Marriage Preparation

Tags

aubade, banns, Barrowland market, BBC 4, Bletchley Park, Burns documentary, Camp Bastion, Canary Islands, Carlo Curley, chanter, Classics teacher, Dog Star, Enigma, Hymen, Isle of Dogs, kist o' whistles, non-binary, organathon, ornithology, retractable telescope, Souter Johnnie, Tam O' Shanter, Tenerife, The Dambusters

( Image: Postdlf, Aug 2010)

Diana Fotheringay, Virginia and Mrs Connolly, the housekeeper,

sat round the kitchen table to discuss all things matrimonial.

Dru should have been present, but she was in Tenerife at

the time, given that it was the Easter break.

It was Virginia’s holiday time too, but she did not like to encounter

school children and she and Snod had reckoned that the pele tower

in the Borders constituted as good a bastion as they could find-

except perhaps Camp Bastion, and they hadn’t reckoned on Afghanistan

as being terribly relaxing.  In some ways it might have reminded them

of their day jobs, except that at times, St Birinus Middle could be regarded

as being marginally more stressful.

Mind you, Snod was not finding marriage preparations terribly relaxing

either. That was why he was doing some male bonding with Murgatroyd

and was heading off to the nearest hostelry, in the company of The Rev.

Finlay Armstrong, who had just visited to discuss banns, registers and

orders of service.  ‘The Rev’ had never conducted a triple ceremony before,

but he felt that there was a sound Trinitarian basis and so had agreed.

Nigel, Dru’s fiance, had gone to Tenerife too, which had further infuriated

his mother, since she had been let down by yet another decorator and

her apron strings were developing an elasticity which no longer

seemed to exert any tension on her son.  In short, he was now switching

his submission to a different female.  And some say that that is what

distinguishes a married man from a bachelor.

(Image by Forest and Kim Starr

flickr.com/photos/starr- environmental)

Tenerife had not been his first choice.  He had suggested The Canary

Islands to Dru, who had looked at him in a funny way, before informing

him that they were one and the same.

Shall I take the binoculars? he asked, trying to cover his faux pas by a

forced interest in ornithology.

Why? asked Dru and then the penny dropped.  No, they’ve got nothing to

do with canaries.

Oh.

She wasn’t the daughter of a Classics teacher for nowt.  The etymology is

to do with dogs.  Canis, as in Dog Star, par example.  And don’t ask if you

should take your retractable telescope.

Was that a double entendre?

Nigel wasn’t very good at picking these up, as his classes knew all too

well.  He smiled anyway, but not too broadly.

Oh, like The Isle of Dogs? He continued to dig his own grave.

Just don’t go there- okay! replied Dru, who sometimes wondered what she

was hitching up to ….But, no… Nigel was really sweet.  Really.

Mrs Connolly rose and poured some tea.  It’s awfie nice that yon Mr Poskett

has agreed to play the kist o’ whistles fur ye, she commented.

Oh no, replied Virginia.  We are having a bagpiper to greet us in the morning,

like an aubade.  I don’t think Mr Poskett is acquainted with the chanter.

Naw, Ah’m referring to our church organ, Mrs Fisher-Gyles.  Ah ken fine that

Ken is playing fur ye earlier oan in the day.

It’s guid that Mr Snodbury’s friend will do the musical honours at the kirk,

as old Mr MacPhee’s no’ sae reliable nooadays.  Not efter that episode at the

cremmie.

Cremmie?  Virginia was not completely au fait with the local patois.

Crematorium! laughed Diana.  Oh, Mrs C, tell us what happened.  It

never fails to make me laugh…

…till ye greet!  Och aye, weel, Mr Mac was playing at a service and there

was a delay, so he started improvising.  Always a dangerous activity, if ye

don’t mind me sayin’…

And? Diana was keen to force her to the point.

And…jist as he was runnin’ oot o’ tunes, he turned aroon as the corsage

had jist entered…

‘Cortege’, Mrs C!  You’re getting mixed up with wedding paraphernalia.

Aye, so Ah am.  But she looked a little put oot at having been corrected.

Go on! Diana encouraged her.

Weel, he looked ower his shooder and saw these twa wreaths on the

coffin.  He thought that the chrysanthemums spelled oot ‘Biggles.’

Wait for it, laughed Diana, whose shoulders were starting to shake.

He didn’t! expostulated Virginia.  Did he start playing The Dambusters?

He did just that. And Mrs C took a lace-edged hanky out of her sleeve and

started giggling like the teenager she had surely never been.

Aye, and it was only Big Les, the biggest crook this side o’ the Borders,

though he was well enough liked. They said he made his fortune at the

Glasgow Barrowland market.

Naw, ye can do withoot that kind o’ misunderstanding on your big day.

Mr Poskett is a professional, I understand? she queried.

Absolutely, said Virginia, who was used to supplying anxious parents with

such reassurances regarding the musical education of their precious

offspring.  He once appeared in an organathon with the great Carlo Curley.

(He had only turned the pages, if truth be told.): Editor.

Drink your tea.  Look, it’s gettin’ cold, cautioned Mrs C.

Virginia was dying to ask if there had been, or still was a Mr C, but one

somehow knew that one should not ‘go there‘, in modern parlance.

And, as for the boys, they were just explaining to The Rev, over a pint,

that Murgatroyd and Diana were actually just renewing their vows,

whereas Snod and Nigel were first-timers, or novices in the realm of

Hymen.

Virgins! smiled The Rev.  I’ll drink to that!  At least no one is saying they are

non-binary, or anything too complicated for my form.  We have had to add

some boxes recently on the request of The Registrar, but in our neck of the

woods, we hadn’t come across some of the categories – at least not

consciously- and so we weren’t sure how to fill in their damn forms.  So,

‘virgins’- that’s easy peasy!

Shhh! Keep your voice down, blushed Snod.

It would be just his luck if some St Birinus parent had a second, or third

home in the neighbourhood and had made this hostelry his ‘local.’  He

looked around nervously, but, thankfully, it seemed to be populated by

Tam O’Shanter and Souter Johnnie extras from a Burns documentary for

BBC 4.

Non- binary?  Now that was a new one on him.  He thought binary was

something to do with codes and Bletchley Park.  Oh well, the whole birds

and bees business had always been an enigma to him.  And now he was

about to crack the code.  Hmm…

 

 

Immortal Memory

Tags

Auld lang Syne, caber, Clyde, Cutty Sark, First Lady, Gay Gordons, haggis, Holy Willie, Immortal Memory, John Barleycorn, Red Rose, Sassenach, Selkirk Grace, Sevres vase, soor ploom, Steinway, Strathspeys, Strip the Willow, Tam O' Shanter, tea clipper

Aye, hullo there!  It’s Candia again, dear devotees.  I’m

just recovering from delivering The Immortal Memory speech at

the PTA Burns Supper at St Birinus’ Middle School.

And what a night it was!  Snodbury did fairly well as Master of

Ceremonies, considering he’s a Sassenach.  The School Chaplain

stuttered over The Selkirk Grace, but by then he’d already had a

wee dram.  Or two!

I sat on the top table, next to the School Secretary and Diana

Fotheringay, who seemed to be the partner of The Acting Head.  I

don’t know how she knew him. She seems to be rather an efficient

social climber.  She may have been discomfited by the secretarial

attentions directed at her beau during the evening.  However,

they were probably professionally-motivated.  (Perhaps that’s

the excuse Hollande gave to his First Lady before she took herself

off to hospital, allegedly smashing a Sevres vase or two on the way.

Anyway, Snodbury looked like a floribunda between two thorns.

One of the Junior Masters got up on his hind legs and sang A Red,

Red Rose, to continue the botanical metaphor.  He was accompanied

on the school Steinway by the choirmaster.  It was quite a poignant

rendition and the tenor seemed greatly affected until he had difficulty

with the top note and blushed at his underachievement.

Consequently the choirmaster could not help his facial expression,

which was akin to that of a disgruntled man who had just peed

on a thistle.

Frankly, he should have transposed the key for an amateur performer.

The local publicans had been grouped together on The John Barleycorn

table and members of the clergy were drumming their toasting glasses

on their Holy Willies table.  By the time they were hauled up to their

feet by Sixth Form girls who had waited on their table, to tapselteerie

some Strathspeys, they had managed to steady themselves, under

the vigilant gazes of their soor ploom wives.

I enjoyed stabbing the haggis, though I shall be sending the school

my dry cleaning bill.

Tam O’ Shanter went down well and at least everyone now knows that

Cutty Sark is more than an eighteenth century tea clipper built on The

Clyde.  The Sixth Form girls adequately demonstrated this sartorial

point in their dress code for the evening.

I observed a flash of seamed stocking in The Bluebells of Scotland.  The

School Secretary was ubiquitous and strategically placed herself next to

Snodbury for Auld Lang Syne.  It annoys me when people ignorantly add for

the sake of  to a perfectly crafted line.  Still, they don’t know any better.

Curiously, Diana Fotheringay didn’t seem too concerned.  Mind you, with

legs like that on display, I could see the attraction would wear off. I’m

referring to Snodbury’s hirsute limbs, of course.  Cabers don’t come into

it!

Poskett, the choirmaster, walked out at The Loyal Toast.  He fancies

himself as a Republican!  Or he just fancies himself, full-stop!

I saw that he had to be partnered by the songster in The Gay Gordons,

but I doubt this had any sexual significance.

Well, Rabbie, we did you proud.  The staff didn’t seem to fraternise with the

parents over much, however.  One father seemed very much out on a limb

until that rather heavily-jowled Housemistress from St Vitus’– no doubt

released on good behaviour for the evening, scooped him up to Strip the

Willow. He wasn’t a bad looking chap.  I sneaked a look at the name on his

place card- it was Maxwell, or Boothroyd-Something.  Maybe he’s responsible

for that infamous troublemaker in Castor and Pollux’s class.

The last sighting I had of the deflated songster was of him hanging around

the fringes, like a knotless thread on a tartan travelling rug.  His eyes were

fixated on the Housemistress as she whirled around the floor with Poskett,

the choirmaster.

I should think that he has no chance and no worries regarding Poskett.  Her

gaze was continually resting on that Maxwell fellow.

Ash Dieback

Tags

Alex Salmond, Anne Lorne Gillies, ash dieback, Cutty Sark, devolution, Fraxinus, mountain ash, Nicola Sturgeon, rowan tree, Scottish Assembly, Scottish Referendum, sorbus aucuparia, Tam O' Shanter, Tree of Life, Tricia Marwick

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When I was a little girl, I lived in a row of terraced houses, which was elevated above street level, with grassy slopes which led to the pavement- and all cordoned off by neat privet hedging at the bottom.

A path ran in front of the block of four dwellings.  At either end there was a flight of stone steps, with a double cast iron handrail- ideal for childish acrobatics.  And, to protect the whole block from witches, there was a rowan tree in the small garden patches of the end houses.

So, when I heard about dieback among ash trees, or Chalara fraxinea, to be precise, my first concern was whether rowan, or mountain ash was of the same susceptible genus.

I Googled and somehow found myself on a site about Alex Salmond.  What possible connection could there be between the First Minister and Pest Risk Analysis?

Apparently he had recorded a duet with Caledonia’s own Anne Lorne Gillies.  They sang a version of The Rowan Tree.  Could it be that Eck could transmit crown dieback on the Tree of Life, as sorbus aucuparia is sometimes known?

By giving them the vote prematurely, young saplings could suffer particular destruction and be infected in their nurseries with devolutionary disease.

Dinna fash yersel’!  Haud yer horses!  One of the nation’s- and I mean the UK’s favourite trees is thankfully immune to his kiss of death.  Just as well, as we don’t want to be exposed to any witchcraft from Nicola Sturgeon, Nanny, or Cutty Sarks in general. (see Burns’ Tam O’ Shanter for a clarification! Nothing to do with sailing ships built on the River Leven.)

So, nae sweat!  The rowan seems to be safe for the moment.  And The Scottish Assembly is safe from any more musical experiments, as The Presiding Officer, Tricia Marwick has banned singing in Holyrood.