Transfiguration

Tags

Balaam, Birinus, Bradford on Avon, compassion, Damascene, David Cameron, epiphany, Feast of the Transfiguration, Financial Times, Fleury Abbey, lax, Loiret, Paul Gilbert, Snodbury, St Paul, Sully sur Loire, The Carpenters, The Longs Arms, The Shrink and The Sage, Weekend Magazine

Diana Fotheringay-Syylk, prematurely retired ‘Lax‘ Mistress from St Vitus’ School

For The Academically-Gifted Girl, had been trying to read The Weekend

Magazine from The Financial Times while she was being transported around the

Loiret by her local coach firm from Bradford-on-Avon.  She was staying in a 2*

hotel near Sully-sur-Loire, along with other members of her town’s Twinning

Association.

She had been allowed to bring along a ‘friend‘ and her daughter, since two

people had dropped out at the last minute and there had been seats left

vacant.

Behind Diana was her erstwhile lover, Augustus Snodbury, who was still in

educational harness, so to speak, at St Birinus Middle School.  Their daughter

Drusilla had closed her eyes, but this did not shut out the low, burring sound

which emanated from her father’s rather hairy nostrils.

And what exactly is a Lax Mistress? I hear you question, Dear Reader.

It was a trainer for a particularly vicious outdoor team game played by

innocent-looking maidens, armed with strong lobster nets on poles.

Innocent-looking, in general, but the goalies were of a different, scary

order.

Diana was trying to concentrate on her favourite The Shrink and the

Sage article.

This guide to modern dilemmas by a psychotherapist and philosopher

duo fascinated her.  Diana was looking forward to being a member of the

congregation at The Feast of the Transfiguration in Fleury Abbey and the

rhetorical question which headed the columns struck her with a force as

convincing as the Damascene beam of light which had struck St Paul and

floored him.

It read: Are we compassionate enough?

Diana had been seeking a spiritually significant experience by venturing

on this trip.  Nothing less than an epiphany would satisfy her.  She had

opened her mind and heart to receive any messages that might be

forthcoming.  But could the divine voice speak through The Financial

Times?  She then remembered Balaam’s ass and thought that all things

might be possible.

A psychologist called Paul Gilbert was being quoted as having stressed that

one must be kind to oneself, as well as to others.  He warned against two

evolution-shaped drives-firstly, the detection and subsequent escape from

danger and, secondly, the drive to acquire things we want, such as food

and sexual partners.

The article recommended a David Cameron-like state of sensing that we are

all..on this journey together.

Here Snod’s snoring seemed to rise in volume and objection.  Already she

was in danger of lapsing into compassion fatigue.

When we are irritated by others, Gilbert said, we should remember that

they are mere humans, like ourselves, who cannot help getting things

wrong sometimes.

But she didn’t snore, did she?  She would check with Drusilla later on,

since they were sharing a room.  Come to think of it, she remembered Dru

buying some ear plugs in Boots, before they set off.

Gilbert mentioned something called compassion under the duvet, which

fortunately was only a practice of reminding ourselves to be kind to others

before we climbed out of bed in the morning.

Suddenly, the scales fell from Diana’s eyes and she realised that she could

now forgive Gus for his appalling ineptitude, if not for his snoring.

He had been clumsy at their attempted reunion at The Longs Arms, but maybe

it had been down to nerves and possibly they could travel hopefully together

and arrive at the same destination one day- so long as it did not involve any

sharing of duvets, other than of the moral variety.

The Sage explained the etymology of the abstract noun, compassion.  It came

from com and pati, meaning to suffer together.

Having both taught for a number of years, they could empathise with each

others’ pain.  She determined to avail herself of any lessons that she might

be offered during the service, but she could sense that her transformation

had only just begun.  Pity that it sounded like a song from The Carpenters.

Love-Lies-Bleeding

Tags

Botox, Bradford on Avon, Diana, Drusilla, Fifty Shades of Grey, lacrosse, Love-lies-bleeding, Mary Berry, Snodbury, Syylk, Valentine, Victoria Sponge

It was almost half-term, but Drusilla had taken staff leave of absence

under the medically advised all-purpose condition suggested by the

sanatorium sister: allergic attack.

She was recuperating in Bradford-on-Avon with her mother, Diana,

who had a lovely little honey-coloured cottage near to the centre,

with a garden full of perennial favourites such as Love-Lies-Bleeding.

She would remain there as dust from the school renovation had to

settle, as must the nuclear mushroom cloud which had been raised

by the discovery of the Snodbury communication from years gone

by.  A blast from the past some vulgarians might have dubbed it.

Her mother had slowly come to understand the swings and arrows

of unrequited love and outrageous fortune.  She accepted that

her immature over-reaction to a lover’s tiff, though personally

interpreted at the time as a mere flutter of a social butterfly’s wing,

had instigated a tsunami of overwhelming heartbreak for everyone

concerned, including unborn generations.  One of the unborn was

sitting before her, very much post-natally present. Diana had

paid for her foolish revenge and acknowledged that she had been

wrong to marry Syylk and to pass Drusilla off as his daughter.  Syylk

had been her man and she had done him wrong. This had been as

crass as some country music lyrics, but she had had no excuse. It had

been painful to see her daughter becoming more and more like her

biological father as she aged in teaching.  At this rate she was going

to need a blowtorch, not Botox!

There were tears, recriminations, justifications and apologies, but

how to respond to the discovery was the real dilemma. Diana felt

that she owed Snod an apology for her years of deceit.  Drusilla

wasn’t sure that she, personally, could face the truth.  What if it

became common knowledge between the staffrooms?  She would

lose all credibility.  Parents’ Evenings could become problematic.  He

might want to catch up on all the occasions he had missed in her

personal development.

Mother, do you still love him? Drusilla asked, crumbling a

monumental slice of Mary Berry’s Victoria Sponge.

Dru, I’ve never stopped, cried her mother, nevertheless gathering up

all the crumbs on her plate and licking them greedily from the tines

of her cake fork.

Then we must do him the honour of replying sincerely to his ill-fated

missile, said Drusilla decisively.

Missive, corrected Diana.  Honestly, her daughter was supposed to

be a teacher!  Dru’s missile! You wouldn’t have heard such poor English

in their day.  (Their being the times and mores of Snod and herself.)

Diana was increasingly tired of having to proof-read her daughter’s end

of term reports.  Even as a lax mistress, Diana had known how to spell

practise as a verb.  Yes, we will reply very soon, agreed Diana.

No, you will, mother.  It is your responsibility.

I know, Diana, said.  I will send him a Valentine. Let’s find one that is

suitable.  What about this for the verse?:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If you ask me again,

I’ll answer: I do!

Drusilla blanched.  No, she said. How about:

Roses are red,

Like my eyes as they water.

But here’s a surprise-

We both have a daughter!-?

That’s quite good actually, said Diana.

I was joking, said Drusilla. I think we have to be a shade more subtle.

Like that ecru you picked out for your floor paint?

Precisely, answered Drusilla. Tone is all –important- in life and

lifestyle.

Yes, there are fifty shades of grey, I believe.

Drusilla could only hope that her mother hadn’t read it.  Less is

more, she explained.

There speaks the art teacher, sighed Diana. (But it was never the

case in lacrosse, she thought privately.)