‘Slothified’

Tags

Aquinas, Charybdis, David Attenborough, FT, Gordon the gopher, Inferno, Lonely Planet, sloth, slothified, The White Stuff, Traveller's Guide to Hell, Vergil

Carrie bounced into Costamuchamoulah must-seen cafe and

grabbed a tabloid from the rack.  I was on my tablet and so we sat

together, but apart, in a new social category, that isn’t really social.

It is incredibly irritating to have things read out to you when you are

immersed in some text of your own, as The Husband is wont to imply

when I enthusiastically regale him with some witty Proustian quote

when he is trying to read the FT in bed.  I really wish he wouldn’t read it

in the bedroom as newsprint and The White Stuff  linen don’t mix.  Mind

you, who am I criticising for not mixing?!

Ha!  This is all about a woman who got slothified, Carrie whooped.

Mmm, I feebly back-channelled, not encouraging her too much, but

being sucked into a conversational Charybdis.  Do you mean sloshed?

No, Carrie laughed.  A woman gave sanctuary, and still does,

presumably, to hundreds of sloths in Paramaribo, wherever that is.

Two or three-toed?  I asked, interest picking up.

Does it matter?  Both, I think.  She is overwhelmed and so tired that she

doesn’t want to get up in the morning.

Deadly sin, that. I observed.  Sloth.  Probably in that book I’ve just been

investigating.

What’s that?

The Traveller’s Guide to Hell – Don’t Leave this World without it, by Dana

Facaros and Michael Pauls.  It seems to be a kind of Lonely Planet for

sinners. Or a dumbed down Inferno…

Anyway, Carrie interrupted, I can relate to a house being filled with creatures

who sleep, on average 9.6 hours, or 16 in captivity and who hang around, or

hang out, in my kitchen.  I’d probably be sheltering 200 of them too if I went

out with Gyles and Tiger-Lily sneaked her friends round.  The females are

worse. 

They call out for attention, even when they are not on heat.  They browse,

rather than eating regular meals, regurgitate their food and have an obsession

with apples.

I typed ‘Sloth‘ into Google.  Aquinas said sloth is an avoidance

of physical or spiritual work, so that ties in with what you’re

describing.

Then I looked at wildlife sites and came across David Attenborough

outlining how sloths are ‘mobile compost heaps‘ who grow organisms

and who defecate once a week.

That’s more like the boyfriends, Carrie quipped. Monique Pool- I’ve found the

name of the woman-says the toilet habits makes them ideal house guests,

Carrie added.  I know I hate tradesmen and strangers pooing in my house. 

Sloths could be preferable. But maybe they are the same genus.

Or anus, I giggled.  She ignored me.

I’ve noticed Tiger’s friends, though leaf-eaters, don’t eat enough fibre,

so at least constipation is a bit of a bonus.

Not for them, I disagreed, but too much information.

The woman goes on to say that what makes her furry guests so attractive is

the permanent smile on their faces, Carrie continued.  But most of my

week-enders have a sullen look about them and get their emotional claws out

at the slightest provocation.

Emotional apathy.  Carelessness in the performance of their obligations, I

underlined, reading more Aquinas, but still listening..

Actually, sloths are solitary if they have the choice, Carrie read on.  Tiger,

I’d say, is happier when she is just getting down to some revision on her own. 

She’s not really a team player and I haven’t seen a smile on her face for some

time.

I’ve got a vintage Gordon the Gopher, I suddenly remembered.  I’ll bring it

round and give it to her as a mascot for her exams.  Don’t worry, I’ll have it

steam- cleaned first, in case of any organisms.  It might cheer her up.  Failing

that, I’ll get her The Traveller’s Guide to Hell.

I’m going to get that anyway, Carrie said.  Sounds like every mother can

relate to it, because, in spite of all our good intentions, we seem to be deemed

to have paved the way to our progeny’s final destinations.

Look at this. I showed her a cutesy photograph of a baby sloth.  And, sure

enough, it brought a smile to her face. Many of God’s creatures are angels

in disguise, or are Heavenly harbingers, poets, like Vergil, who lead us out

of the gloom.  Or gophers who motivate us or, in soft toy version, relieve

stress and  help us to love the other and to laugh at ourselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Cretans/ Cretins

Tags

Bellarmine, Civil War, codicil, Cretans, demesne, free lunch, Laocoon, metamorphic, Phuket, priest hole, recusancy, The National Trust, Vergil

Recusancy, said Dru.

Sonia looked blank and Ginevra said, An aversion to authority.

It runs in our family, Diana.

I detached myself from that particular set of genes.  They weren’t

part of my DNA.  Actually, they weren’t anything to do with us at all.

Not Dru, Augustus, nor myself.

It was the family who owned the Wyvern Estate who were recusants.

That’s why they had a priest hole, Mum, Dru commented, as she read the

rest of the tale of the missing boy from Ginevra’s tablet.  Anthony Revelly

had a brainwave. He had been teaching the boys about The Civil War and

he suddenly thought that Lionel might have found the idea of a secret hiding

place exciting.

Was Lionel the nasty boy? I asked.

Yes.  Anthony told the estate staff to knock along the panelling in the library.

The walls were so thick that no one had heard Peregrine’s frantic tapping.

They were able to find a hollow sounding area and then they discovered a

section of book shelving which was metamorphic and turned around.  The

poor child was shocked and dehydrated.  He had been in darkness and the

only bottle he could find was a Bellarmine which contained bones and nails

and nothing else.

Ginevra looked stunned at the thought of a bottle which contained

no liquid.

How had he become trapped?  I asked.

It says that Lionel had deliberately enclosed his brother, or immured him,

to be precise.

How awful!  What happened to him?  How was he punished?  He was old

enough to know better.

I think his mother sent him away to a boarding school.

Well, that explains why Peregrine’s mother thought so much of Anthony,

Sonia stated.

Yes, she would, wouldn’t she? observed Ginevra.  I hope she disinherited

that awful elder son.  I know I would have.  I wouldn’t even have left him

my empties.

I wonder what happened to the two boys in later life? I deliberated.

We had some drinks and Dru continued to search while the tablet’s

battery was charged.

Oh, that’s sad, she said.

What? we all chorused.

Lionel amassed gambling debts, dropped out of university and went

to Phuket.

What? said Ginevra.

It’s a place in Thailand, Dru elucidated.  I’ve just called up his obituary. 

He seems to have developed a drug habit and died in his early thirties.

His mother must have passed away by then as it only gives Peregrine as

kin. It says an estranged brother was resident in Vancouver.  The boys

were designated ‘of Wyvern Mote’, before its gifting to The National Trust.

I wonder if Peregrine is alive? I ventured.

Apparently not.  There is a eulogy to him in his old school magazine,

under ‘Old Boys’ which says that he perished in a ski-ing accident and

left no issue.

So, how was Anthony able to remain in the stable block apartment for

life?  I mean, the family had revoked any right to ‘demesne’, I think it’s

called, I enquired.

Their mother must have arranged a codicil or something which gave him

the privilege, in recognition of his outstanding services as a tutor, said

Sonia.

And all I ever got was someone’s mother’s bath oil from the previous

year, I protested.

Well, that’s one more votive offering than I ever got, replied Dru.

But anyway, one should beware of cretins bearing gifts.

Cretans, I corrected.  Honestly, my daughter’s Classical Education

leaves a lot to be desired.  She only did Class Civ.  It’s as well Gus

didn’t hear her.

Actually, if my memory serves me right, it is timeo Danaos et dona

ferentis. 

So, that would be a warning against Greeks.  The Cretan admonition is

about lying, I think.

Mum! Are you paying attention? Dru brought me back to earth.

Yes, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, nodded Ginevra sagely.

Not even a free drink!

And she looked somewhat downcast at this reflection.

I’d better go, said Dru.  I’ve got such a backlog of marking to deal

with before Monday morning.  Dad’s floated away, but mine is very

present and unless I hide in a Trojan Horse, or a priest hole, the girls will

be after me first thing to know if they have got stars on their A’s.

We used to have stars in our eyes, said Ginevra.  Now they only have

them on a piece of paper.  How sad.

And we all agreed.

I was so pleased that Dru HAD got the Classical reference after all.

Thanks, guys, she said as she rushed off. I appreciated the hospitality.

I bet Anthony Revelly appreciated his too.  Only he had it for a good few

years longer and the accommodation did seem to be rent-free, lucky man.

I wonder who is paying his nursing home fees?  Probably you and I, if he

has no savings.  Some people do get free lunches!  But it is never likely to be

Dru or myself.  We just get snarled up in bureaucracy like poor old Laocoon

and his snakes, so it isn’t worth the struggle.

Sweetness and Light

Tags

Aphrodite, Aristomachus, Aristotle, Asiatic hornet, Astarte, Benedictine, Brother Adam, Buckfast Abbey, Clocalus, Daedalus, Empedoclean, entomology, Erice, Golden Honeycomb, Huber, John the Baptist, Maeterlinck, Mexican honey, Minos, ovipositor, Pantalica, parthenogenesis, Pindar, Plagues of Egypt, propolis, Sicels, Sicily, Superbee, The Sunday Times, Tim Rayment, varroa, Vergil, vespula germanica, Vincent Cronin, Wasp Factory

Have you read that book, The Wasp Factory? I asked Brassica, while flicking

away yet another of the little pesks.

(Suttonford seems to be overrun with the stripey menaces.)  It is as if we

are being afflicted by one of the Plagues of Egypt. I wonder what we have

done to deserve this castigation?    Perhaps it is part of our having

experienced at least seven lean years.  I do hope that the River Sutton

doesn’t turn to blood, or we find frogs in our beds.

No, can’t say I have read it, Brassie replied.  It seemed to be a bit violent,

from what I heard.  Wasn’t it Iain Banks’ first novel?

Yes, it was… Well, perhaps I have been accused of being waspish, I continued,

but it is only my tales that have a sting. These wretched vespula germanicas

had a go at me in my own kitchen when The Husband was making apple juice.

I was oviposited when I tried to open my fridge door.  One of the blighters

was skulking behind the handle and didn’t take kindly to being squeezed.

They say that Asiatic Hornets are going to invade us, so I don’t know what

we humans will have to do to wreak revenge on the whole entomological pack

of them.

I thought ‘entomological’ meant something like ‘cut into pieces’, Candia.  So

couldn’t you chop them up and anatomise them?  But you don’t hate bees,

do you? Didn’t you write a bee poem once, Candia?

Ah, yes, but bees are different. I did write about them.  I was incensed when

I read an article by Tim Rayment in The Sunday Times about Buckfast Abbey

stocking its gift shop with Mexican Honey when they had Brother Adam, a

world expert in their community, cultivating his own hives.  He knew all about

bee genetics and the coming dangers of varroa, but they didn’t appear to fully

value his lifelong expertise.

(Brother Adam: Wikipedia)

Ah well, expertise is not valued as it was in our day. Buckfast Abbey?

Isn’t that where monks produced that fortified wine? 

I was surprised that Brassie had heard of it.

The one that all the down and outs imbibed, to drink themselves

into oblivion? she persisted.

Yes, I laughed. I don’t suppose they could afford Benedictine proper.

It was a favourite tipple in Glasgow, as I recall. I’d be surprised if Ginevra

didn’t have a couple of bottles stowed away.  She probably developed a

nose for it when she lived up north.

But, surely all that outcry about Brother Adam was ages ago? Brassie

queried. I remember people being cynical and re-naming the abbey

Fastbuck!

Yes, it was in the Nineties, but the wise old monk is dead now, I elucidated.

Tell you what, though, I will try and find that poem and give it an airing. 

You might find it a tonic!

Bad pun, Candia!

SWEETNESS AND LIGHT

That consummate Cretan craftsman Daedalus

delivered the golden comb to Astarte,

at Erice, in Empedoclean obedience-

a votive for deliverance from vindictive Minos

and hospitality in a land far from home.

The divine sanctuary was perched

on a parched plain, pervaded by mists.

Clocalus, King of Sicily, harboured him,

though homicidal.

When Astarte became Aphrodite,

the bees performed for the Romans.

Pindar sang with a swarm surrounding his lips,

savouring ambrosia; waxing lyrical,

achieving honey-sweet immortality.

Bees no longer born from bulls,

were winged messengers, bringing fortune;

reciting rosaries;

nourishing neophytes, even as in Nazareth-

before honeycombs became catacombs.

Man would not live by bread alone

and John the Baptist found this so.

Parthenogenesis proved paramount;

passion usurped by agape.

But now the Fastbucks,

who neither know nor care about

Aristotle, nor acarine disease;

Vergil nor varroa

usurpthe Superbee with entrepreneurial excess.

He could hermetically seal them up

in a sepulchre of propolis and wax,

like acherontia atropus.

Brother Adam could have them balled,

or left like open-eyed statuary of Daedalus.

For this monk, equal of kings

and approaching the gods

has known Rule without recognition

and obedience rendered-

a Pope, and regulator of reproduction;

equaliser of wealth and

dabbler in dethronement,

halting hostilities and honing harvests,

unveiling the comb as blind Huber.

Aristomachus may have had a bee in his bonnet,

buzzing around for nigh on sixty years,

but Adam, superceded after seventy,

degraded, drone-like, yet faithful to his queen

will enter Pantalica’s passage

and swarm, immortal in a golden prism.

The king will bate his barb,

but abbots should not suffocate their saviour.

Notes to follow-

Daedalus, although reputed to have come from Athens, probably came

from Crete. He was said to have made a fantastic golden honeycomb and

presented it to Aphrodite, or Astarte, at Erice, Sicily.  He was thought to

have brought apiculture to Sicily- see Vincent Cronin, The Golden Honeycomb.

Daedalus was on the run from Minos, King of Crete.  Daedalus’ nephew and

apprentice had been murdered.  Maybe Alan Sugar ain’t that bad!

Empedocles suggested that Aphrodite could be made propitious by

offering her honey.

The bees- this was a nickname for the priestesses of Aphrodite.  Two

hundred Roman soldiers guarded her shrine at Erice.

Pindar wrote about Sicily. A poet described him as above.

Bees were thought to have been born from bulls- a superstition much

like scarabs being thought to originate from dung.

The boy Jesus was given a honeycomb so that he would associate

scripture with sweetness.

John the Baptist lived on locusts and wild honey.

Parthenogenesis- reproduction in insects, without the ovum being

fertilised.

Aristotle wrote treatises on bees.

Varroa- a bee disease

Brother Adam created the Buckfast Superbee

Maeterlinck describes how the invader is not expelled but suffocated

in the hive.

Daedalus was the first sculptor to represent the eyes as open.

Balling -to surround the old queen until she suffocates, rather than

directly killing her.

Huber- blind and born in Geneva in 1750.  he devoted himself to the

study of bees.

Aristomachus-another ancient bee lover.

Pantalica- where the Sicels built tombs in the gorge.  Bees swarm into

the rock clefts and produce inaccessible combs.  Was this the site of

Daedalus’ missing masterpiece? A possibility, according to Cronin.