In the Doghouse

Tags

Alliance Francaise, Bernard Ingham, Black Bun, Crunchie, Dewlap Gin, doghouse, Hogmanay, Jumelage, Maggie Thatcher, Memory foam, multum in parvo, NASA, Pet Nappers, Richter scale, Sherpa Bone pillow, shortbread, Slumberland, snorterino, Top Paws Fashion pillow, Tupperware, Ugg boots

Pooh-Bah, Algy and Humbug, the Brewer-Mead family pugs, were

snoozing on their new Tempur-pedic loungers and nothing was going

to persuade them to move for a post-Christmas waddle through the

churned-up byways of Suttonford.  Once they had settled on their

Memory Foam, it would have taken something about point seven and

above on the Richter Scale to displace them.

Santa had been over-indulgent.  They had their Top Paw Fashion

Pillows (chewable-resistant) and the odour of polyurethane was

already fading.  They should have thanked NASA for their new-

found comfort.

Mrs Hatch-Warren, the femme-de-menage, as Carrie called her was

on her two week break, so Gyles was clearing up in the kitchen while

his wife and sister, Victoria were hitting the sales.

Victoria had travelled over from The Charente, where she ran a

reclamation business, but had been stuck for sixteen hours on a ferry

which couldn’t berth.  She was stocking up on items which were difficult to

find over there and was seeking next year’s Christmas cards, in particular.

She would sell them to expats at Alliance Francaise parties next December

at 100% profit.  Sante!

Gyles checked his ninety plus mother who was ensconced in the sitting

room, finishing her e-book.  Her carer, Magda, was visiting her predecessor

in Normandy.  Ola had bagged the remaindered widower on the Jumelage

Exchange between Suttonford and Bric-a-Brac.  Magda wanted to see their

new baby, Georges, born at the same time as The Little Prince.

Ginevra, Gyles’ mother was awaiting the visit of her old friend, Sonia, from

High Street.  When she arrived they could progress through the Maggie

Thatcher spectrum of drinkies as reported by Sir Bernard Ingham-ie/

opener, brightener, lifter, tincture, large gin and tonic without tonic; snifter,

snort, snorter and snorterino.

Tiger-Lily walked into the kitchen.  Hi, Dad, she smiled, uncharacteristically.

Take those muddy Ugg boots off before your mother goes ballistic, Gyles

cautioned.  I’ve just washed the floor.

Chillax, Tiger muttered.  She balanced one hand on the edge of the granite

island and tried to kick an Ugg off.  Dad, in despair, came to the rescue and

tugged.

Three yapping pugs leapt out of their Pet Nappers, discarding their faux-fur,

ultra-plush throws and formed an excited circle round the extended limb.

Gerroff! Tiger shouted in an extremely unladylike fashion, which only

encouraged them.

What’s to eat? she addressed her father directly.  She started to open tins

and Tupperware containers.

The boys finished the Christmas cake, I’m afraid.

Great!  I didn’t even get any, she complained.

Well, Grandma Morag sent us some shortbread, but Mum’s keeping that

for New Year.

Hogmanay, corrected Tiger, who knew the difference.

Whatever, said her father,  And don’t eat the Black Bun.  She’s keeping

that too.

Tiger surreptitiously helped herself to a Crunchie from her brother, Ferdy’s

Selection Stocking.  He’d never notice, she reasoned.

Go and speak to your grandmother, Gyles suggested.  She’s in the sitting

room.

Do I have to?

Gyles threw her a meaningful glance, so she went.

Ah, Tiger!  Would you like a Dewlap Gin? her grandmother asked

immediately.

I’m not allowed.

Oh, I forgot.  Well, could you top my glass up, darling?

Tiger hopped back into the kitchen, still wearing a single Ugg.

Humbug! she yelled.

A naughty pug crawled out of her fleecy boot and leapt back onto

his monogrammed coverlet, putting his little head onto his Sherpa Bone

pillow.

Tiger retrieved her Ugg and found it curiously heavy.  She turned it upside

down and a mass of black currants and pastry crumbs cascaded onto the

clean floor.

Dad! she screamed.  Dad!

But Gyles had retired to the marital Slumberland mattress which was

more than a decade old and considerably less supportive than the

deep dish slumber divans on which the pugs reclined.  He was fast

asleep and snoring like one of his brachycephalic pets- or like all three of

them together.

There was nothing for it but to sweep the remains of the Black Bun into the

wheelie bin and she just hoped that her mother wouldn’t notice.

Tiger!

Drat! Coming, gran.

She took a little swig of the Dewlap Gin for Discerning Grandmothers.

Yuck!

And through the haze of the unaccustomed fumes, she saw her grandmother

in a new light.  They said that owners sometimes began to look like their pets

and, to be sure, Ginevra was very wrinkly, short-muzzled, not to say, stubborn

in character.  Tiger had read that the breed were often described as multum in

parvo  and, thanks to her GCSE Latin. she knew that this indicated that

one got a lot in a little package.  Certainly Ginevra had a

remarkable personality for her size and, though lovable, like the pugs, she

was definitely high- maintenance and attention-seeking.

Actually, that sounded very like the implications in Tiger’s summative end-of-

term report from Miss Fotheringay.  Golly!  Maybe she was inbred!

Drrring!

Oh no!  That must be the other old biddy.

DRRRRING!!!

Yip, that must be Sonia.

Is this the way to Amarillo?

Tags

Amaretto, Amarillo, Amontillado, Anne Boleyn, aperro, armadillo, Asterix, Barbara Cartland, Big issue, Bridge over River Kwai, Depardieu, Fanny Cradock, GPS, intelligent traffic lights, Mr Blobby, Peter Kay, Pompeii, Richter scale, River Roach, Rochefort, sink hole, Suttonford, tachograph, tachycardia, Tony Christie, Ville Fleurie

Chlamydia, to give her full title, and I were counting out our lives in

coffee spoons, as is our wont, outside Costamuchamoulah must-seen

cafe.

That’s the umpteenth lorry to pass in under two minutes, Clammie

expostulated.  This village is being ruined with congestion; is being shaken

by tremors which would register as peak on the Richter scale and is being

buried under a  thick coating of diesel dust which is beginning to settle on us

like the petrified victims of Pompeii.

She put her cappucino down and the spoon rattled and reverberated for

a couple of seconds on the saucer.

Yes, I agreed.  We will probably disappear down a sink hole in the middle of

High Street at any minute.  I’m fed up breathing and filtering dangerous levels

of particulate matter.  Maybe I could buy a mask like the Japanese wear when

there is smog.

Suddenly there was a violent shudder and we observed a particularly serious

case of Pantechnicon HGV coitus fixatus: ie/ two lorries had wedged

themselves together in a surreal parody of that legendary locked together

syndrome which allegedly is presented at A&E departments the world over.

Bonne fin de matinee, mesdames!  I am in Suttonford-no?

The voice emanated from the cabin of the nearside lorry whose window was

down. The driver looked a little bit like Tony Christie.

Yes, we replied, but we sincerely wish that you weren’t!  Nothing personal.

Desole, but I am seeking the bridge over the River Roach, he continued.

Well, said Carrie, rather sarcastically, you are nearly as far from

it as from The Bridge over the River Kwai.

Quoi? he said.

Kwai, she replied.

It was like that question so popularised by Peter Kay: Is this the way to

Amarillo? Someone could have asked if he meant ‘armadillo’, or Amontillado

and so on.  Once I had thought of that fortified liqueur, my mind crossed over

to wondering if Ginevra had any in store and whether she would mind me

dropping by for an aperro.

Roach!  We did not recognise le sujet de sa parlance.

Oui, he insisted.  Suttonford-a village which is bisected by the River Roach.

It said that it was once called Rochefort.

This was becoming even more bizarre.

Non, stressed Clammie.  Suttonford was once called Newtown, or

something comme ca.  Are you pas certain que vous n’ avez pas lu

la carte sans vos lunettes?  And Rochefort is in your neck of the EU,

I’d have said.

The traffic was backing up High Street.  This was turning out to be no

brief encounter of any ordinal numero.  The savvy locals sipped their coffees

and proclaimed that this was another example of how necessary the new

breed of Intelligent Traffic Lights was to the general well-being of their

community.

Clammie put on her spectacles.  Now she could see that the driver actually

resembled Mr Blobby rather than the other perambulant pilgrim in the song.

Mais, I used my GPS, he shook his head.  I looked for Suttonford Bridge, as

I was warned that there is a double chicane- tres dangereux.

Clammie referred to her phone.  She had Googled ‘Suttonford’.

Someone tooted impatiently at Monsieur Le Perdu, pas Depardieu,

malheureusement.

Then my friend raised her voice as only the linguistically challenged can,

and do. This is Suttonford, she explained.  But not in Essex.  Not once

called Rochford.

She turned to me: Rochford – that’s where Anne Boleyn was born.  She

volunteered this pearl of wisdom while a suite of hoots, or a cacophony of

klaxons that might have characterised a Modernist symphony let rip.

She looked directly at the driver and credited him with not knowing combien

flageolets fait cinq.

Try using a carte and a soupcon de savoir faire, she advised.  Tournez and

depechez-vous tout de suite. Immediatement! she shouted and stamped her

designer kitten heel in a fashion that any Gaul, including Asterix, would

fully comprehend.

Les autres Suttonfords are in Illinois, imbecile, she warmed to her theme,

Waikerie-South Australia-Texas and Tennessee, but c’est impossible to

conduire la.

The driver was now looking rather mouton-like.

Volte-face! screamed Clammie.

Bystanders applauded and started to film the 180 degree about-

face as I think this translated.

Two cracked paving slabs and an uprooted bollard later, he proceeded up

High Street, with a hanging basket like a Barbara Cartland or Fanny Cradock

millinery marvel on the roof of his cab.  He had narrowly missed committing

manslaughter by his lack of observation of the jaywalking Big Issue seller.

Ville Fleurie, but not for long, I commented.

He’ll have to keep an eye on his tachograph, said Clammie calmly, now that the

situation had returned to whatever was regarded as normal.

And on his tachycardia, I added.

What about ours? she queried.

I know.  Let’s go and see Ginevra.  She can show us the way to a glass of

Amaretto, or whatever she has in her wine cupboard.  Sha la la la la la.