Clerihew 5

Tags

clerihew, First Minister, Mhairi Black, Nicola Sturgeon, SNP

(Official Portrait of First Minister Nicola Sturgeon

https:// beta.gov.scotabout/who-runs-government?

first minister

Author: Scottish Government)

 

Nicola Sturgeon,

you might seem a curmudgeon,

but when it comes to giving flack,

the prize goes to Mhairi Black.

(Image from SNP video. On You Tube &

Wikipaedia)

Are you sitting comfortably?

Tags

Blur, Bute House, Cath Kidston, Cotswolds, cupcake fascism, denouement, Kate Moss, King Arthur, King Mark, Maidenhead, micromanagement, neologism, Nicola Sturgeon, Roksanda, SamCam, Theresa May, Trump, Vivienne Westwood, Witney

(www.flickr.com/ photos/ home office)

I can’t believe that Candia is leaving Suttonford after defending it against

accusations of cupcake fascism, commented Chlamydia, as she sipped

an iced coffee.

I know, rejoindered Brassica.  She is deserting us and going off to The

Cotswolds, to investigate the charity shops of Witney, in case they receive

any SamCam cast-offs.

Yes, that was a nice Roksanda frock Samantha wore outside Downing Street,

on their last day- the orange and navy number.  That Nancy was a nice big

sister and the little one…

Flo?  Brassie supplied.

Yes, Flo.  She was an attractive little girl.  Very natural.

‘Frock!’  It’s a long time since I heard that descriptor.  It sounds a bit rude,

laughed Brassie.

Anyway, where does Mother Theresa live?  Not that I would thank you

for her Vivienne Westwood tartan trouser suit.

No, the PM doesn’t occupy the inglenooks of deepest Pre-Raphaelite territory,

nor does she seem to partake of pot suppers with the MP for Witney and his

set.  I believe she lives in Maidenhead…  The trouser suit is a bit of a favourite,

so I don’t think she’ll be disposing of it anytime soon to a charitable

establishment.

At least she had the sense not to wear it when visiting Bute House.   Wearing

tartan in front of the Scots is like proclaiming that you are an American golfer and/

or feature Trump on your family tree.  

I suppose it would be a bit of a red rag to a bull in the case of La Sturgeon. 

However, I must say that our Candia is going to have some interesting

neighbours, expatiated Brassie.  Kate Moss lives down the road and Alex from

‘Blur’ makes cheese on a farm somewhere in the vicinity.

I once heard Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe call him a ‘swoonbag,’ Clammie

remarked. Don’t you just love the neologisms these kids create, or pick up?

I walked in at that precise moment.

What’s a ‘swoonbag?’  I asked.

Oh, Alex from ‘Blur,’  Brassie explained.  Isn’t he going to be on your

doorstep?

Not if I can help it, I said firmly.  Who is he anyway?

He makes cheese, Clammie clarified.

Oh.  Well, I haven’t got time for farmers’ markets and all that,

I replied.  Not at the moment.  I have to create  denouement for all my

Suttonfordian Chronicles.  You know that I have left my characters

stranded in The Borders, on the brink of matrimony.  Brexit finished

me off. I didn’t know whether they would have the will to carry on

and whether they would settle in Scotland, or apply for emigration visas.

Diana and Murgatroyd will surely remain ( sorry, unintended pun) in

the pele tower?  Brassie queried.

If wee Nicola gives them a passport.  Dru and Nigel still have to work

down south and Nigel’s mother would refuse to leave Cornwall.  Her

allegiance is to King Arthur, or King Mark, or someone. 

What about Virginia and Snod?  Clammie enquired.

Yes, what about them?  I agreed.  Everyone is losing track of their

narrative.  I think I will start at the very beginning,  to orientate my

readers.  Neither character has their pensions yet, so I don’t know if

Snod will just go ahead and retire anyway.

But Virginia loves her micromanagement PA job,  Brassie submitted.

Don’t all wives?  She would have plenty of scope in re-shaping Gus,

I suggested.  Anyway, I am going to post a resume. It’s been so long

that I can’t remember myself how it all started.

Bonne idee!  smiled Brassie.  I can never remember how it all began.

Are you sitting comfortably?

They both collected a Cath Kidston seat pad, settled on the hard

bistro chairs and hung on my every word.

The Wrong Wellies

Tags

barista, Botticelli, Brassica, Brunetti's, Chinese New Year, Commissario Brunetti, Commissario Montelbano, David Cameron, Donna Leon, Donna Tartt, Hunter wellies, kiddychino, Nicola Sturgeon, Rebekah Brooks, salted caramel eclair, SamCam, Singapore Sling

(image by abc 10)

 

So basically you have been unfaithful to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ cafe here in

Suttonford? Brassica accused me.

It wasn’t like that, I tried to defend myself. No bog-brush bearded baristas

were involved, I assure you.  It’s just that ‘Brunetti’s’ salted caramel eclairs in

Melbourne were so tempting.

That Italian name’s familiar, Brassie interrupted.

You’re thinking of Donna Leon’s Commissario Brunetti, I surmised, knowing

she’d read a couple of the volumes in the series at her ‘Bookworm’ group.

But, you know, I’d prefer to make a tangential mental leap to summon up a

vision of Commissario Montelbano- the young one, I mused.  Actually, one

of the waiters who brought me extra marshmallows was kind of like him. He

had the same bandy legs, but Botticelli curls.

Mmm, quite a lot of Italian guys do.  Yet, you’ve been swanning round the

globe while the rest of us were generating mould in our ‘Hunter’ wellies from

the condensation build-up of Apocalyptic precipitation levels?

Join Nicola Sturgeon’s clan.  But not David Cameron’s.

How so?

She shares your taste in trending wellies.  Apparently Cameron wore a cheap

pair when he visited the flooded areas.

Oh, that was for the press, she exclaimed.  Do you think SamCam would

let him out in anything cheap if he was (say) visiting Rebekah Brooks for a bit

of a pot supper, after helping her to muck out at her stables?

Okay, I’m sorry.  By the by, I would be surprised if SamCam, as you call her,

allowed him out at all, when he is off-duty.  She would probably prefer him to

come home smelling of roses.

Why do I always get Donna Leon and Donna Tartt mixed up?

Dunno. Easily done. I took my tablet out of its case.

Look! This was us on our final evening at ‘Raffles’, on the way home.

Put it away, barked Brassie.  I’m not interested.  Anyway, you said you

went there twice, so I can’t forgive you.

She couldn’t resist a peek.

What were you trying to do?  Live up to your gravatar?

No, I was just having a ‘Singapore Sling.’

She drew me an even greater disapproving look.

Not a ‘fling’. You can get virgin ones, you know, I pleaded.

Silence.

No, actually.  Look, I’m not trying to be elitist.  Nowadays

it is a virtual extension of a creche.  Kids everywhere.  All these

special venues are commandeered by fathers in baseball caps

and shorts and mothers pushing giant buggies with babes who

only require feeder cups.  You dress for dinner and they throw theirs

on the floor- or ground-, if we are referring to the outside courtyard. 

Sometimes the infant accessories even manage to project their

regurgitations into your lap.

I do so agree on the distinction you make between ‘floor’ and

‘ground’, Brassie reflected. But, have you always been irritated

by kids, Candia?  I mean, didn’t you once teach the little darlings? 

Surely teachers like children?

Don’t bank on that, I replied.  D’habitude, we only like the well-behaved

ones, of which there are fewer and fewer.  I don’t mind them at informal

eateries at lunchtime, but if I am spending a mint on a rare grown-up

treat, I prefer a kiddychino-free zone.

Kiddychino?

Coming to ‘Costamuchamoulah’ by Chinese New Year, I predict.

We both sighed.

 

Back to the Future

Tags

Assumption, BBC Director General, Bento box, Born Again, Canon Dr Judith Maltby, Celts, crystal ball, David Cameron, Dean of St Paul's, divine imprimatur, Eastenders, Evan Davis, Gordon Brown, Helen Boaden, Hilary Benn, Horatio Hornblower, Hugh Grant, Ioan Gruffudd, James Bond, Last Judgement, Leroy Rosenior, Linda Carter, Mark Ford, Martha Lane Fox, Miliband, Nicola Sturgeon, Pandora's Box, Pepuzians, Piers Brosnan, Priscillians, Queen Vic, Recording Angel, Rev Giles Fraser, Sean Connery, Shriti Vadera, The Guardian, Timothy Dalton, University of Cambridge Vice-Chancellor, wasabi

So, how are you getting on with your belated Spring cleaning and

general clear-out?  Brassica asked me.

It’s too difficult.  Every time I investigate a box, I start reading

its contents.  Today, for instance, I found a ‘Guardian’ supplement

from 2004 which was all about predictions for 2020.

Hmm…crystal ball gazing.  Did they get things right?  she enquired,

munching something out of her Bento box- Costamuchamoulah’s

latest fad.

Well, there was an article in Part Two, dated 28th September,

2004, called ‘Who Will Be Who?

Ooh, do spill the beans!

It predicted that Ioan Gruffudd would be James Bond.

You mean that guy who was Horatio Hornblower?

Yip.  Timothy Dalton was Welsh, remember!  So, they may have

been thinking in similar terms.

Brassie looked sceptical.  She has always liked Sean Connery,

followed by Piers Brosnan.

Then it advocated Martha Lane Fox as possible Vice Chancellor

of the University of Cambridge.

Because she is big on marketing and global brands?

I was surprised that Brassie had heard of her.

Yes, students are customers now, you must realise.

What about the monarch?

Oh, they assumed The Queen would be carrying on.

Charles will be 71 then.  The Queen will be 94.

Who did they think would take over from Miliband?

They didn’t know then that Ed would have been Leader!

Of course not.  Who did they back?

Hilary Benn.

They might be right.  Could do worse.  They backed David Cameron

for Leader of the Conservatives.  Back then he was a fresh-faced

Chief Policy Co-ordinator, aged 37.  They said he was leader of The

Notting Hill set.

I thought that was Hugh Grant.

They did mention his ‘raffish good looks.’

No, they must have mixed him up with Hugh Grant.  Anyway, who

else was nominated?

Leroy Rosenior as England Football Manager; Helen Boaden as BBC

Director General.

I do like their clothes, Brassie sighed.

Different Boden, I explained.

Really?

Ask me another.  I pinched a sliver of sea cucumber from her

lacquered top layer.

Poet Laureate?  She shut the lid.

Mark Ford.

Who?…  Archbishop of Canterbury?

Canon Dr Judith Maltby.

Oh, I like her, approved Brassie.  I heard her in Wintonchester

Cathedral.

Only trouble is that she was nominated by Rev Giles Fraser.

And look what happened to him.

(Photo by Kaihsu Tai)

Brassie chewed reflectively.  Wasn’t he the Dean of St Paul’s?

The one that is a Real Christian.

Brassie has her own categories of Christians- ranging from Born

Again to Brain Dead and then, suddenly she will find one to whom

she will give a Divine Imprimatur, almost as if she is standing in the

wings at The Last Judgement as The Recording Angel.

See, in 2004, women couldn’t be ordained as bishops.  So, it was quite

a bold statement, I pointed out. Mind you, I think that there were three

major groups in post-Nicene Christianity that supported women priests

in powerful positions-the Pepuzians, Priscillians and some Celtic

Christians…

The Celts!  Brassie spat out a fibrous shred of something vegetable.

She doesn’t like Nicola Sturgeon and doesn’t believe she should be

encouraged in any Assumption to any powerful position.  (Women

can be so mean about other women, n’est-ce-pas?)

What about soap stars?  She changed the subject.

(Photo by Matt Pearson)

Oh, Kevin O’Sullivan of ‘The Daily Mirror’ thought that Sonia Jackson’s

baby should be kept in the ‘Eastenders’ script and could be a future

landlady, if Barbara Windsor stopped clinging to the post.

So that was two Windsors still in power, in their estimation? 

Yes.  But they were wrong about that.  The current landlady is Linda

Carter, I believe- though I never watch it.

I looked around Costamuchamoulah nervously.

(Photo by Portlandvillage)

I could tell Brassie was losing focus now.  She was more interested in

opening the Pandora’s Box- I mean the Bento box.  I wondered what she

had in there.  Maybe it would be like a Goya nightmare, with all sorts of

weird and frightening creatures escaping and circling our heads.  And that

was only the sociological prophecies, not the contents of her lunchbox!

She took off the top layer.  Yum!  Beef and noodles!

Don’t you want to know who they thought would be Governor of The

Bank of England?

Not especially.

Well, it was the then economic adviser to Gordon Brown.

(Photo-Wikimedia Commons.  Official gov.uk portrait)

She looked sardonical.  Here!  Try a wasabi-flavoured forkful of this!

My throat was on fire, so I didn’t tell her Evan Davis’ recommendation:

Shriti Vadera.

I bet they didn’t have Bento boxes in Suttonford in 2004.

Slow Burn

Tags

Botham, Corn laws, Curricular Development, Dotheboys Hall, Ed Balls, Farage, Gracchi, guillotine, Jethro Tull, La Vache Qui Rit, Monster Raving Loony Party, National Service number, Nick Clegg, Nicola Sturgeon, Nigel Hawthorne, O tempora O mores!, Populares, Radio 4, seed drill, Shredded Wheat, Weetabix, Wisden

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ Middle School,

wandered into the corner of the staffroom that was designated

the staff ‘kitchen’.   It was there that he usually prepared his

solitary breakfast, while the more diligent members of his profession

were singing tunelessly at Assembly.

He opened the fridge.  There was the usual array of plastic tubs

brought in by female members of staff, containing strange salads

and supermarket sushi.  He was looking for milk.  Nothing weird and

wonderful, such as the rice, soya or coconut variety, but something

white that had drained out of an udder in some English rural hamlet.

He was just about to place a third Shredded Wheat into his personal

cereal bowl with its calligraphic flourish: Dotheboys Hall, when he heard

the voice of his conscience- ie/ the dulcet tones of Virginia Fisher-Giles,

School Secretary and personal PA to the new Headmaster:

Two would be lovely, but three would be too much.

Now that seemed familiar.

Of course, that was exactly the sentiment he felt regarding school

terms.  After the Moveable Feast, it used to be all downhill: sitting under

a Sycamore tree with a couple of scholarship acolytes, ‘analysing’ poetry,

while actually studying Wisden; coaching the Junior Team on a Wednesday

afternoon to the mellow thwack of willow on leather.  The most strenuous

activity might have been manning the bottle stall at the school fete…

Ah, now he remembered.  It was Botham who had appeared on that

advertisement for Shredded Wheat.  A big, beefy guy like him was a good

endorser of the product.  Snod felt that personally he had more in common

with Nigel Hawthorne, who had also recommended the carbohydrate-ridden

wheaten rectangles, in a scholarly capacity on one of the other memorable

promotions.  No doubt the health freaks on the staff would blame his madness

and purple urination- Nigel’s (not his) on the evils of gluten.

This wretched newcomer of a Headmaster had Ideas.  Snod sensed the danger

of that approach.  When the children were finished with their summer exams

and were on school trips, that was usually the time for the Senior Masters to

take a little well-earned snooze in the somewhat lumpy chintz armchairs in

the Senior Masters’ Common Room.  Some had even been known to smoke a

pipe, or study racing tips.  Not now.  Oh no!  Not now.

More meetings had been arranged on the school calendar.  Curricular

Development, they called it.  More ****** worksheets to be prepared

for the following year.

Snod had never used a worksheet in his entire career.  He was a chalk

and talk man and somehow vital information had been driven into the

resistant skulls of his protegees as effectively and ruthlessly as if it

had been planted there by Jethro Tull’s innovative seed drill.

It was all too much.  No rest for the wicked.

He pressed the Weetabixes flat with the back of a spoon which still had

someone’s National Service number engraved on its bowl.  He managed

to squash the third pillow-shaped nibble down, before dowsing it in

white sugar and then drowning it in full-fat Gold Top.

Nigel Milford-Haven breezed in singing ‘O what a Beautiful Morning! 

Assembly had ended a few minutes early as Mr Poskett had played

the recessional molto allegro.

Snod gave him one of those looks which he had perfected over the

decades, which was wont to silence the most ebullient pupil.

Not feeling so good, sir?  Nigel was complicit with the mythic alibi that

all absentee and truanting Senior Masters employed, should their

absence be noted.

Snod stepped aside with a heavy deliberation that would have

characterised one of the heavier dinosaurs.  Nigel opened the fridge

and took out some rice milk.

So, it was his after all.  ******typical!  Gus inwardly commented.  ‘Milksop‘

came to his mind.  However, he tried to dismiss that term as he knew that

Nigel might end up as his son-in-law.  O tempora!  O mores!  That

unsweetened muesli rubbish was his too, it seemed.

The election will soon be upon us, Nigel pressed on, ignoring Snod’s

reticence.  Nick Clegg’s on a diet.

I suppose he doesn’t want anyone asking: Does he take sugar?  (Snod

was referring to a Radio 4 programme from the past.  He laughed at

his own joke.  He always did.)

An annoying habit, thought Nigel daringly.

Well, the Junior Master continued, the boys are setting up some

hustings and we will need to borrow the staffroom guillotine to cut the

ballot papers.  We have created various parties for them to feel affiliated

to and they are electing representatives.  John Boothroyd- Smythe is

wearing a rosette which represents The Monster Raving Loony Party. 

Who will you vote for, sir?

The Populares Party.  He sprayed Nigel with some cereal.

The Popular Party?  Not like you, sir.  Is that Farage and Co?

No, that sounds more like you.  Same name for a start.  I refer to the

party whose principles the Gracchi supported.  Whoever controlled the

grain supply held control over the city of Rome.   Grain collected as

revenue would be sold at a subsidised rate.  Like keeping the price of

Weetabix reasonably low so that a working man could have three,

should he so desire.  And I do.

Oh, I see.  Politics has always been about Corn Laws and public ire has

always been aroused if the -I was going to say ‘plebs’-  Can I say ‘plebs’?-

Nigel appealed to the Senior Master for clarification and permission-

if…if the people have to eat brioche, or whatever they were offered

instead of bread.

Something like that, muttered Snod.  And don’t let that Boothroyd child

stir up insurrection.  Tell him from me that there is still a guillotine in the

staffroom and I won’t be using it for trimming flyers.

And what do you think of Nicola Sturgeon, Mr Snodbury? asked the new

French mistress, provocatively.  She reached into the fridge and took out

a Vache Qui Rit to unpeel at break, which she took in the Modern

Languages base room.  That department always kept themselves to

themselves.

Snod looked pertinently at the red disc in her hand.  No laughing matter,

he opined and, bolting the last fibrous spoonful, he dumped the un-rinsed

bowl in the staff sink and headed for his first lesson, which he was

preparing even as he walked the length of the corridor.

‘Slow burn‘ was something Ed Balls had worryingly claimed to be a master of,

but three Weetabix was truly the slow energy release that all in authority

needed to perform their challenging roles, whether that be PM, or plain

Senior Master.  And, as for third terms- yes, they should be abolished.

Snod would certainly make his mark against that one.

A Fish Called Steve

Tags

Ananias and Sapphira, Aquatic Centre, Bearnaise, casting bread on water, Compleat Angler, exemption clause, Feeding Five Thousand, Granny Smiths, hog roast, joint and several liability, Kirstie and Phil, Land registry, Lulu Guinness, Make Poverty History, Nicola Sturgeon, Parson's nose, Pharisee, Romsey, St Birinus, Steve the sturgeon, tithe pig, Wallbank case, widow's mite

I was just finishing off regaling Brassica about Steve, the fish who went

missing from the Aquatic Centre in Romsey during the February floods.  The

metre long sturgeon has now been discovered in a deep puddle in a car

wash and has been repatriated.

It’s a parable for our times, I quipped.  What about that fishy pair up north-

Nicola (surely related), and Alex the Salmon?  They’re both about the

same length and will surely end up in a deep muddle, up the political creek,

without a paddle.

Very droll, Candia, smirked Brassie.

Chlamydia looked pale and drawn as she flopped down at the bistro

table outside Costamuchamoulah, the must-seen cafe.  What are you

two laughing about? she inquired.

Oh, just matters piscatorial, I joked.  After all, we are in Compleat Angler

territory. Have you heard of a fish called Steve?

No, said Clammie and didn’t appear to want to discuss him.

See you later.  Must go!  Brassica breezed off.

What’s up? I asked. (Note that I didn’t say, Whazzup?)

Look at this!  She took a letter from her Lulu Guinness handbag and cast

it across the table.  Read it!

It was from the Land Registry and its gist was that she was to be

appraised of her liability- joint and several– for repairs to the chancel of

Suttonford Parish Church.

I don’t understand, I said.  How can you be responsible for financing

maintenance and repair work to an ecclesiastical building?

Apparently it is an ancient law which can force home owners to pay if they

live in the parish of a church built before 1536, she sighed.  You live in the

Parish of St Birinus, so you are okay.  This will finish Tristram off, she groaned.

He’s already stressed over the twins’ school fees.  We might have to cancel

our sailing holiday to Sardinia at Whitsun.

It’s just as well that you were gazzumped over that 8 bedroomed Nemesis

House that Kirstie and Phil tried to encourage you to bankrupt yourselves

for, I remarked.

Maybe you’d have to pay the PCC proportionately, according to the size of

your property.

I have spent the whole morning Googling, Clammie moaned, as if she hadn’t

heard my observation.  They say that the clause doesn’t even have to show

up in your title deeds.

Sounds like hogwash to me, I tried to mollify her.  It’s probably just that the 

government has told the Church that they have a fixed period of time to

clarify stipulations on their title deeds- you know, for their charitable status,

or something.

No. No.  It’s all about precedent, she said knowledgeably.  I read about the

Wallbank case.  A couple had to sell a farm they had inherited in Warwickshire,

as they found out that they were responsible for maintenance and repairs to

the church, incidentally, where Shakespeare’s parents married.

Theoretically, I suggested.

Theoretically married?

No, theoretically pay, I elucidated.

No. She wrung her hands.  Actually pay. They lost £250,000 in legal fees.

I’m sure they could have bought an insurance premium, I said.  Maybe they

just opposed the principle and got lawyers involved..

I think they were willing to pay something, she answered. I think you can pay

£50 for an exemption clause, though.

Well, there’s your answer, I said, pouring her a second cup of tea.  It’s nothing

new.

In days of yore, people had to support their vicar with a tithe pig.  The

parson’s nose was reserved for him, probably, too.  We should all support the

heart of our community.  The Husband and I were giving our vicar bushels of

our windfalls last Autumn in lieu of spiritual comfort.

Why didn’t you give me some? she demanded.  You know I bought a new

juicer.

You don’t bring me spiritual comfort, I sparred.

She changed tack. It is just the fact that they can extract money from

you, she complained.

Well, they have to.  Very few people give anything freely now. If people

gave their tithe..

Tithe?

Ten percent, I clarified, then there would be little poverty.

Oh, like ‘Make Poverty History’ she cottoned on- slowly.  I prefer the

widow’s mite.  It’s not as much.  Nice story. But I suppose not so appealing

if you are a Pharisee.

Precisely, I directed her.  And remember: the widow’s mite was

proportionately her all.  If you want to take things further, don’t emulate

Ananias and Sapphira. They promised and didn’t deliver.  That was the

worst kind of behaviour of all.

We stopped in front of the Parish Notice Board.  There was a bright

poster inviting the purchase of tickets for a hog roast in the vicarage

garden, in aid of the stretched middle income bracket.

I can relate to that, Clammie nodded. Someone must have donated their

tithe pig. I bet it wasn’t that miserable farmer. If we go, I suppose what goes

out comes in.

What?  Explain yourself, please.

If someone donates something, then more people benefit, including the

giver. A bit like the feeding of the five thousand.  Clammie was getting the

point.

Which takes us back to fish, I agreed.  And I think the practice is called

casting your bread on the waters.  It returns to you- sometimes after a long

while. Sometimes tenfold.  Or a hundredfold.  When you least expect it.

Think of Job.

I have and I always wondered what he could have done with all that excess

stuff at the end. But, seriously, if everyone buys a £50 exemption clause…?

It helps to save an ancient building and the heart of the community.

Well, if we pay up, what will you do, other than donate your bruised

Granny Smith rejects? she asked me confrontationally.  After all, you

have no compulsion in your parish.

The left hand won’t know what the right hand is doing, I reproved her.  If I

told you, I would have my reward on Earth.  I prefer to invest in the Heavenly

Kingdom more discreetly.

Well, are you going to support the hog roast then?  Clammie challenged me.

Depends who else is going, I replied. Since the poor we always have with us,

I suppose I’d better support the extended middle.  That fish in Romsey was

lucky. One of those yummy mummies who push husbands’ credit to the limit

might have tickled him- I mean Steve- and served him up with a Bearnaise for

one of her ladies-who-lunch events.  Everyone knows how there are fewer and

fewer of these gatherings in our cash-strapped times.

 I don’t think Steve is a very credible name for the spouse of a yummy

mummy, Clammie objected.

I meant the sturgeon, silly. I ground my teeth in exasperation.

Sometimes Clammie simply doesn’t concentrate.  I don’t think I could take

a whole evening in her company, so I’ll give the event a miss and just make

a donation.  Maybe ten percent of the ticket price?  After all, it’s a worthy

cause and I suppose they think they’re worth it!

Ash Dieback

Tags

Alex Salmond, Anne Lorne Gillies, ash dieback, Cutty Sark, devolution, Fraxinus, mountain ash, Nicola Sturgeon, rowan tree, Scottish Assembly, Scottish Referendum, sorbus aucuparia, Tam O' Shanter, Tree of Life, Tricia Marwick

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a little girl, I lived in a row of terraced houses, which was elevated above street level, with grassy slopes which led to the pavement- and all cordoned off by neat privet hedging at the bottom.

A path ran in front of the block of four dwellings.  At either end there was a flight of stone steps, with a double cast iron handrail- ideal for childish acrobatics.  And, to protect the whole block from witches, there was a rowan tree in the small garden patches of the end houses.

So, when I heard about dieback among ash trees, or Chalara fraxinea, to be precise, my first concern was whether rowan, or mountain ash was of the same susceptible genus.

I Googled and somehow found myself on a site about Alex Salmond.  What possible connection could there be between the First Minister and Pest Risk Analysis?

Apparently he had recorded a duet with Caledonia’s own Anne Lorne Gillies.  They sang a version of The Rowan Tree.  Could it be that Eck could transmit crown dieback on the Tree of Life, as sorbus aucuparia is sometimes known?

By giving them the vote prematurely, young saplings could suffer particular destruction and be infected in their nurseries with devolutionary disease.

Dinna fash yersel’!  Haud yer horses!  One of the nation’s- and I mean the UK’s favourite trees is thankfully immune to his kiss of death.  Just as well, as we don’t want to be exposed to any witchcraft from Nicola Sturgeon, Nanny, or Cutty Sarks in general. (see Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter for a clarification! Nothing to do with sailing ships built on the River Leven.)

So, nae sweat!  The rowan seems to be safe for the moment.  And The Scottish Assembly is safe from any more musical experiments, as The Presiding Officer, Tricia Marwick has banned singing in Holyrood.