Old Michaelmas Day 2

Tags

aniline dye, arras, Banda, blackberries, chamberlain, Dabitoff, Dunsinane, Heaney, Jackson Pollock, Lady of Lake, Lydia seller of purple, Maud Gonne, Michaelmas Day, multitudinous seas, Ophelia, Plath, Polonius, Stain Devils, Tread softly, Vanish, Yeats

The accompanying historic post:

Okay, okay, so I went out and did it!

I can see that, Carrie remarked, looking down at my nails with a

disapproving glance. You’ll need to make an appointment with

‘Beauty and The Beast’ to sort you out with acrylic falsies.

Not me.  I’ll just cut them down and file them.  I’m a hands-on kind of

girl and couldn’t bear to have lily white fronds for hands like a Lady of the

Lake, or a drowned Ophelia.  I used to have digits like this when I started

teaching, back in the days of the spirit reproductive Banda

machine!  Oh, the smell of methylated spirits!  It gives me quite a

Proustian flashback to the classrooms of the Seventies.  So poetic too-

spirit duplicators, or spirit masters.  Sounds like the muse of Yeats or

some such bard.

Yeah, agreed Carrie.  And if he’d copied his lines for Maud Gonne:

‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams’ and left them out in the

sun, then posterity would never have had them.

How’s that? I asked, not normally so obtuse.

Because the ultraviolet light used to fade anything produced in that

antiquated way, so the aniline dye of the reproduced type would have

been ‘mauve gone’.

Very funny, I muttered.  I don’t like her taking over my comic role.

Anyway, you got in before the Devilish deadline, said Carrie, referring

to our prior conversation (see previous post).

I did.  All are safely stowed, like Polonius behind the arras.  Well,

at any rate, they are in the freezer.

Ah, you are an inspiration to us all, Candia.  And no doubt..

Yes, I did write a poem about it, I interrupted her.  Here!

And I flicked a Jackson Pollock-stained sheet of A4 across the table,

but its patterns were fruit juice thumbprints and nothing more

sinister.

Carrie read it silently while I sipped my well-deserved coffee.

Blackberrying

I’ve been told: poetry isn’t worth it

and neither is gathering blackberries.

It’s impossible to preserve Autumn,

or capture experience in a poem.

Yet I find one or two juicy morsels,

simmering away on my mental back burners.

Lately I have looked madder and madder.

Wood pigeons witter away suddenly.

I destroy a few spider artefacts,

thumb and finger poised; then quite dizzy,

I step back and squelch in a rabbit corpse.

Maybe it isn’t worth it after all.

Blood-red clots trail from the tail of my car,

to my front door and the hall becomes

a purple passage. My bag sags with gore.

Have I perpetrated a massacre?

I look as guilty as a chamberlain

in a castle, somewhere near Dunsinane,

with my clothing liberally spattered

by inedible, indelible stains.

Fierce scratches indicate a struggle.  Heave!

I’ll shove this in the freezer and then think

what I’ll do with it.  I survey my hands.

All the perfumes of an airport will not..

What? Will all the multitudinous seas

incarnadine et cetera? They won’t.

I regret time spent on all this fieldwork-

to produce the definitive poem

on blackberrying.  Heaney, Plath did it.

I’ve spat out phrases not pithy enough;

I cannot find a rhyme to match ‘maggot’

in a poem that isn’t about sex,

or the nostalgia of a butcher’s shop.

Gather ye brambles while ye may– that’s good,

but I could murder a cup of coffee.

Reviewers, like thorns, will rip me to shreds.

If pricked, I will bleed- through my gabardine.

Yet greed makes me garner all the pickings.

Lack of appreciation will sting me,

like all the nettles I had to wade through.

I’ve spent a King’s ransom on Vanish and

Dabitoff and Stain Devils; also on

opaque nail varnish, so I won’t have hands

like Lydia, that seller of purple,

or a sufferer of Porphyria.

My cuticles will not be underlined.

My children will rise up and call me sad,

for wearing magenta, indigo and

violet, when heliotrope is out.

Trying to sum up Mother Nature’s not

all it’s cracked up to be, like rotten cobs.

Ideas should be on a rolling boil,

if they are to come to a setting point.

Maybe then hues will glow through verse’s glass,

well-labelled, stored in the mind’s dark pantry

until they are taken out and savoured

on the raw, grey days of freezing winter.

The World Is Not Enough

Tags

arras, azure chapeau, barmkin, Blackadder, break a leg!, campaned, Commonwealth Games, crewel work, eBay, Esau, Fountainbridge, Green Room, helm affronte, heraldry, Ian Fleming, interior design, Kevin McCloud, King Over The Water, latex allergy, Moneypenny, Mrs Dalloway, nonsufficit orbis, Pierce Brosnan, policies, Polonius, poniard, Revenge Tragedy, Salmond, Samuel Johnson, Scotch Terrier, Scottish baronetcies, Sean Connery, stream-of-consciousness, Wee Eck, women bishops

Murgatroyd peered from behind the crewel worked arras, like a tetchy

Polonius.  No matter that he had found the reproduction fabric on Ebay,

it gave the desired effect and Kevin McCloud could stick that in his

chanter and play it, if he possessed such an instrument.  He only hoped

that the presenter would not appear at the concert with a camera crew,

and the verbal equivalent of a poniard, in the shape of a character in a

Revenge Tragedy, avenging  the contravention of ‘Good Taste‘ in interior

design.  But, unless Kev had been in the area and read one of the local

flyers, it seemed unlikely.

All the seats had been laid out in the erstwhile barmkin by a team as

efficient as those in The Commonwealth Games, minus the daft

choreography and the neon costumes.

Time was getting on and no one had turned up, except for Sonia and

Diana.  Only five tickets had been sold to date.

Och, dinna fash yersel’, soothed his cleaner.  They’ll a’ troop in at the

last meenit.  It’s jist their way.  They dinna want tae spend ony money

in case they shuffle off their mortal coil afore the night.  They’ll buy their

tickets on the door.

I do so hope you’re right, replied the Master of Ceremonies.

Away and sit doon, man.  Yer makin’ me nervous.  I’ll lead them in.

Ah dinna need ony o’ they wee Scottie dugs either.  Ah’ll dae the

job masel’.  Hey, did ye see the Manx team?  They should ha’ got

wan o’ the three-legged dugs fur them!

Yes, Mrs Dalloway, I mean Connolly.  You carry on.  Murgatroyd

interrupted her stream-of-consciousness.

Actually, things had gone rather well in the afternoon.  He had insisted

on collecting Sonia and Diana from The Tibetan Centre and he and

Diana had had their ‘little chat‘, without acrimony, during a tour of his

policies.

With a re-adjustment of the sleeping arrangements, space had been

found to accommodate them.  Nigel and Dru and Snod and Virginia

had not been sharing anyway, so Diana and Sonia were to join Dru, who

kindly agreed to couch herself on a borrowed futon and Nigel moved into

the master bedroom with Murgatroyd and graciously said that he did not

mind kipping on the semi-perished Li-lo that the cleaner said had

belonged to her grandson, who was now fifty.  He didn’t think it would

set off his latex allergy.

This left Snod in splendid isolation, which was his preferred option;

Virginia was also ‘toute seule.’  She did not intend to imitate The Grey Lady

and wander around at night.  There were far too many creaky floorboards.

She commented that Nigel looked amazing in his kilt.  He wasn’t quite sure

if this was a compliment, but decided to accept it as such.

A snifter to settle those nerves? Murgatroyd offered Nigel.

No, thank you, replied our songster.  It can wreak havoc with the vocal

chords.  He gabbled from jittery nerves.

Sir, when I was browsing in your library this afternoon, I came across a

fascinating tome on heraldry.  It mentioned all sorts of names, such as

Moneypenny and Blackadder…

Ah, yes.  That was the kind of source Ian Fleming used to come up with

mottoes such as ‘Nonsufficit Orbis’ for James Bond.

Virginia’s eyes misted over.  There was only one James Bond for me..

Sean Connery, agreed Sonia.  Born not too far from here, in

Fountainbridge..

No, Pierce Brosnan, corrected Virginia.  It was the naval

commander’s uniform. Classic.

Nigel continued, unabashed: It confirmed what we discussed about

Scottish baronetcies and the female line.  It also said that The Lord

Lyon only governs on matters heraldic and could not enforce any

objection to you- here he nodded towards Snod, respectfully–

wearing the azure chapeau for formal occasions connected with the

baronetcy.  Like for this concert, he finished proudly.

Stuff and nonsense! replied Snod gruffly, thus earning two sharpish

kicks: one from Virginia’s stiletto and another from his daughter’s heel.

Sir, Nigel turned to a sceptical Snod, as heir to an ancient baronial family

who is no longer the owner of the estate, one is still permitted these

privileges.  You could settle for a pennon..

Pennon?  Murgatroyd was becoming confused with poniards.

…a small swallow-tailed flag.  Or  a feudal steel tilting helm, garnished in

gold, shown affronte..

Pull the other one, Milford-Haven.  It is campaned.

Campaned?

In heraldic terms, it has bells on it! But now I am becoming affronted,

snorted Gus.  As Samuel Johnson said, and I paraphrase, ‘Just because

someone can do something, it doesn’t follow that they should.’

Murgatroyd chipped in:  Oh yes.  I like the good doctor’s quote about

female preachers and dogs walking on hind legs.  Most apposite.

And now we have women bishops, groaned Snod.  What is the world

coming to?  Tell you what, old boy- here he addressed Murgatroyd-

fill me up with some of that nectar and I will forget this inane

conversation.  Like Esau, I’m prepared to sell my inheritance for a mess

of porridge at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Be a good boy now, added Virginia, and I will buy you a spurtle.  And,

by the way, it was pottage.  A quite different thing.  Lentils, I believe.

It was Dru’s turn to be outraged, but she hid it well.  Diana was simply

amused.

Stop stirring, children, reprimanded Sonia.

Yes, conciliated mein host.  Let’s drink a time-honoured

toast to The King Over the Water- and I don’t mean Wee Eck.

Oh yes, said Dru.  I read that Salmond has lost two stones and

a bystander told him that women would be hitting onto him.

Not in a flattering way, surely? sniped Sonia.

Come away doon, all o’ youse!  The hall’s fillin’ up!

Mrs Connolly, the cleaner had been right.  The canny audience had

bought their tickets on the door.

Break a leg, said Sonia before descending the staircase.  Hopefully,

she wouldn’t.

Nigel and Dru exchanged glances and did their deep breathing in

unison.

They would be summoned from The (makeshift) Green Room.

 

 

 

Intelligent Parenting?

Tags

arras, Artem, Denmark, eBlaster, Hamlet, intelligent parenting, Laertes, Machiavelli, Montalbano, Ola calendar, Ophelia, paranoia, Pasha, Polonius, Rainbow portrait, Reynaldo, Rosencrantz and Guilderstein, spyware, surveillance

Carrie was eager to spill the beans, and I don’t mean the caffeine

variety, though we were in our favourite haunt, post-Hallowe’en.

Tiger-Lily told me that Juniper’s mother has been spying on her daughter

via eBlaster, she whispered, looking over her shoulder.  Juniper discovered

that her mother was monitoring her every keystroke and was downloading

her e-mails.

Maybe that’s why her daughter can be so aggressive, I replied.  No one

takes kindly to having their privacy invaded.  I mean, take Hamlet..

Hamlet? Carrie looked confused.

Yes, he put on an antic disposition to cover up his anxiety at living in a

surveillance state.

I’d hardly call the Boothroyd-Smythe’s residence a temple to

totalitarianism!

No, I continued, but you take my point about Hamlet being annoyed when

people started influencing his girlfriend and manipulating his best mates?

Well, it’s years since I read the play, stated Carrie.  But, apparently Gisela,

Juniper’s mum contacted a company called SpectreSoft and ordered a

product, which she then had installed on Juniper’s computer.

Well, they used to say that people who eavesdropped never heard

anything good about themselves, I remarked.

The thing was that Juniper had only been Googling stuff for her

coursework and was using Twitter to gossip about a Housemistress called

Miss Fotheringay, who is apparently seeing an older man, to the delectation

of all the girls in her year, Carrie expatiated.

So, it has all been relatively innocent trivia?  But did Juniper find out that her

mother was turning into Elizabeth 1, all ears and eyes, like in that Rainbow

portrait?  

She was furious and ran away to her father’s house.  He supported her

human right to privacy and all sorts of nonsense was raised re/ access.

Sounds over-inflated, I opined.  It’s half term.  I wonder if things will cool

down and she’ll return before school starts?

Well, her trust has been shattered and she says she would prefer to board.

If the school allows it.  Her brother didn’t seem too upset. He just threw out

all her yarn and needles and took over her room, as it has much more space,

Carrie added.

Isn’t John- that’s his name, isn’t it?- worried that his mum may spy

on him?

No.  He says he could disable anything that she tried to attach to his

equipment.  But he considers her cool for trying.

An obnoxious little Polonius-in-the-making!  Someone will spear him

through the arras one day! I ventured.

If Juniper’s put into Miss Fotheringay’s house, then she can spy on her

teacher’s comings and goings for the rest of the girls, Carrie predicted.

St Vitus’ is probably as rotten a state as Denmark!  Girls can be so

Machiavellian!

It’s all about trust and, sadly, human relations were ever thus! I

pronounced. Even Rosencrantz and Guilderstein were traitors and

Ophelia was relaying information about her lover to her father.

Reynaldo was keeping a check on Laertes.  Everyone’s paranoid!

Carrie bit into a piece of shortbread.  I wonder if anyone is spying on

me? I shred all my receipts, but what if Gyles is intercepting my accounts

and he discovers how much I am spending in Costamuchamoulah each

month? What if he sees how many times I have clicked on ‘Artem’, or

‘Pasha’?

Or ‘Montalbano’? I teased.  Just be upfront.  That’s the secret.  Don’t

hide behind an arras.

What’s an arras?  She looked puzzled.

According to the guys, it’s the curvy bit of her anatomy that Ola wiggles

on ‘Strictly’, I informed her.

I shouldn’t worry about Gyles uncovering your secret passions.  All the guys

will be too busy clicking on Ola’s Calendar, by all accounts, so it’s touche and

you can bet that male viewings won’t come in single spies, but in battalions. 

I think your tiny peccadilloes are relatively innocuous and will be below the radar. 

If you’re worried, though, I’d just buy Gyles Ola’s calendar for Christmas.  That’ll

keep him off your tail!

Old Michaelmas Day 2

Tags

Banda machine, blackberrying, Dabitoff, Dunsinane, Heaney, Jackson Pollock, Lady of the Lake, Lydia, Maud Gonne, methylated spirits, Michaelmas, Ophelia, Plath, Polonius, Porphyria, spirit duplicator, spirit master, Stain Devils, Vanish, Yeats

Okay, okay, so I went out and did it!

I can see that, Carrie remarked, looking down at my nails with a

disapproving glance. You’ll need to make an appointment with

‘Beauty and The Beast’ to sort you out with acrylic falsies.

Not me.  I’ll just cut them down and file them.  I’m a hands-on kind of

girl and couldn’t bear to have lily white fronds for hands like a Lady of the

Lake, or a drowned Ophelia.  I used to have digits like this when I started

teaching, back in the days of the spirit reproductive Banda

machine!  Oh, the smell of methylated spirits!  It gives me quite a

Proustian flashback to the classrooms of the Seventies.  So poetic too-

spirit duplicators, or spirit masters.  Sounds like the muse of Yeats or

some such bard.

Yeah, agreed Carrie.  And if he’d copied his lines for Maud Gonne:

‘Tread softly for you tread on my dreams’ and left them out in the

sun, then posterity would never have had them.

How’s that? I asked, not normally so obtuse.

Because the ultraviolet light used to fade anything produced in that

antiquated way, so the aniline dye of the reproduced type would have

been ‘mauve gone’.

Very funny, I muttered.  I don’t like her taking over my comic role.

Anyway, you got in before the Devilish deadline, said Carrie, referring

to our prior conversation (see previous post).

I did.  All are safely stowed, like Polonius behind the arras.  Well,

at any rate, they are in the freezer.

Ah, you are an inspiration to us all, Candia.  And no doubt..

Yes, I did write a poem about it, I interrupted her.  Here!

And I flicked a Jackson Pollock-stained sheet of A4 across the table,

but its patterns were fruit juice thumbprints and nothing more

sinister.

Carrie read it silently while I sipped my well-deserved coffee.

Blackberrying

I’ve been told: poetry isn’t worth it

and neither is gathering blackberries.

It’s impossible to preserve Autumn,

or capture experience in a poem.

Yet I find one or two juicy morsels,

simmering away on my mental back burners.

Lately I have looked madder and madder.

Wood pigeons witter away suddenly.

I destroy a few spider artefacts,

thumb and finger poised; then quite dizzy,

I step back and squelch in a rabbit corpse.

Maybe it isn’t worth it after all.

Blood-red clots trail from the tail of my car,

to my front door and the hall becomes

a purple passage. My bag sags with gore.

Have I perpetrated a massacre?

I look as guilty as a chamberlain

in a castle, somewhere near Dunsinane,

with my clothing liberally spattered

by inedible, indelible stains.

Fierce scratches indicate a struggle.  Heave!

I’ll shove this in the freezer and then think

what I’ll do with it.  I survey my hands.

All the perfumes of an airport will not..

What? Will all the multitudinous seas

incarnadine et cetera? They won’t.

I regret time spent on all this fieldwork-

to produce the definitive poem

on blackberrying.  Heaney, Plath did it.

I’ve spat out phrases not pithy enough;

I cannot find a rhyme to match ‘maggot’

in a poem that isn’t about sex,

or the nostalgia of a butcher’s shop.

Gather ye brambles while ye may– that’s good,

but I could murder a cup of coffee.

Reviewers, like thorns, will rip me to shreds.

If pricked, I will bleed- through my gabardine.

Yet greed makes me garner all the pickings.

Lack of appreciation will sting me,

like all the nettles I had to wade through.

I’ve spent a King’s ransom on Vanish and

Dabitoff and Stain Devils; also on

opaque nail varnish, so I won’t have hands

like Lydia, that seller of purple,

or a sufferer of Porphyria.

My cuticles will not be underlined.

My children will rise up and call me sad,

for wearing magenta, indigo and

violet, when heliotrope is out.

Trying to sum up Mother Nature’s not

all it’s cracked up to be, like rotten cobs.

Ideas should be on a rolling boil,

if they are to come to a setting point.

Maybe then hues will glow through verse’s glass,

well-labelled, stored in the mind’s dark pantry

until they are taken out and savoured

on the raw, grey days of freezing winter.