Letters to Santa

Tags

ADD, Aloha shirt, Beach Boys, Caligula, Chi Rho, Come Dine with Me, Father Christmas, Greenland Fulfilment Centre, Harry Styles, Location, One Direction, Paint balling, Red Letter Day, Richard Dawkins, Salisbury Plain, Schnautzer, Tinkerbelle, Victoria's Secret, zombie make-up

A previous Year’s updated post!

Tristram, having appeared on two television programmes in recent months- ie/

Come Dine With Me and Location, Location, Location, was regarded as a minor

culinary and real estate celebrity and therefore was approached by the local

town charities, to see if he would accept the role of Father Christmas at the

late night shopping evening.  They had asked Harry Styles from One Direction

to be compere, but regrettably he was otherwise engaged.  Clammie had

agreed to be Santa’s fairy as she had an up-to-date DBS check and was one

of the few mums who could pneumatically squeeze into the Tinkerbelle

costume.

More grotty than grotto! her rather unkind daughter had remarked.  I

don’t think you’ll be finding ANY member of One Direction in your stocking

this Christmas, or any other year, even though they have been known to

go for the older woman!

Right!  The brat had just unknowingly forfeited the Victoria’s Secret stuff

her mother had planned to buy her.

Some of Tristram’s duties involved emptying the town Lapland post box

and arranging the re-direction of the mail to the PO department that dealt

with applications to Greenland’s Fulfilment Centre.  He had to read them in

order to decipher the return addresses and he showed me some of the

finest epistles deposited therein:

1) Dear Father Xmas,

As one who is a member of the ‘kids from one to ninety two’ bracket,

may I register a little festive plea?

As a long term fan of The Beach Boys, I would very much like an

Aloha shirt- Medium size. Actually, the folks over there can be

quite large, so maybe a ‘Small’ would do?

In spite of my nickname- Caligula- I can assure you that

J’etais sage pendant l’annee 2014. 

Why am I falling into the Gallic medium?

Many thanks and The Peace of the Lord be With You,

Nigel Milford-Haven

Form Teacher

St Birinus Middle School etc

PS- The use of ‘X’ in Xmas in no way indicates any agnostic

position.

(Chi Rho)

 

2) Dear Santa,

Please may I have a taser gun so that I can zap the next boy who calls

me Ginger Minger? I do hope that Rudolph has recovered from the

mental trauma of being called names and marginalised at games.

Bullying isn’t nice, I can tell you.  I’m glad that you picked him out to

be special, even though his fur is a teeny bit auburn.  It sends out

the right message.

Love,

Ferdy xx

Nutwood Cottage

Suttonford  etc

3) Dear Santa Claws (sic),

Please may we remind you that we would prefer not to have joint prezzies?

The tandem you left us last year is still in Dad’s observatory.

On the 24^th we will not set our buglar (sic) alarm, so don’t worry about coming

in.  The chimney has been swept, so you shouldn’t get too dirty.  If you are

sooty, please could you be careful of Mum’s cream carpet in the sitting room,

as she goes ballistic if anyone steps on it with outdoor shoes or boots.

We will leave a carrot out, as Mum doesn’t believe in suet, so mince pies

are off.

Have a good one!

Castor & Pollux.

The address wasn’t vital on this one as there was only one set of twins in

the town who answered to such stellar appellations.

4) Dear Father Christmas,

I can’t remember what it is that I really, really want, but zombie make-up

would do for my stocking.  You usually get it about right, but I think The

Memory Game last year didn’t do me much good, I’m afraid. Or did you give

that to Ming?  I can’t remember.  Maybe it was the year before?

Anyway-cheers!

Bill.

(There was no address on this one, but Tristram remembered that Carrie’s

son had something like ADD.)

5)

Dear Santa,

I don’t really believe in you, but I might as well hedge my bets.

I have been reasonably well-behaved this term.  Well, it is all

relative, isn’t it?

In all probability, I think I would like Richard Dawkins’ new book

for children- Faith and Fairy Tales.

I enjoyed my Apocalyptic experience on Salisbury Plain, but as

I was done out of a paint balling session, could Juniper- my sister

and I- have vouchers for a Red Letter Day involving anything

violent with tanks and weapons?

Thank You – even if you are only my dad.

John etc

6) Dear Santa,

I don’t need anything this year.  Please just make a donation to Curs

in Crisis. Maybe the pugs could go on a driving course, like that giant

Schnautzer cross I saw online?  Their legs are a little short, though.

I’ll leave it up to you.  I think they’d like it, though, as they often ride

on my scooter, but their Highway Code isn’t up to much.

Love,

Edward xx

(Such selflessness brought tears to Tristram and Clammie’s eyes.)

She made Tristram a cup oftea when they returned home with the

festive correspondence and warmed up a mince pie for him.

However, she eschewed one herself, as the fairy costume was a

little tight round the bust.  Tinkerbelle had obviously not  been a

36C.

And Straightway Loved an Ass

Tags

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Bowdlerise, Brobdingnagian, chaos theory, chipolatas, Egeus, etymology, foie gras, Gender Studies, Hippolyta, hypoglaecemia, Midsomer Murders, Oberon, Recorder Group, Richard Dawkins, rude mechanicalls, rugby prop, sizeism, Starveling, Titania, Worthington

There had been such a fuss about the joint outdoor dramatic performance

to be produced by St Birinus Middle and St Vitus’ School for the Academically-

Gifted Girl, in the ruins of Suttonford Abbey.

Several parents had made complaints about Mr Poskett’s choice of A

Midsummer Night’s Dream.  One misguided harridan had given the Music

Master such a hard time that he commented after the event that it had

been tempting to commit a Midsomer Murder.

Brobdingnagia Worthington’s mother was furious that her daughter, who

should never have been put on any stage, had not been selected for the

role of Titania. Brob, as she was known by her peers, had a ‘hissy fit’

apparently.

Another mother, who was in her final MA year of a Gender Studies degree,

complained that ‘every Jack shall have his Jill‘ was an offensive line.  She

wanted it re-written as : every Jill shall have their Jack, or Jill.

Mrs Whelks threatened to contact the Board of Governors of both

establishments over the perceived bestiality content.  I mean, someone

bonks a donkey!

Drugs- Lysander’s pupils are said to dilate; accusations of sizeism:

inappropriate references to human maypoles and dwarves.  It was

considered potentially injurious to the psyche of St Birinus‘ most solid

rugby prop to be selected for the part of Snout, or ‘Wall’.

Criticisms by those who had lost funds in the Credit Crunch included-so

sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow/ For debt that bankrout sleep doth

sorrow owe– this line and expression was deemed politically incorrect,

particularly by those who were now struggling to pay the raised school

fees.

The colour police pounced on Lysander’s reference to a ‘tawny tyrant’ and

would- be nutritionists disliked Demetrius’ admission: like a sickness, did I

loathe this food’, claiming that it might make anorexia and eating disorders

attractive.

Moonshine, they insisted, should be cut as the name Starveling was immoral.

The anti-hunting lobby were outraged by Theseus’ references to his hounds

and those opposed to arranged marriages were disgusted by Egeus.  Titania

and Oberon were supposedly engaged in child slavery and pimping; Helena in

stalking, provoking Demetrius to exclaim: Do not haunt me thus.  Oberon

hacked into other people’s conversations.

So-called sociologists felt that Helena was colluding in domestic violence by

saying: The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.  As for rude mechanicalls,

this term was only protected by Mr Snodbury pointing out the etymological

ignorance of those who did not know that rude referred to their ruddy

complexions and had nothing whatsoever to do with the working class’

sense of decorum, or lack thereof. (He said ‘ruddy’ rather vehemently, so

that the force of his opinion won the day and the argument, as most

cowards tend to retreat in the face of expletive force.

So, pejorative title, or not, the rustic thespians remained in the cast.

Those fixated on disability discrimination thought parts of Act 5 needed

to be removed- namely:

Never mole, harelip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be..

A philosopher-father who had read one of Richard Dawkins’ books berated

the underlying mythology and downright superstition of The Fairy Queen’s

idea that the catalyst of the whole train of sorry events was her tawdry

quarrel with her spouse over a little Indian boy. Shakespeare seemed to

be totally unaware of Chaos Theory.  One flap of a fairy’s wing might have

caused global chaos, the Biology teacher responded vigorously.

And so it was a much Bowdlerised version that emerged.  Mr Snodbury,

echoing Hippolyta, pronounced it the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

No one paid much attention to the histrionics anyway.  The parents who

had insisted on the Junior Recorder Group being retained, even though

there was a derogatory comment in the play about inept playing of reed

instruments by juveniles, were proud when the moment came for their

ensemble, conducted by a slightly inebriated Mr Poskett.  However,

everyone else was scrutinising the labels on the contents of the picnic

baskets and calculating the cost of various outfits.

Dru managed a furtive five minute conversation with Nigel in the interval,

during which she arranged their trip to the Borders.

My mother will have an apopleptic fit, sighed Nigel.  She’s already cleared the

kitchen and sugar soaped the skirting boards in preparation for its  re-

decoration.  She depends on me.

But we agreed that you need a holiday, didn’t we? encouraged Dru.

She saw, out of the corner of an experienced eye, two Juniors crossing

wands.

Excuse me, she said.  I’ve got a Health and Safety issue.

Nigel watched her consummate skill in separating the duellists and then

applying an ice cube to an adult’s throbbing digit which had been trapped

in a folding chair.

Nigel watched Mr Poskett receiving parental plaudits and then found himself

being addressed in a hiss by the drama technician.

Can you come to Wardrobe?  We can’t get Bottom’s head off.  Maybe you can help.

Nigel’s confidence was at a low ebb.  What if Dru was to waken to his

inadequacies? What if the wretched boy asphyxiated?  What if Dru woke and

found that straightway she had loved an ass?

He hadn’t even had anything to eat.  Mr Snodbury had wolfed

all the mustard-coated Hippolytas, or was it chipolatas?  Nigel was

beginning to suffer from confusion.  Probably hypoglaecemia. And, no, the

papier mache head was well and truly wedged, in spite of the boy’s neck

being greased by somebody’s foie gras.  They’d have to put on the

understudy and he, Nigel, would have to spend the evening in Casualty.

Typical!

 

The Selfish Gene

Tags

Born This Way, cupcake, Justin Bieber, Kate pregnancy craving, koi carp, Lady Gaga, Richard Dawkins

Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe was in trouble with her Form Mistress at

St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl.  She had been

witnessed in the act of grabbing a particular cupcake ahead of a

First Year who had been standing patiently in the snack queue at

break.  The child had practically achieved ownership and had actually

licked her index finger and had pressed it into the icing, but to no

avail. Rank and age had been pulled.

Drusilla Fotheringay-Syylk was not amused.  She told Juniper that she

would be expected to write the Junior an apology in an afternoon

detention, which she would have to supervise, much to her

annoyance, as there were no other delinquents in the Staffroom

Record Book, surprisingly.

Well, she thought, that’s because no one

wants to have to sit in that stuffy room at the end of the school day.

However, self-gratification over altruism, as she lectured Juniper,

was something up with which she and the school would not put.

(She thought  that she had avoided a final preposition in that

statement rather adroitly.)

And in that self-congratulatory mood, she found it incomprehensible

to accept that any pupil of her esteemed educational establishment

should so discard the rules of civilised communication that she could

submit a document of such superlative impertinence. What was the

meaning of the following?

Hey Little Monster!

I had a dream and saw a cupcake of great beauty and edibility and I

wanted it instantly, just like our Mother Monster, Lady Gaga, whose

whims have to be indulged immediately, if not yesterday.  She lusted

after some pretty fish after her hip operation- and I don’t mean

sushi.

Luckily for the school, my cravings are not in the £40,000 koi bracket

as hers are, and I don’t really fancy Japanese pond life.  So, all you

first years are usually safe around me.

My selfish gene controls me.  You just have to ask Richard Dawkins

why.  I was just Born This Way.

Talking of carp, let’s hope that this shuts up the nagging member of

staff.  I bet she wouldn’t reprimand Kate Middleton if she were to

snatch a cupcake before some minion in a Garden Party line-up. 

Okay, the Duchess has admitted that cupcakes are her pica of the

moment, but why doesn’t she lick a lump of coal, or eat a bar of

soap like ordinary expectant mums? It appears that she is following

the social trends of her sister.

 Admittedly, I am not pregnant, but it had been a long time since

breakfast and a double period with Stinker in the Chemistry lab is

enough to cause uncharacteristic psychopathic behaviour- not

confined to the scientific one herself.

Sorry about the sugar heist, but accept this as an IOU in lieu of

assistance with your next difficult prep-so long as it is not Chemistry!

Juniper IVA

Drusilla felt that she was going gaga herself.  How could this dreadful

student think that this was an acceptable climbdown?  Did Juniper

think that her Form Mistress was some kind of Justin Bieber fan who

would roll over and purr, no matter the disrespectful behaviour

being displayed?

No, she would take this to Senior Management.  The girl might be

gender-fluid, but- was she a girl today?

Drusilla went into the staffroom and in the little kitchen she saw a

plate with some childish offerings from Lower 2 or 3’s Food Tech.

project.  Staff had paid a couple of pounds towards some charity,

such as Anacondas in Adversity in order to have something to

accompany their break-time beverages.  Amid the crumpled cake

cases and crumbs there was one cherry-topped fairy cake remaining.

Without waiting for the kettle to boil, she stuffed the iced sponge

into her mouth, praying that whoever had beaten the mixture had

scrubbed her nails.

Then Drusilla nearly choked on the dry texture as the Deputy Head

entered the kitchen, poured herself a mug of coffee which bore the

motto: Old Teachers Don’t Die: They Just Lose Their Class.

Where’s that cupcake? she asked.

Drusilla didn’t think it was a good moment to ask her to take a look

at Juniper’s letter.  Mmmpgh! she said and ran out, clutching an

important folder of what anyone would consider to be marking, but

which was actually her downloads of promising summer holidays.

Maybe Juniper wasn’t the only one to have a selfish gene.

The Deputy Head shook her head.  Oh well, she observed: I was only

going to put it in the bin, as no one in their right mind would eat

anything concocted by Harriet Bogstruther in Lower Three G.

The Quality of Mercy

Tags

Blue Badge, Curley, Dante's Inferno, Of Mice and Men, parking infringement, Penalty Charge Notice, Portia, Pythagoras, Richard Dawkins, Scapegoating, Vaseline, Volvo

Boris Bagham spotted a Volvo which had been parked in a one hour

bay since 9.20am. It was now 10.20 am, plus five seconds.  Atta-boy,

Bagham!  The notification of a parking infringement was plastered to

the windscreen in another five seconds.

Poor Gisela had not had the benefit of the Suttonford Grapevine.

From Benares Balti to Pop My Cork!; from India’s sunny shores to

Greenland’s icy mountains-no, that’s a Victorian hymn, isn’t it?…

Anyway, from The Running Sore to Help the Ancient, the buzz was

exchanged via texts and calls:  Traffic Warden!

Shop assistants, waiters, customers, patients from the surgery, still in their

underclothes, all flew out into the High Street like the proverbial bats exiting

Dante’s Inferno.  Much circling was done in the manner of vultures, but they

did not regard themselves as the predators.  They rode the thermals

metaphorically until the coast was clear and Boris strode into

Costamuchamoulah like Curley in Of Mice and Men, only his hand

was not softened by Vaseline. His stern fist remained in an iron

gauntlet.

This town ain’t big enough to support me in cappuccinos, he thought.

Boris was only doing his job and he had a quota to fulfil. He did not

know that his notice was often the last straw for some poor frazzled

human being.

He recalled one irate female who had stamped her foot and said: But

mercy is an attribute of God Himself/ And earthly power then doth

show likest God’s/ When mercy seasons justice.  He hadn’t known

what she was rabbiting on about.

Then her friend deposited her Coltsfoot and A La Mode carriers on

the pavement and added:

Thou almost makest me waver in my faith/To hold opinion with

Pythagoras, /That souls of animals infuse themselves/

Into the trunks of men..

Boris suddenly had a flashback and so continued writing the

Penalty Charge Notice while calmly replying:

Till thou canst tear the seal from off this fine/

Thou but offends’t thy lungs. I stand here for law.

Blonde 2 turned to her friend and intoned:

You may as well go stand before the beach/

And bid the main flood bate his usual height..

So he had won.  He knew all the tricks: the phoney police college

windscreen stickers, the forged Doctor on Call cards, the crude Blue badges.

Why should some tradesman who scribbled a note: Working at No 3

and who left it on their dashboard cut any mustard?  For all he knew,

they were visiting that Melinda woman with a luncheon voucher.

No, he was becoming cynical.

Why had he taken such an unpopular job?

Well, he had once been issued with a ticket himself, and he had had

to go to anger management classes for ages.  Then he developed a

syndrome called Scapegoating, where he did unto others the very

thing that had been done unto him, in a reversal of the Lord’s prayer

that was truly evil, but could be explained as a survival mechanism by

people such as Richard Dawkins.

But Gisela, though somewhat down-heartened at the present

moment, was no easy touch.  She removed the notice and took out

her phone.  She photographed the road under her tyres: completely

covered in snow and no lines marking the bay visible.  She would

appeal to a higher court than Boris’ conscience, and like Portia, she

would probably win her case!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Letters To Santa

Tags

Aloha shirt, Beach Boys, Chi Ro, Come Dine with Me, Harry Styles, Location, One Direction, Red Letter Day, Richard Dawkins, Rudolph, Schnautzer, taser, Tinkerbelle

Tristram, having appeared on two television programmes in recent months- ie/

Come Dine With Me and Location, Location, Location, was regarded as a minor

culinary celebrity and therefore was approached by the local town charities, to

see if he would accept the role of Father Christmas at the late night shopping

evening.  They had asked Harry Styles from One Direction to be compere, but

regrettably he was otherwise engaged.  Clammie had agreed to be Santa’s

fairy as she had an up-to-date DBS check and was one of the few mums

who could squeeze into the Tinkerbelle costume.

Some of his duties involved emptying the town Lapland post box and re-

directing the mail to the PO department that dealt with applications to

Greenland’s Fulfilment Centre.  He had to read them in order to decipher

the return addresses and he showed me some of the finest epistles:

1) Dear Father Xmas,

As one who is a member of the ‘kids from one to ninety two’ bracket, may I register

a little festive plea?

As a long term fan of The Beach Boys, I would very much like an Aloha shirt- Medium

size. Actually, the folks over there can be quite large, so maybe a Small would do?

In spite of my nickname- Caligula- I can assure you that J’etais sage pendant l’annee

2012. 

Many thanks and The Peace of the Lord be With You,

Nigel Milford-Haven

Form Teacher

St Birinus Middle School etc

PS- The use of X in Xmas in no way indicates any agnostic position.

(Chi Ro)

2) Dear Santa,

Please may I have a taser gun so that I can zap the next boy who calls me Ginger

Minger? I do hope that Rudolph has recovered from the mental trauma of being

called names and marginalised at games.  Bullying isn’t nice I can tell you.  I’m

glad that you picked him out to be special, even though his fur is a teeny bit

auburn.

Love,

Ferdy xx

Nutwood Cottage

Suttonford  etc

3) Dear Santa Claws (sic),

Please may we remind you that we would prefer not to have joint prezzies?

The tandem you left us last year is still in Dad’s observatory.

On the 24^th we will not set our buglar (sic) alarm, so don’t worry about coming

in.  The chimney has been swept, so you shouldn’t get too dirty.  If you are

sooty, please could you be careful of Mum’s cream carpet in the sitting room,

as she goes ballistic if anyone steps on it with outdoor shoes or boots.

We will leave a carrot out, but Mum doesn’t believe in suet, so mince pies

are off.

Have a good one!

Castor & Pollux.

The address wasn’t vital on this one as there was only one set of twins in

the town who answered to such stellar appellations.

4) Dear Father Christmas,

I can’t remember what it is that I really, really want, but zombie make-up

would do for my stocking.  You usually get it about right, but I think the

Memory Game last year didn’t do me much good, I’m afraid. Or did you give

that to Ming?  I can’t remember.

Anyway-cheers!

Bill.

(There was no address on this one, but Tristram remembered that Carrie’s

son had something like ADD.)

5)

Dear Santa,

I don’t really believe in you, but I might as well hedge my bets.

I have been reasonably well-behaved this term.  Well, it is all relative,

isn’t it?

I think I would like Richard Dawkins’ new book for children- Faith and Fairy

Tales.

I enjoyed my Apocalyptic experience on Salisbury Plain, but as I was done

out of a paint balling session, could Juniper- my sister- and I have vouchers

for a Red Letter Day involving anything violent with tanks and weapons?

Thank You – even if you are only my dad.

John etc

6) Dear Santa,

I don’t need anything this year.  Please just make a donation to Curs in Crisis.

Maybe the pugs could go on a driving course, like that giant Schnautzer cross

I saw online?  Their legs are a little short, though.  I’ll leave it up to you.  I

think they’d like it, though, as they often ride on my scooter.

Love,

Edward xx

(This brought tears to Tristram and Clammie’s eyes.)  She made Tristram a cup of

tea when they returned home with the correspondence and warmed up a mince

pie for him.  However, she eschewed one herself, as the fairy costume was a little

tight round the bust.  Tinkerbelle was obviously not a 36B.

In the Bleak Midwinter

Tags

credit crunch, Gordon Brown, In the Bleak Midwinter, iPod, MFI, Richard Dawkins

Juniper’s mum reminded me that I had some old poems lurking in my filing cabinet.  I found this one from a couple of years ago.  Unfortunately, there isn’t much to update, except for trying to find a rhyme for Cameron or Osborne- more difficult than Brown!

In the Bleak Midwinter

 

In the bleak midwinter

Credit Crunch took hold.

People stole scrap iron;

lost their faith in gold.

Stocks had fallen, down and down,

down and down,

in the bleak midwinter of

Gordon Brown.

Cash no longer feeds us;

debt is not sustained.

All our baubles flee away;

Christmas cheer is feigned.

In the bleak midwinter,

our stable block won’t sell;

recession has zapped MFI-

“Woolies” gone as well.

Enough for those with bonuses,

pampered left and right.

Heaven and Earth are moved for them:

Might is always Right!

Enough for those connected

to people at the top-

celebrities and braying fools-

all who live to shop.

Richard Dawkins (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Angels and archangels

gather round the crib.

Richard Dawkins tries to say

that it’s all a fib.

Kids crave animation,

inheritances cashed.

The baby’s been aborted

and the Wise Men trashed.

What can we offer,

poor as we are?

If fuel prices rocket,

we’ll sacrifice our car.

Taliban and terrorist

could give up their creed,

If Westerners renounced their pride

and their mordant greed.

In the bleak midwinter,

frosty wind made moan.

Someone left a message-

not on an ansafone.

It wasn’t on an iPod

and had a strange typeface:

it spoke of His investment

in the human race.

Black Swan Event

Tags

Behemoth, Black Swan event, Brassica, Carrie, Dan Snow, David Cameron, Elle McPherson, FameDaddy, Ferdy, global weirding, hallowe'en, John, La Senza, Leda and swan, Philip Schofield, Richard Dawkins, Roger Federer

Brassica and I were in Costamuchamoulah must-seen café, looking for liquorice spiders for Hallowe’en, when Carrie rushed in.  We made our ghoulish edible purchases and then all sat at a corner table to drink some coffee.

You will never guess what Ferdy told me after school? That awful John in his science class has been stirring things again, Carrie moaned.

Tell me about it, said Brassie, ruefully.

I was just going to, continued Carrie, who privately loathed Brassie’s

use of that expression.

Well, he sidled up to Ferdy and said, Why doesn’t your Mummy get fixed up with ‘FameDaddy’?  Ferdy didn’t know what he was talking about.  I think John’s mum must allow him to watch trashy ITV programmes as I Googled the name and it transpires that some CEO called Dan Richards was on a programme with Phillip Schofield, presenting a soon-to-be-launched-service, offering women who wanted to bear children with quality DNA to avail themselves of their sperm bank of celebrity donors.

Brassie looked interested, but she had already asked to be regaled with the facts, so she bit her tongue.

Yes, said Carrie, John then insulted Ferdy and his brothers-and, by implication, Gyles- by saying that if I had applied to ‘FameDaddy’, I wouldn’t have produced such useless kids and I still had time to produce a decent one.

How rude! What did Ferdy say?

He reminded him that he had beaten him at science and so John’s daddy couldn’t exactly have been Richard Dawkins.

But two wrongs don’t make a right, I interjected.  Neither paid the slightest attention.

And then Ferdy- how can I put this?-punched his lights out.

Brassie clapped her hands and then desisted when she caught my disapproving look.

Was John all right afterwards?  She feigned concern.

Oh, after he came round he said that he saw stars and Ferdy said, ‘Well, you always were on a different planet.’  Then he walked out of the locker room.

What did Mr Milford-Haven do when he discovered the boys had been fighting? I thought I’d try to bring some order to this exchange.

He took Ferdy aside and gave him a commendation and a mini-Mars bar, I believe.

But surely that was immoral? I insisted.

Yes, said Carrie. We don’t encourage sweets at home, so Ferdy brought it to me and I ate it for him.

No, I was becoming exasperated. I meant the violence.

Carrie looked a little discomfited and sipped her coffee which was tepid by now. Ferdy explained it to me.  He said that it was the same as a burglar breaking into your home.  John had invaded our privacy and stuck his nose into our business, so he had used proportionate force to repel him.  David Cameron said that was okay.

Brassie looked wistful.  I must say, Carrie,  that I sometimes wish I had dipped into the gene pool of Dan Snow, or Roger Federer, instead of subjecting the twins to a possible genetic link to Cosmo’s mother.

I’d call that a black swan event, said Carrie comfortingly.

Brassie looked confused.

I mean, there may be a pattern and there may be a rare chance that they will fulfil a prediction, but it is unlikely. 

More likely than you sharing your genes with Dan Snow, I added unkindly, before I could stop myself.

Carrie tried to draw attention away from my inappropriate remark:

Black swan events are linked to global weirding, she continued. You know- sunspots, extreme cyclical weather patterns, with rogue element exceptions.  You can’t predict whether you will get out of a snow-bound Heathrow or not in the Christmas holidays.

I saw Horizon too, I remarked.  She was beginning to sound like the tiresome John of the black eye.  They said that you can’t really make 100% accurate predictions.

So, I might have a chance with Dan..

No, that’s a certainty: you won’t, I interjected firmly.

Well, what about that twenty five pounds that I paid Sonia to look into her crystal ball for me? asked Brassie, shaken in her simple faith.

That’s probably gone down a black hole, or gone up in a puff of smoke, I laughed caustically.

Carrie added, I think you would have been better advised to refer to a satellite, or to that meteorological computer, ‘Behemoth’, that generates 100 trillion predictions a second.

No wonder they get it so wrong all the time then, said Brassie naively.  Yesterday they said it would be dry and I got soaked right down to my ‘La Senza’, standing in the yard, waiting for the twins to come out of their music lessons.

You have to take an umbrella with you at all times, laughed Carrie, then it will never rain!  But, what’s all this obsession with spreading your genes, Brassie?  You aren’t seriously thinking of having another baby?  I thought you had enough on your plate with the twins?

The FameDaddy thing just sounded interesting, she said.

It was a hoax, Brassie, I laughed.

Oh, it’s just that you both have girls and I just got a little broody.  It would be a black swan event if Cosmo and I got together.  The chances would be about a trillion to one. He might as well be on a space station for all the likelihood of a conjunction between us.  He’s taken to sleeping in the observatory in the garden.

I was sobering up.  She seemed genuinely upset. I tried to comfort her.  Have you heard of Leda and the swan?

What are you talking about, Candia?  Carrie flashed me a warning look.

Just that swans can impregnate you when you are not expecting it, I muttered lamely.

The only genes I’m really after are Elle McPherson drainpipes. She tried to throw us off the scent.  These are getting too tight.

Maybe you are already…? we both spoke simultaneously.

Brassie looked horrified.

Who’s the father? we enquired.  Three more lattes, we instructed the waitress.