Debatable Lands

Tags

barmkin, bastle, black market, Bonnie Prince Charlie, border control, Brexit, debatable lands, donkey sanctuary, Easter bonnet, First Minister, haggis, Independence, Lent, Northumberland, Palm Sunday, Pele Tower, Presbyterian, re-moaners, reiver

(image: fortified tower by mattbuck)

[This is a continuation of my Augustus Snodbury saga…]

Diana Fotheringay- Syylk was sitting at her scrubbed pine table in

the kitchen of her pele tower.  She was writing to the church warden,

to apologise for the mule-ish behaviour of the Palm Sunday rescue donkey,

which had slipped its rein in the procession through the graveyard and had

made a dash for the appetising trimmings on Mrs Digby’s Easter bonnet.  This

had not tightened the bonds of fellowship, even though the nibbled headgear

had been sported by one who had contributed to the donkey sanctuary in the

past.  No, she- Diana- felt responsible for introducing such innovative practices

to a staunchly Presbyterian congregation.  She couldn’t help thinking that the

bonnet was a little premature and should have been left until well after Lent,

even if its wearer was the church warden.

Diana would always be a stranger here – a Sassenach.  Murgatroyd might

have saved a prime example of architectural heritage for the nation through

his restoration project, but neither she, nor her husband were of reiver stock.

Oddly enough, her erstwhile lover and the father of her beloved daughter, Dru,

was of that lineage, so she supposed Dru could trace her roots to the ‘Debatable

Lands’ too.

She raised her head and addressed her housekeeper, Mrs Connolly, who was

peeling a turnip (or was it a swede?  The two vegetables had lexical differences

depending on which side of the border they were being consumed.  Another

grave divergence.  I kid you not.)

Mrs C, what do you think Theresa May signified by ‘Brexit means Brexit?’

Ach, jist something like I meant when Ah tell’t ma wee yin ‘Bed means bed!’

Mind ye, Ah usually backed it up wae a swift toe tae the….

Please, Mrs C!

But Diana chuckled inwardly.

She was trying to sort everything out for Gus and Virginia’s visit.  Dru and

Nigel would also be arriving for their end-of-term Easter break.

It had not been a year since she and Murgatroyd had renewed their wedding

vows. What an event it had been, with Dru and Nigel AND Virginia and Gus

tying the tartan knot, in a combined nuptial service. Ah, so much had

happened in a short space of time.

Virginia had offered to put her own house on the market.  It had been her

previous marital residence.  She was worried that house prices might fall,

or the £ might plummet.  She and Gus were ‘Re-moaners’ and proud of it.

They were contemplating re-locating to the Borders, now that they had both

retired from St Birinus Middle.  The problem was that they did not know on

which side of the border to settle.  For this reason, the Debateable Lands

attracted them, in order to hedge their bets.

Dru and Nigel both had accommodation at their respective boarding schools,

but they had been keen to renovate some outbuildings in the pele complex, as

a way of getting themselves on the housing ladder.

Diana was keen on this, as she felt Dru would only conceive when she was away

from the stresses and strains of teaching.  Grand-children were on Diana’s

agenda and she liked the idea of them being on site.  If things became too

riotous, she could always retreat to her fortified bastle and barricade herself

in.

The problem was that the Scottish/ English border ran straight through their

barmkin.

Should’ Sturge’ effect Independence, then to which Csarina should they render?

Would Murgatroyd be evicted from half his property and have to remain in one

half of his complex?

Diana had an idea.

Mrs C, what if we were to transfer all the property to you – you know, put it

in your name?  If we only had permission as foreign residents to live in

the country for a proportion of the year, we could move the furniture

to the other side of the room; stay over there and you could call us your guests.

Nae borra!  Mrs C nodded enthusiastically.  Ah dinna ken whit that wee ny-

eh, that First Meenister is goin’ oan aboot.  Her granny came fae

Northumberland, so she’s practically a migrant hersel’.  An’ some o’ her pals

look like aliens tae, if Ah say so mahsel’.

Onywise, when Dru has her wean, we can put the whole shebang into its name. 

It’ll be born here, Ah take it?  Ach, Ah hope it’s a wee boy: a proper Bonnie

Charlie.

If there is ony Border Control, we will make a killin’, sellin’ haggis, shortbread

and whisky oan the Black Merkit. if they come to inspect, or patrol oor border,

we’ll jist drag the boxes ower tae the far side o’ the room.

But no one down south likes haggis, Mrs C…

It’ll be a different story efter Brexit, ye’ll see!  pontificated Mrs C.  They’ll a’ be

starvin’ ower there. 

And her eyes swivelled significantly, as she directed her stare to the other

side of the kitchen.

Mebbe we can dae a trade in barrels o’ pickled herrin’ tae.

Chipping Snodbury

Tags

Absent Freinds, aperro, bachaqueros, Bolivar, Chipping Sodbury, Corbyn, Deist, Embers, Farrow and Ball, Ford Pinto, gloaming, Indian Summer, Malapropism, Pele Tower, River Camel, Sandor Marai, Snodland, The Cotswolds, Venezuela, Voltaire

Great-Aunt Augusta: RIP

 

Mrs Connolly, the housekeeper at Murgatroyd Syylk’s pele tower,

was exhausted.  She had overseen the triple marriages- well, dual

marriages and one re-espousal- of Augustus and Virginia, Drusilla

and Nigel and her employers: Diana and the aforementioned Murgatroyd.

She had given Dru a lace-trimmed hankie when her mascara had

threatened to run, as the bride had welled up at the thought that dear old

Aunt Augusta would not be with them.  The old curmudgeon had loved a

good wedding, funeral or general family crisis.  She had been sorely

missed.

Gus had raised a toast to ‘Absent Friends‘ at the end of his father-of-the-

bride speech, by way of respect.

Curiously a feather had floated down onto the top table at this very point.

It was black, but was nevertheless pronounced a good omen as it

appeared to be exactly like one from Aunt Augusta’s feather boa which

she always wore- even in Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry, at

‘aperro-time‘ as she was wont to call that crepuscular, inebriation

time-zone.

Clearly, she was with them in spirit, if not spirits.

They had left a place at the top table for her, or for The Grey Lady whom

she had conversed with, though nobody else had had direct

communication with the resident phantom.

Mrs Connolly had kept a lid on the petulant Mrs Milford-Haven, mother

of Nigel, who had been confused by her lengthy, Corbynesque train

journey from Cornwall.

She had scarcely been over The Camel in her lifetime, but was naturally

acquainted with the concept of a hump.  This was no crude allusion, but

merely indicative of her tendency to sulk when she was not the centre of

attention. Maybe it was some kind of physiological Radon effect.

Mrs Connolly had handled her robustly.

Whit’s the matter with yon wifie?  she had enquired.  Has she peed on a

thistle?

Soon she had calmed the situation down by introducing her to a Farrow and

Ball paint chart, which gave the peevish guest big ideas for Nigel’s post-

honeymoon guilt trip, to finish off the decoration of her bathroom.

Even Gus had been a tad emotional about his more-or-less step-brother,

Hugo, who was stranded in Venezuela.  He had been unable to leave the

country to take up his proffered teaching post at St Birinus Middle, even

after all the hard work Virginia had put in with visa application and so on.

A black market hawker was unlikely to be able to afford a trip to The

Borders.

Bachaqueros was a romantic collective noun, but everyone knew that it was

euphemistic.

Dru had been exasperated: Why doesn’t he just add billions of zeros to a

Bolivar note and turn up at the airport with a wheelbarrow of them?

It’s not that simple, darling, sympathised Diana.  We should have opened a

‘Generosity’ site to raise funds for him, I suppose.

Oh, I hadn’t thought of crowd-funding, Dru sighed.

Or he could have sold his Ford Pinto, muttered Gus.  Though we have lived to

see Voltaire’s comments on paper currency come true.

The Rev Finlay Armstrong had been aroused at the mention of this notable

Deist.

Yes, it returns to its intrinsic worth, Snod explained, as if he was back in the

classroom.

Flickr-Voltaire (marble) by Houdon. Nat Gallery Art, Chester Dale,

  1963)

Author: Sarah Stierch

 

But he was not back in the classroom.  He was now to be a married man

and Virginia had suggested that he burn all his old teaching notes in the

new trendy, fire pit which Murgatroyd had installed so that his guests

could sit al fresco in the midge-ridden gloaming on the few Indian

summer evenings which were dry.

That was quick! she had remarked.  There was a few singed curls of paper.

Where is all the rest?  Had you shredded them?

No, Snod replied.  I am of the old school.  All my lessons were, and indeed still

are, in my head.

At least she was assured that there had been no incineration of erstwhile

love letters.  She still had a little explorative rake-through with

Murgatroyd’s self-wrought poker.

She was right about the non-incineration of the amatory epistles. Diana

still possessed them- including the Valentine card which had gone astray

like many a Messianic sheep, all those years ago and which had led to the

current denouement.

But this seemed to be all in the past.  Virginia had been reading Sandor

Marai’s book Embers and an apposite quotation from it had come to mind:

Time is a purgatory that has cleansed all fury from my memories.

We shall subsequently see whether this is indeed the case.

Meanwhile Mrs C was showing her fatigue in her usual Malapropistic

manner: So, when will you be back from Chipping Snodbury? she asked

Murgatroyd and Diana, who had planned a little antique-hunting

expedition in The Cotswolds.

Sodbury! they had exclaimed.

 

 

 

A Young Cockerel’s Stone

Tags

a cockerel's stone, Baz Luhrmann, David Cameron, Krapp's Last Tape, Lammas Tide, Lanzarote, Pele Tower, pigeon egg ruby, SamCam, selfie, The Nurse Romeo and Juliet, wet nurse, wormwood

Augustus Snodbury was very glad that he had made it to the end of term.

Virginia had been very happy with the pigeon’s egg ruby engagement

ring.  Personally, like Dru, he had thought it a tad vulgar- its stone of

proportions more like the bump on Susan’s head.

Susan?  I hear you query, Dear Reader.

Candia: Yes, the one who was/is with God.

Reader: I’m still no wiser.

Candia: Folk don’t seem to read ‘Romeo and Juliet’ now.  Even the kids

just watch the Baz Luhrmann film.  The Nurse’s child who died. 

You know, that was why the old gal could be a wet nurse.  Geddit?

Susan died when she fell and sustained a bump as big as a young

cockerel’s stone.

Reader: Stone?

Candia: Testicle to you.

Reader: Ah!  But what’s this to do with Virginia’s ring?   Oh, yes!

Anyway, Virginia had clearly thought it was no more than she

deserved, as she quoted The Book of Proverbs– the bit about a virtuous

woman’s price being above rubies.

Reader:  She is getting rather full of herself.

Candia: I agree.  I could make her fall off her stilettos, if you like. I needn’t

wait till Lammas Tide.

Male Reader: No, don’t do that.  We like to read about her ankles.  Do you

think she will fall backwards in the near future?

Candia:  Not so long as I can tease this sorry saga out!  But, at least, Gus

is not ‘a man of wax.’

Reader (of either gender-or even both): No, we think that phrase refers

to Nigel.

Candia:  Oh, don’t be too hard on Nigel.  He’s got enough on his plate. 

His mother is trying to create difficulties about the wedding.

Reader:  She has wormwood on her dug?

Candia:  Her dug is all right.  She’s prepared to check him into kennels

for the occasion. 

Reader:  Something is lost in translation here.

Candia:  It is just that she feels she is losing a son rather than gaining

a daughter-in-law.  She also thinks that she will have to hire a decorator

in future, as Nigel is bound to be more occupied as a married man.

Reader:  So where are they all, in their Easter holidays?

Candia: Snod and Virginia are with Diana and Murgatroyd in the

Borders, sorting out the guest lists and logistics, but Dru and Nigel

have taken themselves off to Lanzarote.  They bumped into David

Cameron the other day.  Dru took a selfie with SamCam and invited

her-and Dave- to the wedding(s).

Reader (impressed):  Did they accept?

Candia:  No, they politely responded with the equivalent of:  It is an

honour that we dream not of.

Reader:  He might be free by then. By the way, is Snod happier about

things now?

Candia:  I believe that he took Virginia’s hands and said:  ‘Perhaps

my best years are gone.  When there was a chance of happiness.  But

I  wouldn’t want them back.  Not with the fire in me now.’

Reader:  That’s from Krapp’s Last Tape and Embers.

Candia:  Typical. One of his obsessions. He always talks…you know…

stuff like:  ‘I can’t go on like this.’

Reader:  And then he does?

Candia:  Precisely.  But Virginia can handle him.  At least, I think she

can.

Virginia:  Yes, I can.

Crossing the Rubicon

Tags

alea iacta est, Burmese ruby, Caesar, die is cast, Lady Capulet, Mercutio, Mr Bennet, Pele Tower, Queen Mab, Romeo and Juliet, Rubicon, Six Nations, Test Matches, Tybalt, warts and all

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession

of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife, Drusilla had quoted to her

father with a laugh, at her small engagement celebration.

The hint had not been too subtle and he had riposted:

But what about a single man who is not yet in possession of an

indifferent pension?  And, furthermore, I have the humility to question

whether I am ‘a fine thing.’

She had sighed in exasperation: Oh, Dad! Inverted pride, more like!

Now Augustus Snodbury was shaving and meditating as he did so.

He could no longer prevaricate.

Lines from Romeo and Juliet whirled around his mind, as was

usual when he had been drumming a text all term into the

recalcitrant brains(?) of restless adolescents.

I like her well enough, he mused, referencing Juliet’s words to Lady

Capulet, but reversing the gender perspective.

( He did not usually play the female lead, but would generally

assign it to some pretty-looking boy whom he wanted to punish

for a late prep.)

…if looking liking move, he continued.

Was he moved sufficiently?

Terror rushed through his veins and he nicked himself through

self-sabotage, dispensing with a need for a Mercutio, or Tybalt, to

draw blood.  He was aware that he was in a fear or flight situation.

But no more deep will I endear mine eye, whispered one of his angels.

He would never again be able to watch all the Test matches in peace

and absorb himself in The Six Nations, not to mention Wimbledon.

And yet…

He had travelled down to Rochester to Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil

with Drusilla, to collect the pigeon blood Burmese ruby ring from the

depository, in order to make his proposal to Virginia, with a gem from

Lady Wivern’s bequest.  Dru had not wanted it.  She thought it too vulgar

and had been pleased to resign any right in the stash, in exchange for the

sweet little heart-shaped ring she had acquired to mark her betrothal to

Nigel.

He put himself into the sandals of Caesar himself.  Maybe it would be

treason, treason to his long-held bachelorhood status, but now he knew

that he must cross the last frontier and push his boat into the Rubicon

of married life.

He knew that, like Mr Bennet, he was an odd mixture of quick parts,

sarcastic humour, reserve and caprice.  And yet Virginia, unlike Mrs B,

was a woman of some understanding, much information and a certain

temper.  Would she agree to entering an arrangement of mutual solace?

Was he in the throes of some Queen Mab fantasy?

At his time of life he felt challenged by the concept of establishing a new

permanent relationship.  It made him feel- what?  Peevish.  Yes, that was

it.

When Dru had phoned her mother to tell her about the engagement, Diana

had been in raptures.  Dru was relating how she intended to pay for her

wedding through crowdfunding, but Murgatroyd wouldn’t hear of such a

thing and immediately offered the pele tower as a venue, adding that they

would have a joint celebration at which he and Diana would renew their

wedding vows.

Maybe he should make it a threesome.  No, that was something entirely

different, he believed. Three weddings and whose funeral?

They were having a piper and all the rigmarole that Snod despised.

Anyway, she might turn him down!  That would be a relief, in a way.

He took the ring out of the box and held it to the light.  It seemed to have

flaws in the stone.  When he was having it cleaned he had asked the

jeweller about it.

All the best stones do, he had remarked.  It shows their authenticity.

Well, he hoped Virginia would appreciate him, warts and all!

Alea Iacta Est!

 

 

Que Gigantes??

Tags

Andalusia, Balm of Fierarbras, caballeros, castanet, Castilian, Cave of Montesinos, Cervantes, Coyote, duende, Dulcinea, Falstaff, flamenco, Golden Age, hidalgo, Jack Horner, Jeremy Corbyn, John McDonnell, Kindle, La Mancha, parador, paramour, Pele Tower, picaresque, Quixote, Sancho Panza, Serrano, Simon Russell Beale, Tony Benn

John McDonnell as Sancho Panza?

(Photo: Kolrobbie at Wikipaedia)

(Zaqarbal, Wikipaedia)

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master of St Birinus Middle,

grimaced at the Junior Master’s pronunciation.

Nigel had just informed his elder and better that he was taking

his paramour, Drusilla to a Ciudad Real Parador for the October

half term break.  They would not be joining Gus and Virginia at

the Pele Tower in the Borders.

On enquiring what Nigel’s- he refused to call him ‘Nige’- holiday

reading might be, he was given to understand that Cervantes was

on the agenda-or at least, on the Kindle, abridged, naturally.

Nigel, more or less, had identified the novel as Don Coyote.

Quixote?

Whatever.

Another instance of that annoying expression.

Nigel put his hand in his tweed jacket, to draw out a handkerchief

and, to his surprise, pulled out-not a plum, like Jack Horner, but a pair

of castanets.  He flushed and raised them above his head, attempting a

confident Ole!

What’s going on? muttered Snod.

Oh, Dru and I have been preparing for our forthcoming trip by attending

a Flamenco Club in Suttonford, on a Wednesday night.

Cervantes and the duende. Hmmm, you are studying the chivalric form of

The Ingenious Gentleman of La Mancha, I take it?

Snod patted his paunch sagely, as if he were Simon Russell Beale playing

Falstaff.

Privately, Nigel thought Gus could do with some exercise himself.  He could

lose some of that grandote.

Flapping his hand in a hidalgoesque manner, Snod indicated that he was

terminating the conversation.  He picked up a newspaper and gave the

impression that all discussion on the picaresque was at an end.

But Nigel, noticing a front page photo of Jeremy Corbyn, could not help

commenting that the politician was another example, like Tony Benn, who

was given to renunciation of the caballeros class.

Snod lowered his paper and pronounced:

I think he feels Fortune has arranged thirty or more monstrous giants, all

of whom he means to engage in battle and slay in righteous warfare.

What giants?

No, Mr Milford-Haven.  The quotation is ‘Que gigantes?’  But, yes, Corbyn has

something of The Knight of the Rueful Countenance about him.  You see, he

wants you to believe what he claims to have seen in the Cave of Montesinos.

And that is all he has to say.  His words are like manure spread on barren

ground. He might as well be speaking Castilian.

(Photo: Garry Knight)

You think he is just telling some groups of goatherds about a Golden Age?

ventured Nigel.

He believes he can heal society with an equivalent of the Balm of Fierarbras, 

Snod nodded.

But at least he seems to be for the poor, Nigel qualified.

Fools think there is bacon when there is not even a hook to hang a haunch of

Serrano on, persisted Snod, beginning to enjoy the exchange.  I suppose in

office he might wake to sanity.

The bell rang, concluding the exploration of the romantic forthcoming trip

with Drusilla, or Dulcinea, as Snod was beginning to think of her.

Back to the galleys, Snod announced.  His identification with Cervantes

was complete.

(Photo by Lourdes Cardenal, Wikipaedia)

This particular collocation of Don Quixote and Jeremy Corbyn is copyright

to Candia Dixon Stuart.

Jezza Style

Tags

Beckham baker's boy cap, beyond the pale, Birkenstocks, Biro, Channel 4, Clothing Bank, Diane Abbott, Islington North, ITV, Jeremy Corbyn, Jezza, Jon Snow, Paisley pattern, Pele Tower, personal style signifier, Robert Peston, snowclones, Whiter Shade of Pale, Wurzel Gummidge

(Photo-stopwar.org.uk)

Virginia Fisher-Gyles had to admit to a certain frustration over her

relationship with Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus

Middle School.

They had enjoyed each other’s company over the school holidays

and were planning a half term break to visit Gus’ ex-squeeze, who

had been reconciled to her ex-husband, Murgatroyd Syylk, the erstwhile

picture dealer.  Now Diana, for that was the name of the lady so lucky

in love, was adapting to her new role as chatelaine of a renovated

pele tower.  To boot, her spouse was the epitome of good grooming.

Virginia felt no pangs of jealousy, architectural, or otherwise, but

what really niggled at her lately-enjoyed sense of being a deux was a

certain slight embarrassment at her partner’s wardrobe.

Gus seemed to have shadowed Jeremy Corbyn on one of his sartorial

shopping treks round Islington North market stalls.  The schoolmaster

wasn’t guilty of the white vest solecism, but he did have a very similar

beige jacket, albeit with unco-ordinated elbow patches.

Like Jezza, Snod had a habit of keeping a spare Biro in his shirt pocket.

One hot summer day, before term had ended, Peabrayne Minor had

practically freaked out, as he had noticed a crimson seepage from his

teacher’s breast.  He had run out of the classroom to fetch the San Sister,

thinking the old boy was haemmorhaging.  Some of the other boys on the

front row had noticed the phenomenon too, but had realised that it was

a leaky marking pen that was gradually creating a map that the more

geographically-aware members of the class were already identifying as

Africa.

Snod had been sporting cords since the Seventies- possibly the same pair-

because he appreciated their comfort, which only increased, the baggier

they became round his increasing backside.

For more formal occasions, such as a Parents’ Evening, he added a rakish

personal style signifier in the form of a Paisley patterned silk mouchoir,

which protruded from the aforementioned jacket pocket.

Virginia had been relieved that her had stuck to his old cricket flannels on

their European cruise.  At least he had not worn shorts with his Birkenstocks.

That would have been beyond the pale, as far as she was concerned. She

privately made a bet with herself that his legs had not seen the light of day

since A Whiter Shade of Pale had topped the charts in 1967.  Anyway, she

wasn’t going to go there.

So, for her beau, beige was the new black.  She had read that such

expressions were termed snowclones.  How she wished that he would take

a leaf out of Jon Snow’s book and, at least, display a hint of hosiery style.

However, since Gus was not a Channel 4 type, she would just have to accept

that he was happier to converge with the likes of Robert Peston.  But if the

economist was to defect to ITV, there might be a hope of persuading her man

that Wurzel Gummidge was an unsuitable role model, or fashion template.

So, boho-Corbynesque seemed to prevail.  What was she supposed to do

about it?  Threaten to dress like Diane Abbott?

No, she would start her campaign early and ensure that he wasn’t just

getting socks and Boxers for Christmas.  This was going to tax her

organisational skills as a PA to the limit, as well as her personal shopper

aspirations.  It was heartening, however, to know that Snod’s daughter,

Drusilla, was on board and had offered to hijack his laundry and take it to

the Clothing Bank at the re-cycling centre.  They would probably charge

her ten quid to incinerate it.

Virginia thought that might be a risky strategy, although a tempting one.

However, since Nigel, Drusilla’s boyfriend was adopting the same

magisterial uniform, in the Latin sense, perhaps the two women could

form a twin-pronged attack on both males and achieve successful

makeovers.  Perhaps.

At least neither of them owned a Beckham baker’s boy cap.  So, there

might be some hope after all.

Scything

Tags

Alan Bates, Andrew Marvell, Antiques Roadshow, Babylon, barmkin, Ben Batt, Corydon, Damon the Mower, Deep Heat, Downton Abbey, eclogues, Farmers' Markets, Fiona Bruce, Four Horsemen of Apocalypse, Green-Winged orchid, Grim reaper, Hayter, Highgrove, Lammas, meadow management, Mower to the Glow-Worms, Mr D'Arcy, One Man Went to Mow, pastoral, Pele Tower, Ph.D, Pig-gate, Poldark, Schroeckenfux, scything, snath, Stag's Breath liqueur, The Go-Between, troubador, Voltarol, wu wei

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk was administering embrocations

and a little tlc to a recumbent Murgatroyd, who is, as some

of you will recall, the owner of a Borders Pele tower.

Privately, Diana thought that he had been over-doing things

and Voltarol was not really having a great deal of an effect on

his lumbar aches and pains.

It had not helped when he had lugged plastic crates round the

local Farmers’ Markets, selling his Empress Bangers and porcine

medallions.

Yes, Dear Reader, Pig-gate had already struck, before the

Cameronian variety hit the news.

(Photo:Alpha from Melbourne)

Once he had cleared out the pig-pen area he decided to

re-seed it, to please Diana, who had been upset when their

gardening firm had rotovated the wrong field and inadvertently

destroyed their recently established Highgrove-style wildflower

meadow and a group of what she took to be Green-Winged Orchids.

(Photo by Didier Desouens)

From then on, Murgatroyd had decided to do away with mechanical

Hayters and, Diana, having been inspired by Aidan Turner, like so

many females d’un certain age, had booked him in – Murgatroyd, that

is – for a Lammas weekend scything course in Brighton, where he was

going to learn the sociology of the bar peen.

His back-ache had been exacerbated by carrying the large A4 pack of

information he had been given at the start of the course.  Someone had

probably gained a Ph.D in Rural Studies from producing it.

That meant she could watch the boxed set of Poldark in peace, while

he practised with his new, Austrian light-weight, zero-carbon

Schroeckenfux.

However, her pastoral idyll had been disturbed by Murgatroyd’s

complaints, not in the manner of a Corydon, or passionate troubador,

but more in line with the average husband who experiences muscular

twitches, or sciatica.  He was recumbent and had hung his instrument on

the equivalent of a willow tree, while he lamented his estate, as if he

had been exiled from Babylon.  He felt as if one of the Four Horsemen

of the Apocalypse had wounded him – perhaps that skinny one with the

hoodie and the big scythe.

He groaned.

We’ve run out of  ‘Voltarol’.  You’ll just have to use the ‘Deep Heat’ until

the shops open tomorrow and  I go down to the pharmacy, Diana

informed him, noting that The Go-Between was on later that evening.

What a pity she didn’t have a little gopher, like Leo, to pop upstairs

with the tube of emollient.  She was fed up running up and down stairs

pandering to the invalid.

Having taken him a Stag’s Breath liqueur and having poured a generous

shot for herself, she settled down with the remote in a comfy armchair, in

the barmkin.

This had better be good, for she had enjoyed the Alan Bates version.

For some subliminal reason, she hummed One Man Went to Mow, Went to

Mow a Meadow…

It wasn’t too long before she found herself re-winding to check the length

of the snath handle Batt was implementing.  Impressive-and that was just

his wu wei.

Meanwhile Murgatroyd was looking at a John Deere catalogue while Ben

Batt cut a swathe through Downton‘s viewing audience and no one could

remember what Fiona Bruce had been rabbiting on about on The Antiques

Roadshow.  For, there was an attempt to high-jack a Mr D’Arcy moment for

posterity.

Later, in bed – the spare bed – Diana could not clear snatches of eclogues

from her overactive mind.  She kept thinking of Andrew Marvell poems, such

as Damon the Mower, The Mower to the Glow-worms and Mowing Song.

Snippets of the verses repeated themselves:

Sharp like his scythe his sorrow was,

And withered like his hopes the grass.

and

How happy might I still have mowed,

Had not Love here his thistles sowed.

…there among the grass fell down,

By his own scythe, the Mower mown…

T ‘is death alone that this must do:

For Death thou art a Mower too.

Well, she reflected, Life is too short for meadow

management. I think we will just pave it over again

and get some pots with pelargoniums.  I’ll go to the

Garden Centre after I’ve been to the chemist’s.

And she decided that Alan Bates had, after all,

been more satisfactory.

Coming!

No Worries!

Tags

Alan Bennet, Barramundi, Barry Manilow, Billy Connolly, Blairgowrie, Blue-Eye, Brave, Carsten Holler, Castilian Spanish, Chai Latte, cone bra, Creole, David Shrigley, Eleftherios, Federation Square, Flinders lane, Frozen, Great Ocean Road, gum tree, heist, Ice, John Paul Gaultier, kanga bangas, koala, kookaburra, lingusitic convergence, McClelland Sculpture Park, Melbourne, Melchisedek, Mornington Peninsula, Mountain Goat Steam Ale, NGV International, no worries!, Panagia Kamariani, Pele Tower, Philip Larkin, Pidgin, possums, Poundland, Rab C Nesbitt, Red Claw, Red Hill Greek Orthodox monastery, rhinopithecus strykerl, sans soucis, shotgun wedding, snub nosed monkey, Sorrento, Talking Heads, The Island Bird by Neto, www.chrispattas.com, Yabby Lake, You'll Never Walk Alone

r

Dear Posse, or should that be ‘possums’?

You have probably all wondered why Candia has gone off radar,

but I haven’t got time to correspond with you individually. So,

maybe you can make do with reading the communal postcard I

sent to my dear girlfriends in Suttonford, who are probably even

now sharing its contents in Costamuchamoulah‘s must-seen

cafe, as they sip their Chai Lattes– an inferior blend to the original

which I have just imbibed in Flinders Lane, Melbourne.

You see, the price of an air mail stamp to Pomland- not to be

confused with Poundland- is almost as much as an additional glass

of Yabby Lake fizz for moi and, on this once- in-a-lifetime walkabout,

I am not about to downgrade to the Red Claw ‘drinkable’ variety.

So, G’day, mates! I’ve already been down The Great Ocean Road;

seen my first koala in the wild- thankfully unaccompanied by Putin,

One Direction, or Obama- gawped at a joey peeping out of a row of

vines and consumed my first Blue-Eye and Barramundi.  The latter

sounds like Barry Manilow, but is infinitely more subtle.  As far as I

know, it doesn’t attempt to sing.  I do seem to remember Big

Mouth Billy, the singing sea bass, so maybe one could form a

connection.

It’s so good to relax and the upgrade to Business Class from

Singapore was a down-payment of future bliss.  It took a few

moments before I realised that I was watching ‘Brave‘ in Castilian

Spanish on the back of the seat in front, but my personally

appointed steward soon tuned me in to the appropriate lingo.

Better than a remote in the control of The Husband and a tad

more obliging.  It’s good to be treated better than Dame Edna

Average.

I see Billy Connolly is coming to Melbourne shortly. The Scots’

community should comprehend his repartee, but no doubt his

Antipodean spouse has taught him a little linguistic convergence,

so the audience should probably work out that he is not speaking

some kind of Pidgin, or Creole.  Anyway, hybridisation and cross-

fertilisation seem to be the name of the game over here.  One minute

you are in Sorrento and the next you are driving through Blairgowrie.

Talk about fusion!

The Husband grew some roots in Federation Square as he

downed a Mountain Goat Steam Ale, while riveting his gaze

on the big screen’s events at the MCG and demolishing some

Kanga Bangas.

While Gus, Virginia, Diana, Murgatroyd, Dru and Nigel are

snowed in at the pele tower in The Borders, The Husband

and I are experiencing four seasons in one day down in The

Mornington Peninsula.  The chattering classes of Suttonford

have been silenced by the maniacal laughter of a kookaburra,

who stereotypically does sit in an old gum tree, as well as

crapping all over the garden fence every morning.  But, sans

soucis!  Even the mynahs’ cackles are shriller than some South

of England socialites.

I know I said that I only sent one postcard, but that isn’t

strictly true.

I did send Juniper a card of Jean Paul Gaultier’s teddy bear,

which he has cherished since the age of three and which sports

his prototype cone bra.

She would have loved the holographic talking heads on his models

in The NGV.  So would Alan Bennet!  Maybe I should have sent him a

postcard too, but he’s probably a friend of the designer and gets a

personalised one.

Even church-going is a lot more exciting here.  I don’t think Philip

Larkin would have been as lugubrious if he had removed his cycle

clips and gone into the Red Hill Greek Orthodox Monastery of Panagia

Kamariani.

The priest told me that his Christian name- ‘Eleftherios‘ means ‘Liberty’

and he certainly takes a few.  I mean, back in Suttonford, the staid

congregation are startled out of their professed sobriety by the

ringing of a ship’s bell; the crashing of the organ and a cacophany of

bells in the Easter Saturday service in Wintoncester Cathedral.  But

Father Tatsis is much more melodramatic.  Look up http://www.chrispattas.

com and you can see a Youtube clip of the sacerdotal gesture of

celebration to the pronouncement: He is Risen!  Brings a whole new

angle to the phrase ‘shotgun wedding‘!It is a pity that the latter day

Melchisedek didn’t wield his weapon at the teenage thugs who raided

the icon’s golden votive jewellery collection and who made off with a

heist worth $100,000.  Failing that, he could have maybe stowed the

stuff in a safe.  Unfortunately there is Ice in Paradise and I don’t mean

anything as innocent as the latest Frozen movie.

The liberating thing about Oz seems to be that you can act like a big

kid and you are actually encouraged to do so.  Case in point:  The

Husband climbing into the art installation The Island Bird by Ernesto

Neto at The NGV International.

He got tangled up in what appeared to be an unravelled string shopping

bag, or a coloured version of Rab C Nesbitt’s vest.  I was more attracted

by Carsten Holler’s golden, mirrored carousel and managed to restrain myself

from breaking into You’ll Never Walk Alone, though, if I had, it would have been

regarded as a valid interactional response. Like Oz itself, even the artwork

invites us to stand on our heads and re-imagine the world, reconsidering our

place within it.

So, whether it is wallpapering a gallery with anarchic David Shrigley

observations, or sculpting a Sneezing Snub Nosed Monkey -Rhinopithecus

strykerl (McClelland Sculpture Park), the infectious Aussie irreverent take

on life affects even its Un-Orthodox priests and makes one feel that,

indeed, there are No Worries!

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaachoooooooooooooooooooooooo!!

Poetry versus Push-pin

Tags

adjectival phrase, amaryllis, Beethoven, Belladonna, Bentham, Beyonce, Bishop of Durham, Borgia, Bridge Mints, C of E, ceteris paribus, Chirpa chirpa cheep cheep, conversazione, Country Life magazine, debutante, dehydration, hip flask, Jenkins, Liverpool Pathway, Mayfair atelier, Mozart, noumenal realm, Pele Tower, poetry v push-pin, Poundland, Pushkin, veg-tan, wassail, York Minster

Drusilla had a precious free weekend before Christmas

and had selflessly decided to motor down to visit her

Great-Aunt Augusta in Snodland’s Nursing Home

for the Debased Gentry.

Great-Aunt Augusta had pronounced herself a little under the

weather and had decided not to make an unseasonal journey

northwards to the draughty pele tower in the Borders, to join

the rest of the extended ‘family’ for the celebrations.  In any

case, she didn’t want to miss the Residents’ Wassail Evening.

Dru had wrapped a generous bottle of Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother and some Bridge Mints and also took along some back

numbers of magazines which the school library had been about to

shred.

The old virago was rather rude.  She immediately started reading a

copy of Country Life magazine (October 2014), leaving her great-

niece to engage a doddery old man in what could only

optimistically be called conversation, or conversazione, by

pretentious writers in similar publications.

Ha!  Hark at this!  Augusta screeched, causing several biddies in

proximity to adjust their hearing aids.  These estate agents are

the limit.  They’re offering property in York for cultural aficianodos and

the best adjective they can employ to modify the Minster is:

‘pretty’ cathedral.  They’re fortunate that their offices are not struck

by a bolt of lightning for committing a bigger faux pas than the Bishop

of Durham once did. Ha! That showed that The Almighty was not

housed in man-made constructs and is not necessarily C of E.

What do you mean? Dru asked.  Her aunt was referring to something

beyond her personal ken.

Just that God is no respecter of persons and does not dwell in buildings

made of stone.  I remember how we all marvelled at the cathedral being

struck by a coup de foudre after Bishop Jenkins’ trendy pronouncements.

Let’s play a game, she continued.  Who would you like to see being

struck by lightning?

No, Aunt.  That is not a very Christian idea- especially at this time

of year.  (Dru was shocked that certain colleagues came

immediately to mind.)

Oh, you young people have no sense of fun.

She flicked a few more pages, slightly in a huff.  Then she brightened

considerably.

Can’t I  propose people who exhibit portraits of their debutante

daughters while slipping in an advertisement for their own atelier

businesses in Mayfair?

No.  Have a Bridge Mint.

Augusta took two.  She didn’t offer one to Dru, or to the doddery

cling-on.

I see poultry prefer Beethoven to Beyonce, she mused.  She felt

she was on safer ground.  Not a terrain that usually attracted

her footfall.  However, the noumenal realm was still in her mental

grasp and she liked to show her powers of acuity. It’s a bit like

Bentham saying poetry is no better than push-pin, she pronounced.

Or was it Pushkin?  I can’t recall. Ceteris paribus, I don’t see any

reason to prefer one over the other.

She read a little more of the article….

There’s something called ‘Top of the Flocks’ that you

can play in your chicken run.  Hens lay 6% more eggs if you play

Mozart.

They’d lay 7% if you played Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep, the

doddery old man piped up as he leaned toward the open box.

Clearly he was not aurally challenged, or socially reserved.

Chirpa, corrected Aunt Augusta, moving the box of mints closer

to her sphere of jurisdiction.

Do open one of your small prezzies, Dru invited her, in a vain

attempt at distraction.

Augusta put the bottle-shaped one under her chair in a

particularly acquisitive gesture.  She looked at the label

on another, smaller parcel.  Hmm, from Gus.  It feels

like a flower pot.  I hope it’s not one of those veg-tan

leather articles shown in here, starting at £130, she

scowled.  I’m not leaving my estate to a spendthrift!

Aunt, it’s an Amaryllis bulb from Poundland, Dru sighed.

Ah, I can see my childhood training has paid off,  Augusta

beamed, carefully rolling and conserving the ribbon and

folding the wrapping paper for another occasion.  She

set her lips in a Borgian smile when she saw the

designation: Belladonna.  Might come in useful.

At least they still allow us flowers in here. Not like in that

hospital ward where floral tributes were banned in case

patients drank water from vases on their bedside lockers.

Shocking! Who drinks water nowadays? That’s why, my dear-

she paused for maximum effect and then produced her hip

flask from somewhere under her clothing- I always have a

stand-by.  I don’t intend to let the beggars do me down through

dehydration.

I’ll come back tomorrow morning, Dru promised.  She was

worried that someone would think she had given Augusta

the hip flask.

Don’t look so anxious, her aunt responded.  We all have

them in here.  How do you think we survive on the Liverpool

Pathway to nowhere?

And Dru had to admit that it didn’t seem to do them any harm.

Quite the reverse.

 

Ice Bucket Challenge

Tags

barmkin, Better Together, Cunning Little Vixen, First Minister, Flower o' Scotland, Flower O'Scotland, Ice Bucket Challenge, Kelvingrove, mote and beam, Oh Scotland, Pele Tower, Purgatory, Sassenach, Scotland, Scottish Play, Snodland, snowploughing, sporran, Trident, Wee Eck, Wyvern Mote

Murgatroyd and Diana settled down in the barmkin to watch The Debate.

Murgatroyd sensed that there were many diasporan Scots- was that the

same etymological root as ‘sporran‘?- who felt somewhat aggrieved that a

Sassenach such as himself could vote on their country’s future, so he

wanted to be fully informed and astute in his response.  He had tried to

follow some of the arguments on his tablet, but found that he kept

re-playing The First Minister’s Ice Bucket Challenge instead.  He liked it

when Wee Eck said, Dae it again!  No doubt that would be his cry if the

result in September didn’t please him.

Mrs Connolly came in with a tray of salmon sandwiches.  Murgatroyd

felt ashamed that he had ever suspected her good self, or her son, of

theft.  Forced bonhomie led him to ask her how she intended to vote.

Oh, Scotland!  Scotland! she quoted.

Again, Murgatroyd was impressed by the standard of the natives’

education.

..nation miserable

with an untitled tyrant,

when shall you see your wholesome days again?

He thought that this might be from that Flower O’ Scotland song. He

hummed a few bars to show solidarity.

No, Mr Syylk!  It is your own National Bard.  The Scottish Play.

She went on:

Alas, poor country!

Almost afraid to know itself.  It cannot be called our mother, but our grave;

where nothing is, but who knows nothing..

I didn’t think Alistair did too badly, Murgatroyd remarked, trying to be

impartial and failing.

If that’s the best they can do, Mr Syylk, I intend to emigrate, like past

millions.

Fare thee well!

These evils thou repeatest on thyself

have banished me from Scotland.

Yet my poor country

shall have more vices than it had before,

more suffer and more sundry ways

by him that shall succeed.

Surely not, Mrs Connolly.  Murgatroyd was at a loss to reply to such

moving rhetoric.  Maybe she should have been representing the

‘Better Together‘ campaign at Kelvingrove.

Diana just thanked her and took two generous-sized sandwiches

from the tray. Mad!  All of them.

But, it was only a few weeks since Diana would have thought a barmkin

was some kind of Scottish oatcake.  It was amazing how she had been able

to see Murgatroyd more clearly, the scales having dropped from her

over-prejudicial eyes.  What was all that about motes and beams?  Maybe

her stay in The Tibetan Centre had helped her to move on.

They were going to have a trial reconciliation. (Sonia had said that she

had seen it coming.)  She always said that.

Anyway, it seemed fortuitous that Dru had accompanied Great-Aunt

Augusta back to Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.  That

meant Nigel was able to give Sonia a lift home in the hired van.  Dru had

decided to leave her harp at the Pele Tower, so there was room for

Sonia’s luggage.  In fact there was plenty of room for a dismantled Trident,

if Alex and Co had wanted to send it down south.

Nigel’s concentration was being hampered by Sonia’s inquisition on his

relationship with Dru.  How could anyone be more intrusive than his own

mother?

Diana and Gus were already back at school, fielding disgruntled parents

and snowploughing their enquiries, to grit the path for the incoming

Headmaster.  The term stretched before them like a path through

Purgatory.

Gus was annoyed as he had been sent a postcard from Wyvern Mote,

from Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe, commenting on the wonderful concert

and praising Dru’s musicianship.  Snod knew, with that unerring classroom

intuition developed over decades, that the missive meant that Dru had

taken him there.  He had seen them, tete-a-tete, during the interval, no

doubt arranging to meet up after Dru had dropped Aunt Augusta back at

the care home.  Musicianship?!  Hah!  Cunning Little Vixen!

Gus did not approve of her having led Nigel on.  His own past

experiences returned to haunt him.  He had seen the look in

Nigel’s eyes as he sang some of the more romantic ballads. Poor

fellow!  His vocal timbre was developing, but his charisma was,

like the proverbial gas, at a peep.

Furthermore, there was an issue which now loomed larger than the

outcome of a referendum: if Dru were to strike up a liaison with

Maxwell Boothroyd-Smythe and it should become permanent, then-

Heavens forfend!!-he might end up step-grandfather to that bolshie

Juniper and her odious younger sibling, the biggest bete-noire of St

Birinus’ Middle.

He would like to empty a bucket of something else over that

particular parental head.