Tag Archives: National Trust

Palm Sunday in Salisbury

29 Sunday Mar 2015

Posted by in History, Humour, Literature, Music, Poetry, Politics, Religion

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A re-blog as it is timely:

Simnel cake 1.jpg

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.

Cadbury-Creme-Eggs-US&UK-Small.jpg

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

them.

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!

Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil Re-visited

04 Wednesday Mar 2015

Posted by in Family, Humour, Music, Romance, Writing

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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.

Mmm?

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…

Snod coughed.

…well, she would be the due recipient of the legacy, being

your- em- wife and therefore Lady Wivern’s daughter-in-

law.

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.

18K White Gold Heart Shaped Diamond Ring 2.05 Carat

 

 

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

Virginia does?

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!