Yes, dear!

Tags

Battleship, boutique gin, Claudius, Derek Jacobi, Lives of Twelve Caesars, Medici cards, PMT, Post-Menopausal, Post-Traumatic Stress, Regeneration, Suetonius, vestal virgin, Wilfred Owen

Okay.  I know.  I know.  I abandoned Augustus Snodbury,  erstwhile

Senior Master of St Birinus’ Middle School.  He was at the altar alongside

Virginia Fisher- Gyles and both were sharing a service with Murgatroyd-

Syylk and Diana ( renewal of wedding vows for the latter) and vestal

virgins, Nigel Milford- Haven and the chaste- but not very chased, it must

be admitted – Drusilla (Gus and Diana’s daughter and Murgatroyd’s

adopted daughter.)  All very complicated, n’est-ce-pas?

However, that is the modern family for you.

Gus, having been a Classics teacher at one time, could have expanded on

that subject ad nauseam – and frequently did so.  He loved to read and

re-read Suetonius’ Lives of the Twelve Caesars.  He and ‘Sweaty Tony’

could have told you that there was nothing new under the sun.

Gus felt equally qualified to write a book called The Playground, as

the Classical author had done.  Now that retirement had been achieved,

he intended to have a go.

It was one way to have an alibi for sitting in the study alone for long

periods of time, playing Battleship online.

Virginia said that she could bring out a monograph on The Physical Defects

of Men.  A very big monograph.

Mehercule!  Did that mean that she wanted to share the study?

Married life had brought him face-to-face with the central question of

Suetonius’ works:  how does one cope with absolute power?  Gus now felt

sure that he  was coming to a good understanding of the answer and it

was something along the lines of promptly saying : Yes, dear, to any

assertion, request or remark.

Once Gus had had two very prestigious jobs- Senior Master and (Acting)

Deputy Head.  Neither had involved much work.  They were posts

comparable to Suetonius’ positions as flamen sacerdotalis and pontifex

volcanalis.

Now our newlywed had a very stressful post as Husband.  If he wasn’t

careful, he might develop a nervous stammer, like Claudius.  Derek

Jacobi- now wasn’t he marvellous…?  So, indeed, was that actor who

played Wilfred Owen in Regeneration.  Owen had a stammer.  Wasn’t

that evidence of Post Traumatic Stress?  Virginia wouldn’t develop one,

that was for sure.  And she didn’t even have the mitigation of PMT – not

at her time of life… Maybe she had Post Menopausal Something- Else?

But she was not the one who was feeling the pressure… What was her

excuse?  He felt like asking her to reflect on her mis-demeanors in some

kind of detention.  She could write an essay, perhaps…

Gus!

Yes, dear.

Gus!  Could you take the bin out?

I could, he thought rebelliously. But will I?  Ha!  I could say

that I don’t want to be pedantic, but, in fact, I very much do.

Gus!  Did you hear me?

Ita vero.  On my way.   Yes, dear!

Dumb insolence got him n…n.. n… nowhere.

At least he didn’t have to write the Christmas card this year.  Wives

seemed to take on that mantle.  Virginia had bought about six packs of

Medici cards.

In the past, he had only sent one – to  ‘Aunt Augusta’ (God Rest her Soul.)

His Christmas shopping had been confined to a bottle of Dewlap Gin for the

Discerning Grandmother.  It hadn’t been boutique, but had always been

acceptable to the old bird.  He wondered if he should buy a bottle for old

times’ sake.  The stresses of connubial bliss were driving him in that

direction.

The Absolute Camel

Tags

'Ern, Ali Baba basket, Berenice of Cilicia, Bosphorus, cakes and ale, Dadaism, Dickinson, dodecagon, Existentialism, fat, Garden of Remembrance, hairy legs, Herod, Iznik, Kristin Scott-Thomas, l'enfer c'est les autres, Metropolitan Archbishop, mince pies, Morecambe and Wise, mulled wine, Osman, ouzo, Play by Beckett, Pointless, Racine, Raymond Chandler, Samuel Beckett, short, Snodland, Snodland and Ash, Suetonius, Surrealism, The Absolute Camel, tribute act, urns, Who Do You Think You Are?, William the Conqueror

Great-Aunt Augusta was studying the newly photocopied programme

published by The Snodland Players, an amateur dramatic ensemble

who took their peripatetic programmes around nursing homes and

inflicted their rudely mechanical performances on captive audiences.

At least it is somewhat more challenging than one of those Primary

School variations on the nativity, combined with excruciatingly jolly

Yuletide ditties, opined the grumpy nonagenarian.

In actual fact, she had just asked to be wheeled out to the

recreation room as she could have sworn that she had smelled

mulled wine.

‘Play’ by Samuel Beckett, she read.  She liked Beckett.  What was

that play she had once seen with her sister?  Waiting for Ouzo?

Henry, I saw the film years ago.  It had that Kristin Scott-Thomas

woman in it.  You know, the one that Jeremy Fisher salivates over.

Jeremy Fisher? 

The one on that car programme.  Top Notch, or something.

Oh, Top Gear.  Clarkson.  Terrible man.

And Henry turned off his hearing aid and settled down to wait for

the hot toddy, given that his interest in hot totty had diminished

over the years, along with his driving skills.

I suppose they don’t need much scenery, Augusta commented to

another female resident.  And it’s only a one-act play, so there won’t

be an interval.

Pity, replied Madge. That’s the bit I  usually enjoy. Do you think there

will still be mince pies?

Oh, I doubt it.  We’re no longer virtuous, so they’ll probably cut back

on cakes and ale.

Matron was trying to be helpful with the logistics.  She scurried

around and came back with a trolley which bore three urns.

The Director picked one up.  Gosh, that’s really heavy.  I can see why

you needed the trolley.  Thanks, but I’m afraid they are too small and

they seem to be full of something rather weighty.

Yes, said Matron.  They are surprisingly heavy, considering that Ethel

was only about six stone and Oscar was about eight and a half…  Maybe

that’s why the rellies didn’t bother to pick them up to take them to The

Garden of Remembrance.  They probably thought that we would scatter

them, but some of the Eastern European staff are a bit superstitious about

that sort of thing, so we just put them on the shelves in Reception.  They

look pretty much like vases and the cleaning staff don’t knock them over

so easily.

Emmm, the Director was thinking rapidly on his feet, a thespian skill

which he tried to transmit to his rather slower colleagues.  Have you

got any of those Ali Baba laundry baskets?  They might do.

I’ll just have the girls wipe them down.  You never know what’s been

in them, Matron said helpfully.

Ta-da! she flourished some a few moments later.

The Director cut his introductory speech.  Some of the audience were

already asleep and it didn’t look as if anyone had a mobile phone on

them.

Augusta was waiting for the half-line about Snodland and Ash.  Apparently,

Beckett had once been in Kent, marrying one of the corners of his love

triangle.  Hence the references.  Ash/ urn…hmmm..

Something in the town had struck him, but when he had been asked

to explain its existential relevance, he had clearly taken the hump and

merely replied enigmatically: The Absolute Camel.

So, the choice of production was clearly topical.

One of the characters suddenly addressed the favoured coterie with

the philosophical question: Why am I dead?

Join the club, muttered Gerald, who was tired of waiting for the mulled

wine. He was also agitated at the thought of missing Pointless, which,

in his opinion was a cheerier form of Surrealism.

Madge interrupted with the following: I thought you said it had an ‘Ern in

it. I thought it was a tribute act to Morecambe and Wise.  But I don’t see

anyone with short, fat, hairy legs.

Augusta patted her knee.  No, darling.  I said ‘urns’.  Honestly, the

uncultivated company that she was obliged to keep nowadays!  L’enfer

was definitely les autres.  Didn’t they know that what they were watching

was Beckett’s response to a five-act play by Racine?  Furthermore, Racine

had swiped the concept from Suetonius’ scribblings about a love triangle

involving Berenice of Cilicia.

And the reason that she was aware of that was that her younger sister

was called Berenice and their mother had had love dodefayeds– nay,

dodecagons with various Oriental types, before she had settled down with

her erstwhile nomadic, but newly-domesticated rug-seller from The

Bosphorus.

Yes, both Berenice and her mother had been the types of blondes that

Raymond Chandler had said would have caused an Archbishop-

Metropolitan, or otherwise- to have kicked a hole in a stained glass

window.

Maybe it was the Herodian tendencies that had caused the members

of her family to be so ruthless in love.

So, life was somewhat surreal.  She granted that.  She’d never really

thought about her father.  She and her sister had the maternal surname:

Snodbury.  She supposed that her pater’s name must have been

something like Sirdar, or Osman.  But that rather sun-tanned antiques

quiz guy’s surname was Dickinson and, according to the telly programme

Who Do You Think You Are? he was of Iznik extraction and came from a

family of carpetbaggers- or was it ‘sellers‘?

At any rate, she was beginning to yawn.  That quiz programme would be

on tonight- the one they all liked with that rather aristocratic chap who

was related to William the Conqueror. (Weren’t we all?)

But she did find the other chap rather amusing.  What was his name?

Ah, yes: Osman.

Wonder if he is any relation? 

If so, that would surely be Dadaism, not Surrealism, or Existentialism.

Dadaism would probably be a very low score under the Philosophy category.

Fill me up, dear!  At last- the mulled wine had arrived.  You can have two

glasses of that.  It’s not as strong as Dewlap Gin for the Discerning

Grandmother.  And, on cold nights like this, it’s the absolute camel!

Alea Iacta Est

Tags

alea iacta est, Antonine Wall, Clydeside, faggots, fasces, metaphor, Nero, Optimates, Rubicon, Suetonius, testudo, togas, Tribune of the Plebs, William Wallace

Augustus Snodbury prepared to deliver one of his most ancient and

oft-repeated lessons in the Classic Department.  However, he intended

to give it a topical spin.

He threw a die on the front desk and pronounced: Alea iacta est.  This was, for

him, an interactive lesson, utilising a learning aid.

What does this mean?

Before he could choose which hand to acknowledge, that Boothroyd-Smythe

boy had prematurely ejaculated:  The die is cast.

What?

Sir.  The die is cast, Sir.

Hmm, Snod harrumphed.  And how could this be applied to our times?

Not you, boy.  Someone else.

He must be getting past his sell-by date.  A few years ago he’d have had

that boy clapped in irons, or thrown to the lions for shouting out.  He

signalled to a quiet youth sitting on his own at the back.

The ginger-haired pupil ventured: Mr Cameron says there’s no going back for

the Scottish people.

Precisely, Snod rubber-stamped the response.  You can’t cross back over The

Rubicon. Boy!  Put that die down!

It wasn’t brought into this lesson for you to fiddle around with. Not even while

Rome burns!

Now, take this down... Snod loved dictation.  It was the best method of

control, even if it discouraged free thinking- especially as it discouraged

free thinking!

Once Caesar had crossed The Rubicon, there was no going back. 

Reinforcement.

He turned and wrote ‘Suetonius‘ on the board.  No one, least of all himself,

knew why, but, to a boy, they all wrote it down in their exercise books, some

putting out their tongues while they tried to get the letters in the right order.

The Rubicon, incidentally meaning The Red River, so having some associations

with Clydeside... this was for his own gratification, but there was much

scribbling, was in North Italy, but it does not preclude metaphorical references. 

What’s a metaphor for?  He suddenly sprang this on an unsuspecting child in

the second row, who slightly wet his shorts and broke his pencil point.

That’s where togas came in very handy, Snod observed to himself.

To make us think what it’s there for? quavered the child.

No, that’s a ‘therefore’, Snod barked. Pay attention!  And attention is what The

Romans should have paid to those beyond The Antonine Wall.  But that’s another

lesson.

You see, Caesar had entered into rebellion and the Senate had removed him

from his command. It started a long civil war.  Who were the two sides?

Silence.

He wrote Optimates: Traditional Majority on the white board with an

indelible marker.  Drat!

They wanted to limit the power of the Tribune of the Plebs.

A hand shot up!  B–S again.  Groan!

Wasn’t that what a politician called the police, sir?

Allegedly not.

The Optimates sought to preserve the ways of their forefathers..

Like William Wallace and..

Detention!

Boothroyd-Smythe in his eagerness had forgotten to raise his hand.  Twice

in one day.  His report card would have to be stamped.

The bell rang shrilly.

Get into your testudo formation, said Snod.  Okay,

Forward march!

Excuse me, sir.  Who were the other side?

Snod momentarily had forgotten.  He could smell the odour of his

favourite fasces, he meant faggots, emanating from the dining hall.

That’s your homework, he pronounced with imperatorial, nay,

gubernatorial authority. If you don’t know, find out for tomorrow.

Don’t eat the Figs!

Tags

Augustus, Caligula, Claudius, figgy pudding, Heston Blumenthal, Livia Drusilla, parable of fig tree, Pucine, Suetonius, The Sunday Times, Tiberius, Waitrose, We Wish You A Merry Xmas!

Livia Drusilla, standing marble sculpture as Ops, with wheat sheaf and cornucopia. Marble, Roman artwork, 1st century CE. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Clammie’s mother, Livia, was joining them a few days before Christmas- the same as usual.  She always insisted on helping in the kitchen, and Tristram disliked any interference in what he deemed to be his exclusive sphere.  He wanted to keep her out of his fast-receding hair.

She would arrive with The Right Way and The Only Way to do everything.  Her stuffing was superior and Tristram had to stifle phrases involving injunctions on that theme.  Her countdown was as regulated as NASA’s had been and her tinselled timetable was as efficiency conscious as Mussolini’s railways.

She was also excessively interested in the regulation of familial bowel habits and arrived with various packets of Fig Rolls.  Tristram preferred to remain slightly constipated than to partake of these suspicious little ridged sweetmeats.

He knew that he was being paranoid, but ever since he had been deeply impressed by a Classics lesson in Transitus, he had carried an aversion to, and a fear of, anyone called Livia.  Hadn’t the Empress thus called been responsible for the death of her husband, Augustus?  Hadn’t she cleverly smeared the ripe figs on the tree with a deadly poison?  He wasn’t taking any risks and even eschewed the boxes of Egyptian dates that she brought into the house.

He had remonstrated with Clammie when she had wanted to call Scheherezade ‘Julia Augusta’.  He felt that it had been a signal of impending terror.  Hadn’t that been Livia Drusilla’s adopted name when she was taken into the Julian family in AD 14?

Come to think of it, there was a master at the boys’ school nicknamed Caligula.  Could he conceivably be related?

Once, for their anniversary, she had sent a fig tree for their garden.  He tried to appear grateful, but inwardly vowed never to let its fruit pass his lips and he wouldn’t eat any of the conserves, or preserves, that Clammie made from its bounty.  Suetonius had recorded that Augustus might have snuffed it after kissing his wife, so Tristram indulged in a lot of mwah-mwah charades with his mother-in-law.

The original Livia had initiated herself as a priestess in a new cult and so, when Carrie’s mother announced that she had become a lay-reader, albeit in an Anglican diocese, he felt even more uneasy.  It was treasonous to speak against the Empress, and Tristram felt that he could not breathe a word to his wife regarding his discomfiture in her mother’s presence.

He went back to his school texts.  Tiberius, spawn of the Empress, used to resent being addressed as Son of Livia, or Son of Julia; Tristram hated being introduced as Livia’s son-in-law.

At five minutes past four, on the 20^th December, she telephoned from the station, and he felt as if he was being asked to pick her up on an elephant-drawn chariot.

Once he had her installed in the family sitting room with Clammie, he produced a bottle that he had bought from Pop My Cork! (a local wine merchant.)  He felt smug, as he had managed to find Pucine– a red wine labelled : grown on a hilly promontory between Aquilea and Tergeste, near the slopes of Mount Timavus, on the Adriatic.  This had been the daily tipple of the Empress herself.  It was what she had been drinking on the day she died, aged 86.  He knew that, like Tiberius, he would probably have to probate her will, but he would, like the aforementioned, veto her deification whenever he could.

The only way to survive her visit was to adopt the behaviour of Claudius: ie/ stammer and play the role of a half-wit.

So, there she was, in HIS kitchen, stirring some cranberry sauce which she had made from first principles, when she looked out of the French windows and suddenly came out with:

I don’t see that tree I bought you for your anniversary.

Ehhh, no…

What happened to it?

Tristram’s mind whirled around.  Suddenly recalling her lay-readership, he embellished a New Testament  story:

Oh, it wasn’t producing any fruit, so we took Jesus’ advice and dug it up.

Hmmm, well, it’s a pity you didn’t follow His advice on tares, she riposted, casting a critical eye on the weeds they hadn’t had time to address in the Autumn.

Livia: 1; Tristram: 0

What was the point in engagement?  She was a sheep; he was a goat.  They’d be separated on The Last Day.

Well, she continued, we don’t need any figs, as I was just going to make the pudding on Stir-Up Sunday, when I saw an article in The Sunday Times that said the must-have dessert this year is Heston’s Figgy Pudding, so I went out and bought one in Waitrose before they flew out of the stores.  She indicated the box lying on the granite worktop.

Tristram could feel his stomach beginning to knot.  He would have to check the seals.

Suddenly, at the back door, they could hear a clanging noise, which was evidently hand bells.  The some treble voices from St Birinus ‘Middle School, no doubt, trilled Sleeping in Heavenly Rest.

My favourite! smiled Livia, turning off the gas and exiting the kitchen to look for her purse.

The ensemble started up We Wish You A Merry Xmas with some gusto, aware that it was more of a money spinner and suddenly Tristram had an epiphany.  He opened the back door widely and thrust the Waitrose box into the gloved hand of the conductor, Mr Geoffrey Poskett, the red-nosed choirmaster, just as they reached the line:

We all like some figgy pudding, so bring some out here!

Oh, they’ve gone! said Livia, putting her pound coin back into her purse.

Don’t worry!  I gave them something from you, said Tristram, playing the part of the dutiful son-in-law.  Here!  Have another glass of Pucine.

The distraction worked.  He would pick up another box tomorrow on the school run and she’d never know the difference.  He’d lived another day.