Cor Cordium

Tags

Adonais, Charles Clairmont, cor cordium, Cricklade, Douglas, dramatic monologue, Holamn Hunt, Isabella and pot of basil, Keats, Lechlade, Mary Shelley, Monty Don, Percy B Shelley, Protestant Cemetery, Robert the Bruce, Rome, Severn Canal, skiff, Thomas Hardy, Thomas Love Peacock, Tripadvisor, Valentine's Day, Walter Raleigh

(P B S’s gravestone in The Protestant Cemetery, Rome.

28/8/04 Author: carptrash  Einar Einarsson Kvaran

transferred from en wikipaedia)

‘Cor Cordium‘ was inscribed on Shelley’s grave and means ‘heart of hearts.‘

Valentine’s Day  seemed an apt time to look into what happened to his

physical heart.

Apparently Mary Shelley kept it wrapped up in white silk and it was

placed between the pages of a book, at her husband’s poem on

Keats: ‘Adonais.‘  It can’t have been the whole organ, so must have been

a sliver which was saved from immolation on the beach at Spezia.

It reminded me of Robert the Bruce’s heart being encased in a lead

casket. It was meant to be taken to The Holy Land, but Douglas failed to

dispose of it there, so it returned to Scotland.

Hearts were often removed and, like Thomas Hardy’s, were buried

separately from the rest of the remains.

It is rather ghoulish to ponder on what Isabella had in her pot of basil,

or what Walter Raleigh’s widow carried around with her in a leather bag.

Yes, sometimes it was a head and not a heart.  People can be weird.

(I don’t know what you have to feed basil, the herb, with, but I never

seem to  have any luck with growing it in a pot.  Isabella seemed to be

quite successful, judging by Holman Hunt’s painting, but I don’t think

Monty Don would prescribe such an extreme compost.)

Anyway, my next dramatic monologue references Mary, in later life,

meditating on their September voyage up the Thames, in the

company of Charles Clairmont and the novelist Thomas Love Peacock.

They failed to reach Cricklade and the source of the river and, in any

case, did not have the £20 to pay the navigation fee for their skiff to

enter The Severn Canal.  So, they stayed two nights in Lechlade and

P B S ( pernicious bowel syndrome- not) wrote a poem in the

churchyard there.

Peacock called the inn ‘comfortable‘ so it would have had a good review

on ‘Tripadvisor,’ had such a site had been in existence.

The day before yesterday I traced the hostelry in which they stayed and

viewed a bedroom which MIGHT have been the one in which they lodged.

Then I walked through the churchyard of St Lawrence’s Church to admire

the snowdrops, which they certainly would not have done, their visit

having been in late summer, 1815.

My poem:

Cor Cordium  (a poem on Valentine’s Day)

see next post…

Sin of Presumption

Tags

Alice in Wonderland, Bathsheba, Boldwood, builders' tea, David Cameron, hagiography, Lucozade, martyrology, misogyny, Neutral Tones, Proust, Prufrock, sin of commission, sin of presumption, Sods' Law, St Brigid, St Patrick, Thomas Hardy

Fortunately Snod had a double free period before Lower Five and so

he slumped into his favourite lumpy chintz armchair and waited till

he could be sure that the rest of the staff were in Lesson One.

Virginia came in sheepishly, carrying a tray with some builders’ tea

and a plate with two Bourbon biscuits.  He was allowed two since it

was not every day that one became affianced.

He didn’t look up at first.  He felt that she had committed a sin of

presumption, or at least commission, but he wasn’t going to split

theological hairs at this point.  Taking  a sledgehammer to break

a walnut came into his mind too, but he felt that was a violent

metaphor.  Still, he probably would never have succumbed to a

more gentle persuasive technique.

Yes, he had heard of St Brigid and her relationship with St Patrick.

He simply didn’t want Virginia to activate any of the ideas that the

female saint of yore had favoured, such as giving away all her

counterpart’s worldly goods and so on.  Virginia would probably never

understand the vital importance of his oiled cricket bat, or piles

of Wisdens.  He wasn’t swayed by aspirations to a ranking in the

hagiography through denial in any shape or form, and, if he was

to wed, then it might be more appropriate to consider an entry

in a martyrology.

He looked at the cup of tea.  There was no such thing as a free drink.

He felt like Alice, in Wonderland– a novel concept.  The eponymous

heroine had been confronted with a phial which was labelled: Drink Me.

If he accepted the bone china mug and its contents, did it imply an

acceptance of the proposal?  Was he about to drain hemlock?

He risked a sip.  Aaah!  Just the way he liked it: slightly stewed.

He swirled it round his mouth in a Proustian reverie.  It wasn’t too

disagreeable, after all- the whole idea and not just the cuppa.  It

took him back to reminiscenses of past times of security, as when

Matron had brought him just such a beverage when he was in San with

measles.  She had warmed his jammies on the radiator and had

given him Lucozade.  He remembered looking at the confines of

his life through the orange cellophane, which he picked off the bottle,

and feeling that life was still an adventure, if only for Boys’ Own

readers.

Virginia tiptoed out, knowing that he needed a little space.

He gazed at the poster of Thomas Hardy alongside the English

Department noticeboard.  That wretched man had caused him a

lot of trouble over the years.  (see the original misdirected Valentine

which had ended up between the underlay and the carpet of a boarding

house-mistress’ apartment, many moons previously.)

And now he had to ask himself a typically Hardyean question:

Was he, like Boldwood, being set up by a teasing woman?  Virginia

did have some Bathsheban tendencies.  He tried to resist thinking of

her in a state of deshabillement for the moment, as it distracted him

from the thrust of his current thought processes.

Then Hardy came to the rescue.

How so? you ask, Dear Reader.

Boldwood gave him the idea.

Gus took his hymnbook from the side table and threw it into the air.

Virginia came into the room again, having given him what she

considered was sufficient time- to hang himself, some would have

added.  She carried some correspondence as justification.

What are you doing with that book? she reprimanded.  You’ll break its

spine!

Snod inwardly whispered, Open-to wed; Shut-to…

Sods’ Law: it fell open.  Or was it Snod’s Law?

Virginia picked it up and placed it in his pigeonhole.

Then she came over and took his plate and mug, spat on her

hanky  and wiped an indeterminate stain from his tie.

So, that’s settled then, she pronounced.

And he knew that it jolly well was. But a quote from Neutral

Tones,  one of Hardy’s finest, suddenly sprang to mind:

The smile on [his]mouth was the deadest thing

alive enough to have strength to die…

No, although he felt chidden of God, it couldn’t be as bad as all

that, surely?

Could it? Happy misogyny, here we come, he mused.

He had measured out his life, unlike Prufrock, in oxymorons,

rather than coffee spoons.

 

Touch

Tags

butterfly kiss, Catherine Hogarth, Charles Dickens, descriptive essay, Emma Gifford, Harry in the night, Jane Austen, Michelangelo, Thomas Hardy, touch

My English teacher used to advise us to remember all five senses when we

wrote a descriptive essay, said Clammie, as she sipped an aromatic brew in

Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe.

Yes, I replied.  We often forget to mention taste and touch.

I love the smell of coffee in here, don’t you?  Not so keen on the aurally

excruciating skoosh of the machine, though. 

I rummaged in my handbag and took out a notebook with Thomas

Hardy’s face on the cover.  It was one of a series of Famous Writers–

I think I had Jane Austen and Charles Dickens too, but that is by the by.

Another friend had been delighted to note when I took it out of the fluffy

depths to refer to some scribbles, that a panti pad cover had come loose

from its contents and the emergency sanitary saviour had stuck firmly to

the grand old man’s face.  She said it served him right.  Not sure exactly

why.  A few possibilities.  Maybe Emma Gifford could have given some

explanations.  Catherine Hogarth might have something to add in that

line too.

Anyway, I retrieved the notebook with the slight sticky deposit on its

cover and turned to a page at the back.

I handed Clammie an ancient poem of mine:

TOUCH

I came to touch late- unapprreciative

of its electrifying/ soothing powers.

I knew the tactile pleasure it could give:

glossy canine heads, white, waxy flowers;

brush of a butterfly kiss; a baby’s grip

on my forefinger; a vellum bible

whose worn cover would please its readership.

And there were some who were susceptible

to a soft touch of Harry in the night.

The emanantion of a healing flow

from laying on of hands was no deft sleight

of charlatan.  In the deepest sorrow

a hand on a shoulder, merest pressure

from a clasp’s interlink, upholstery

of friendly hug-comfort without measure.

Not least of all the senses, but most necessary-

Michelangelo’s divine/human charge,

elevated to sublime position.

(God’s finger reaching through space.)  Writ large:

solidarity with Man’s condition.

Far From The Madding Crowd

Tags

byojaku, goldcrest, Higher Bockhampton, Julian Fellowes, Lower Bockhampton, Melstock, Puddletown Heath, Rosemarie Morgan, Rushy Pond, swallet hole, Thomas Hardy, Under the Greenwood Tree, witches' broom fungus, Yale

 

Thank goodness for the hat -see gravatar.  That Aussie sun is fierce.

Two weeks into this holiday and I have lost my fashionable byojaku

face, though I wouldn’t say that I was a fully-formed Sheila just

yet.

I see that there is an outcry regarding development in Lower

Bockhampton (Hardy’s Melstock).  Professor Rosemarie Morgan

of Yale has joined forces with Julian Fellowes (not Thomas Hardy)

and others opposed to the building of seventy homes under the

greenwood trees by an agricultural college.  That blasted madding

crowd encroaches everywhere.

Anyway, in case urbanisation obliterates an even greater area,

here’s an old tribute to Higher Bockhampton:

HIGHER BOCKHAMPTON

Where bright goldcrests dip over Rushy Pond,

speckled fawns lie, peaceful, in swallet holes,

cushioned on russet-needled floor.  Beyond

lies Puddletown Heath, but here thick beech boles,

sweet chestnut, laurel and hazel copses

shelter grass snakes, which coil in leafy shade,

where Hardy coppiced verse; plot synopses.

Witches’ broom fungus found on some decayed

branches illustrated family trees:

supernatural blight in Paradise,

which brought his fruitless marriage to its knees.

Through opened casements he would watch fireflies,

straining to see some glimmer in the pitch

dark of the cottage garden.  Then he wrote

of class difference between poor and rich;

his real words of complaint choking his throat.

 

 

Pig-hoo-o-o-oey!

Tags

Berkshire pig, Blandings, chitterling, choir stall, Common Entrance, Compline, Earl of Emsworth, Evensong, faggots, Farmers' Markets, Happy Hour, husbandry, Master Butcher, Middle White pig, misericords, non-sequitur, P G Wodehouse, pig-hoo-o-o-oey!, Pigling Bland, pizzle, pork scratchings, The Emperor, Thomas Hardy, Timothy Spall, Vietnamese Pot-Bellied pig

Great-Aunt Augusta was thrilled: she placed the photograph of her namesake

in its silver frame on her bedside table, beside her bottle of Dewlap Gin for the

Discerning Grandmother.

She had always meant to write to the company to protest that elderly maiden

aunts also appreciated the tipple, but she was too pre-occupied in imbibing its

mellow liquefaction to bother with the correctness of its appellation.

She didn’t mind at all that Murgatroyd had named his new porker after her.

Like the ninth Earl of Emsworth, Lord Clarence, Syylk had just taken charge of

a wonderful Berkshire sow, or it had taken charge of him.  Owing to some

marked physiognomical resemblances and similar traits of flightiness, he had

awarded his summer guest the accolade and honour of having her Christian

name bestowed on the worthy animal.  And, having no natural offspring of her

own, she anticipated the birth of piglets with as much eagerness as she looked

forward to Happy Hour at Snodland Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry.

Augustus Snodbury, her adopted nephew, was less impressed.  In fact, he

considered it an impertinence.  He expressed as much to Virginia, the School

Secretary and his daughter in the new canteen-style, Hugo Frondly-

Whittingsty’s informal eatery.

Virginia had persuaded father and daughter to come out on a Friday evening

as the interminable term was leaching their zest for life.

Drusilla was tucking into some parsnip shavings and multi-coloured beets;

Gus was demolishing some moist roast gammon.

Dad!  You’ll never guess what?!

Gus continued to trough and grunted like a pig in clover, or Timothy Spall

in a Margate boarding house.

He knew she would tell him anyway.

You know Murgatroyd’s sow…?

Augusta? replied Virginia, though no one had addressed her.

Gus threw her a warning look- the one he utilised for The

Lower School and which had caused some chitterlings as they

were called to blub, or wet their shorts.

Virginia was made of sterner stuff.  She was interested in all

varieties of husbandry.

Yes, answered Dru.  Except that the vet came round yesterday

and re-sexed it.  So, you know what I’m going to say…?!

Don’t! spluttered Gus, choking on a morsel of rind.  He was

outraged at the thought of the name being transferred into its

masculine form.

It won’t be having piglings bland, or even piglets Blandings,

continued Dru.  It has a pizzle.  Wonderful Thomas Hardy word

that!  Anyway, they’re calling him The Emperor instead, with a nod

to P G Wodehouse, or Beethoven.  Great-Aunt will be disappointed,

but a few gins should dull her disappointment.

It should have been a Middle White if they were referring to the

latest tv series, Virginia added.  Then, as a non-sequitur, she

said meditatively,  Pigs can be very intelligent, you know.  A neighbour

of mine once had a Vietnamese Pot-Bellied variety and we used to keep

our veggie peelings in a swill bin for it.

She tried to avert her gaze from Gus’ midriff.

They’re probably brighter than some of the young porkers I have in

my Common Entrance group, scowled Gus.  I’d rather have one than

a silly toy dog.  He brightened up.

What are you thinking about, Father?  Dru could tell he was about to

share some porcine anecdote.

Oh, just The Very Rev. Wykeham Beaufort.  He was the School Chaplain

when I was a chitterling myself.  He used to walk through The Cathedral Close

to Evensong with his pet pig on a string.  It used to enjoy a pint of Hogsback

with him after Compline.  Fully House-of-God trained, it was.  Used to lie

continently in the choir stalls, under the misericords, but The Dean

excommunicated it and forbade it entry after one Advent, when it made

itself comfortable in the crib’s straw.  You can see its portrait on its

master’s headstone.

But why is Murgatroyd raising a pig? Virginia asked.

He is building a smoke-house and has consulted with a Master Butcher.

He’s going to produce quality meat products, once his breeding programme

gets under way.

Sausages? Gus perked up considerably.

Yes.  He and Mum intend to take a stall at some Farmers’ Markets.

He’s not so dense after all, approved her father.  Well, who would have

thought it?  Pigs might fly yet!

And he shovelled a forkful of pork scratchings into his capacious mouth.

Next to faggots, sausages were his favourites.

He must take a trip north very soon.

 

 

Higher Bockhampton

Tags

goldcrests, Higher Bockhampton, Puddletown, swallet holes, Thomas Hardy, witches' broom fungus

Do you remember I asked you where you would like to go

for your significant birthday, several years ago? asked Brassica, while

we were sitting in the rear courtyard of Costamuchamoulah

must-seen cafe.

Yes, and I said to Dorset, to see Thomas Hardy’s house and/or cottage,

I replied, wondering where this conversation was headed.

Well, I found that poem that you wrote afterwards and so I thought

you might like to read it again.

Oh, pass it over.  I’d forgotten all about it.

(Well, dear Reader, you might as well read it too!)

HIGHER BOCKHAMPTON

Where bright goldcrests dip over Rushy Pond,

speckled fawns lie, peaceful, in swallet holes,

cushioned on russet-needled floor.  Beyond

lies Puddletown Heath, but here thick beech boles,

sweet chestnut, laurel and hazel copses

shelter grass snakes, which coil in leafy shade,

where Hardy coppiced verse; plot synopses.

Witches’ broom fungus found on some decayed

branches illustrated family trees:

supernatural blight in Paradise,

which brought his fruitless marriage to its knees.

Through opened casements he would watch fireflies,

straining to see some glimmer in the pitch

dark of the cottage garden.  Then he wrote

of class difference between poor and rich;

his real words of complaint choking his throat.

Be My Valentine!

Tags

calligraphy, Father Christmas, half term, heart-shaped diamond ring, lost letters, Thomas Hardy, Valentine Day

Augustus Snodbury was annoyed.  Why hadn’t he had confirmation of

his booking to stay a few days in Bath at half term? The school firewall

was a menace. We would be far better to return to paper

communication, he thought.  But then that upstart, Milford-Haven,

had unctuously informed him that one million letters a week go

missing and so his confirmation was probably languishing in a

warehouse in Belfast, along with his request to Father Christmas,

which hadn’t been answered either, even though he had posted it in

that reliable looking box in Suttonford High Street, next to the grotto,

in ample time.  He was certain that the Mail Police could not have

possibly detected that he had steamed off a stamp and re-used it.

He supposed that sending anything to the West Country was fraught

with negative possibilities, as he had read that a postman there had

been found with 3,215 undelivered cards and letters in his attic.

Perhaps he had renewed his activity?

Milford-Haven stupidly attempted to re-assure him by relating how a

postcard which had been sent to Aberdeen in 1889 from

Queensland, Australia, had recently turned up a century later, having

been lost in the Aussie postal system- probably in some swagman’s

bag.

February was upon him.  He glanced at his planner where he crossed

off the days to half-term rather in the manner of Robinson Crusoe,

though the latter hadn’t been as desperate to escape.

Snod avoided looking at the 14^th.  It indicated the humiliation of an

incident several decades previously.  He had plucked up the courage

to deliver a Valentine with Marry Me written in his beautiful

penmanship in the interior.  And who was his beloved?  Ah, none

other than the fresh-faced Diana Fotheringay, lax mistress at St

Vitus School for the Academically Gifted Girl, lax being an

abbreviation for that dangerous sport played with fishing net

weaponry and having nothing to do with looseness of behaviour.

(Mind you, when you saw the players mid-game, you

could have had some doubts as to the decorum in their modus

operandi.)

The youthful and ardent Augustus Snodbury, then a Junior master at

St Birinus’ had retained the heart-shaped diamond ring in his bureau.

It still nestled in its plush box.  He hadn’t taken it out for a number of

years, but he knew exactly where it was.

So why was it not gracing the finger of his chosen one?

To continue the piscatorial reference: she hadn’t taken his bait.  No,

not even though they had been sweethearts for almost a year.

Why not?

It couldn’t have been that silly quarrel, could it?

This was a question that had niggled him in the early hours over the

following years.  Worse still, he had had to witness her marriage to

that blockhead, Syylk, the picture restorer from Quarto Street.  Well,

that hadn’t lasted.  Of course, in those days, once married, a female

teacher retired from scholastic involvement.  She had her daughter

to bring up as-ghastly term- a single parent. And now that daughter

taught at St Vitus’ too and he had to meet her on some joint

occasions, even had to address her invitation card to the schools’

joint drama evening.  This proved painful, but, at least she

looked nothing like her mother.  Oddly, she didn’t resemble that

swine Syylk either, so much the better for her.

********************************************************

Drusilla was grumbling about the disruption to her House flat.  Why

on earth did she have to have the new carpet laid mid-term?  Of

course, the Bursary was being beastly about letting premises in

the holidays and so all work had to be done when it suited the

school.  Actually, she thought carpeting was an allergy provoking

floor covering, so she was going to investigate the state of the

floor boards and maybe she could negotiate some floor paint and

rugs instead.

The edges of the carpet were frayed, so she pulled up a rusty tack

with her nail scissors and scraped at the perished underlay.  There

was some yellowed newspaper which she resisted reading.

And then she spotted an envelope with Diana written on its front in

faded fountain pen ink.

How strange!  Mother had this flat before I did, but this must have

lain there for decades.  It must have slid under the carpet when

someone fed it under the door.

The gum had dried up and so the flap was open and the card inside

was visible.  She slid it out and was moved by the old-fashioned

romanticism of the bunches of be-ribboned violets and the

invitation: Be My Valentine.

She thought this kind of mishap only occurred in Thomas Hardy

novels! Was Life imitating Art, or the reverse?

Inside it said: Marry Me! Sxxx

Judging by the newspaper dates, this must have been just prior to

Mother’s marriage to- she avoided the term Father, as she had never

liked the man.

The handwriting was exquisite- almost feminine.  It reminded her of..

Aaagh! She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror.  Teaching was

taking its toll.  She was developing jowls like that old buffer: No! S for

Snodbury!  Mother!  Matron!  San sister! Help!  This wasn’t an allergy

attack and was too late in the year for an epiphany.  She felt as if she

had been stabbed in the heart like Teresa of Avila which that vicar

had been banging on about in assembly earlier in the week, to the

unaccustomed interest of the girls.  And she was clearly experiencing

an apopleptic fit, not an ecstasy, even of a questionable variety.

Never look at what has been swept under the carpet, she cautioned herself.

But it was too late!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oranges Are A Versatile Fruit 1 and 2

Tags

Arkwright, Cif, Civet coffee, Clairvaux, D H Lawrence, horned viper, Jean Le Pen, Jeanette Winterson, Jeremy Clarkson, Lady Chatterley, Mrs Dalloway, Oliver Reed, Only Connect, Open All Hours, Oxford Dictionary Quotations, persimmon, Prof Brian Cox, Ronnie Barker, Seville oranges, Sodom, Thomas Hardy

Chlamydia quietly inserted her key in the lock, stealthily crept into the

hall and deposited her A La Mode carrier in the downstairs loo.  Even

sashaying down The High Street she had imagined a universal disapproval,

rather than registering the global admiration she had been wont to

expect for toting such an item.  There was a recession on, after all,

and, even though she had received a 70% discount, she could hear a

self-justifying voice- probably emanating from her Bad Angel, who was

misquoting D H Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley:

A woman has to live her life, or live to spend, not having lived..

It also whispered:

The cataclysm has happened.. (agreed: we’ve fallen off a fiscal cliff like a

bunch of lemmings)..We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies

have fallen.

Oh!

Tristram had just come into the kitchen to help himself to a second

Balmadies Estate Civet Cat from the cooling cafetiere.

(Why did a brew which had been circulated through the digestive

system of an Indonesian monkey taste that good?

I dunno. Try it for yourself and tell me.)

She jumped.

Everything all right?

Yes, eh.. (Why wouldn’t that wretched D H Lawrence voice go away?

There it was again):

What the eye doesn’t see, and the mind doesn’t know, doesn’t exist.

Imagine trying that one on –say- Prof Brian Cox, if you were married

to him.

All very well, but she hoped Tristram wouldn’t feel a sudden urge to

use the downstairs cloakroom.

No, there’s no loo paper in there.  Go upstairs, she advised

breathlessly.

She felt…. that she had come to the real bedrock of her nature, and

was essentially shameless…And it felt exciting!

Okay, she had paid for the outfit from her own account, but that

Morality Play Horned Viper was hissing, or wasn’t that a

hieroglyph on Only Connect? 

She was beginning to feel like Mrs

Dalloway. All this stream of consciousness was so exhausting and

tangential!  What was the reptile hissing?

You’re spending your life without renewing it…

True.  She knew this only too well.  When was it that she would

be getting her pittance of a pension?  It was a receding crock at the

end of a metaphorical rainbow.

Tristram decided to go out and buy some Seville oranges.  It was that

time of year.  It was his thing. He’d sterilised the jars that morning

while she was out.

She couldn’t deceive him.  He was good-natured about his wife’s

furtive behaviour.  A quotation from D H Lawrence came to mind:

If you could only tell them that living and spending isn’t the same

thing!  But it’s no good.

2

At home, the Rev Bernard Ockham settled into his study, ready to

apply his usually razor-sharp mind to his Sunday sermon.  He felt well

prepared for his day.  He had been out early to purchase two bags of

Seville oranges, for it was that time of year and preservation was his

sinless predilection, though he blushed to recollect his faux pas at his

host’s table in Bric-a-Brac. (twinned with Suttonford, you

recall.)

Yes, his host had been explaining how the French have bread at

every meal and Bernard- he was being relatively informal en

vacances and had been exchanging tus and using first name address-

had mentioned that, in England, he did not like to eat too much bread

because, and here he launched unwisely into Franglais,

..car en Angleterre le pain est plein de preservatives.

Everyone choked or suppressed cris de horreur and his host gently

supplied le bon mot: conservateurs.

He would never again discuss preservation off cultural terra firma,

but he was still enthralled by the process.  He had sterilised his Kilner

jars that very morning.  Well, they were made by someone related to

that earthy Jeremy Clarkson, so you couldn’t be too careful.  Selah.

Just a gospel draft to get under way and then a spot of male culinary

activity.  He’d noticed Tristram Percival was buying his dented citrus too.

Be sure your sins will find you out, especially if you are married…he

scribbled.  Wasn’t that from D H Lawrence?

His wife crept into the study, bearing a cup of tea and two of his

favourite fig biscuits.  Keeps him regular, she thought.  And didn’t Ronnie

Barker as Arkwright connote fig biscuits and loo rolls in Open All Hours?

Was the latter phrase the title of the episode or the physiological effect on

the consumer’s digestive system? Hmm..Sybil didn’t want to go there.

She was in a very good mood and was flushed and radiant, but Bernard-

named after the regulator of Clairvaux- but I digress, Bernard.. had been

married for a long time. (The vicar, I mean.)  He knew that sufficient unto

the moment is the appearance of reality, so he wisely joined in the charade

of connubial bliss.

Back to the sermon.  He had lost his drift.  Oranges are not the only

fruit.. No, wait a minute!  Ancient scholars have said that Eve

tempted Adam with a persimmon.

The apples of Sodom today .. St

Theresa…riven with an ecstasy, a rapture.  Synonym for rapture,

ideally alliterating with r?  Ah, yes, ravishment.  Could fit with

banishment.  Is it a noun?  Oxford Dictionary of Quotations–

Some things can’t be ravished.  You can’t ravish a tin of sardines..

And so many women are like that.  D H Lawrence again!

Yes, the flush on Sybil’s face was alive enough to die.  Or was that

from Thomas Hardy?  That bloom only seemed to be engendered on

her visage by a visit to that wretched A la Mode.  As if he didn’t know.

He had used the downstairs loo that morning and had tripped over the

carrier.   Blow it!  He felt quite bereft and negative regarding the

lack of communication and physical intimacy between them. She never

modelled her outfits for him nowadays. What was it that degenerate

Lawrence had advised?  No, not nude wrestling.  That was just typical of

Oliver Reed.

He picked up the Dictionary again:

I got the blues thinking of the future, so I left off and made some

marmalade.  It’s amazing how it cheers one up to shred orange and

scrub the floor.

Odd, but Lawrence had probably influenced Jeanette Winterson.

She should write a sequel: Oranges Are Pretty Versatile Fruit. 

Or he could make that the basis for his sermon Sunday next.

Pure serendipity or Providence- whatever!

And scrubbing the floor could be quite sexy, as Jean-Marie Le Pen’s

ex-wife Pierrette had demonstrated to Le Monde Entier.

Quick, where was that Cif?

 

 

 

 

 

Max Gate

Tags

Emma Hardy, Florence Hardy, Keats' grave, Max Gate, Mrs Patrick Campbell, Thomas Hardy

Juniper’s mum remembered that she had written a poem about Thomas Hardy some years ago.  Her daughter’s literary outburst and foray into lit crit from the previous day provoked her into looking for her old exercise book from the 1990s, in which she had scribbled some thoughts to keep her sane when Juniper and John were evil toddlers.  She found it in the desk drawer, re-read it and thought that she might share it shyly with me.  Over a coffee in Costamuchamoulah she brought it out of her designer handbag and asked me what I thought of it.  I said that it would interest some of my followers, so could I share it with you?  Here it is:

Emma’s hands sweep over ivory keys,

mimicking ill winds from Conquer Barrow.

He fiddles while Mrs Patrick Campbell

zephyrs in muslin through the drawing room,

admired by Virginia Woolf, Sassoon,

yet creating one more annoying draught.

Curtains twitch as if Snowdove will appear

miraculously from the railway line.

Florence sighs, surrounded by those dark pines.

She clears her throat with some difficulty.

Upstairs the little old wood table creaks

and the calendar is set: 7^th March-

the date Emma came riding towards him.

Violets from Keats’ grave fade behind the glass

of his pillbox. Wessex whines in the hall

as the Prince of Wales throws his waistcoat down.

Nut Walk’s carpet of wood anenomes

is curiously flattened in places.

The maid says truthfully, He’s not at home,

as the door in the wall noiselessly shuts.