: Who was ‘she’?
A locomotive. It’s a railroad song. Let’s just hope we
avoid a train crash in our relationships!
Oh, don’t be so gloomy! Let’s just hope that she’ll be
wearing silk pyjamas when she comes! I wonder if
No, she doesn’t, commented Snod, without thinking.
Neither does Nigel! Dru giggled.
They both burst out laughing and continued lustily:
I will, if you will, so will I!