Congratulations and Celebrations

Tags

Alamuddin, Alcopop, Amal Clooney, Banksy, Borgia, Brexit, Carpe Diem, discursive essay, Donald Trump, fish kettle, jelly girl, Lucrezia, Magaluf, Medici, Nerissa's ring, Pope, Robert Frost, sliding door, Turtle Mat, Vogue, Weetabix, zircon

The ring had sparkled on Drusilla Fotheringay’s finger- so

much so that Lower Six spotted it immediately and one

forward type had commented, Oh, Miss, is that a zircon?

Dru then had had to prevent herself from using the sun’s rays

as a laser effect to bounce off the prism of her multi-

faceted stone, only for it to be directed forthwith into the pupils

of the aforesaid wag.

Pupils.  Hmmm, I must ask Dad what is the etymological

connection between students and eyes.  Maybe reading?

Or is it that nowadays they all seem to be the apple of their

father’s eyes? she had ‘mused‘.  Editor: Not ‘reflected’. 

She had sprung back to attention as she noticed that the class

had left a lumpily wrapped present on her desk.

It was obviously a fish kettle.  And there had been an

accompanying card, with the following : Men!-Don’t Let the

B******* get you down!

It had been signed by the whole class.

The legend had obviously been written by one of the more gender-

politicised members of the group.  Dru would choose to ignore

the inappropriate language, in favour of the spirit of the gift,

even if it had been Amarillo Guttersnipe’s mother’s unwanted

Christmas present.

That had been yesterday and today it was her morning off.  She

was enjoying a quiet interval in her flat, still in her pyjamas.  She

took her hot water and lemon slice and wandered into the hall, to

see if there was any post.

A pink envelope lay on the Turtle mat, which was very similar to the

doormat that had covered the very spot, over thirty years previously,

and which had been the location of her mother’s tragic mis-directed

missive- the one which Existentially might have opened a very different

sliding door.

When Diana, Dru’s mother, had been a ‘Lax‘ Mistress at St Vitus’ School

for the Academically-Challenged Girl, all those years ago, the ill-fated

Valentine card had slipped between the underlay and the carpet and

its interior proposal had been unread for decades.

(Editor:  The school’s name had been changed to accommodate the very

different type of clientele they were now receiving.)

Now there was a smart brass letterbox in the House Mistress’ door, so

the mail tended to reach its intended recipient.

Curioser and curioser… It seemed to have a Spanish stamp and was

franked with the dreaded Proper Noun: Magaluf.

Oh, it was a card from Juniper Boothroyd-Smythe, whose pesky little

brother was still at St Birinus Middle, where he continued to abuse Nigel.

Dru liked to have news from her ex-pupils, though, goodness only knew

how she had wished this one even further away than Glasgow School

of Art.

There was no denying that the girl had been creative and talented,

however.

John had texted his big sister with the news of the teachers’ engagement.

Actually, he had worded it thus: We thought he was gay!

The card was made of hand-crafted paper, which looked like tissues that

had survived a 40 degree wash in some sleeve or other.  There was a

glued on stencilled depiction, a la Banksy, of a manacled woman, holding

out a begging bowl and wearing leg irons.  She was chained to a kitchen

sink. Below this image were the comments:

Who wants to live in an institution?

Congratulations, anyway!

No, she could never see Juniper settling down to domestic bliss.  In fact,

the appended news announced that the sender was having a whale of a

time as a jelly girl, earning more than Dru by selling Alcopop-shots to

the already wildly inebriated.

She came back to her sitting room- why it was called that, she didn’t

know. She scarcely ever had the time to sit.  Carefully, she added the

card to the growing collection on her faux mantelpiece.  She propped

it next to Nigel’s mum’s conventional offering of twin doves trailing a

ribbon, from which two rings were suspended.  It must have come

from a charity shop, as it was faded and had probably been printed in

the 1950s.  Medici it was not, though the spirit was almost Borgian.

On its front it said:  On Your Engagement and inside it more or less

repeated itself.  Best Wishes on Your Engagement.

  There was nothing else, except an acid comment worthy of

Lucrezia herself: I suppose I will have to get someone in to finish off the

skirting boards now that  Nigel is to be a married man.

There was a faint hint of malice aforethought which had made Dru

wash her hands on receipt, in case there had been any plutonium

in the envelope.

She walked into the kitchen area.  Brexit– yeah, that would be a good

name for a cereal.  Drat!  She had run out of Weetabix!  She had better

get a move on as she was down to cover a colleague’s General

Studies-type lesson.  When she had asked what the class were

‘doing‘, the teacher had humorously quipped: ‘Time‘ and then

had vaguely added, Oh, just  give them some provocative titles and

get them to plan a discursive essay.

Thanks for the clarification, Dru had thought.  She gazed at The Daily Mail

for inspiration.  There was a photo of the Pope.

I know, she said to herself, what about ‘Walls or Bridges?-which should we

build?  She could photocopy some stimulus-material, such as those  Robert

Frost poems.  He had had a mural obsession, she seemed to recall.

(Mr Donald Trump in New Hampshire, 19th August, 2015.  By Michael Vadon.)

Is Donald Trump a Christian?  No, that might be too awkward if the parents

had any political predilections.

Amal Clooney or George Alamuddin?

Great!  Should be good for some gender-debate.  And the girls like

to see what the stylish lawyer is wearing. 

She would borrow some Vogues from the library, if the librarian would

allow her.  Usually teachers were not permitted to touch such publications.

Flicking through the fashion pages should keep the girls quiet during the

double lesson.

Should she change her name to Drusilla Milford-Haven?  She thought not.

She wondered if Virginia had accepted her father’s proposal.  Would she

change her name to Snodbury, or even Revelley?

Editor:  you really need to re-read past posts to keep up with all this!

It was at such significant times that she missed Great-Aunt Augusta.  All

right, she hadn’t really been her aunt, but she had performed the function

of one and she had always enjoyed hearing about a good family illness, or

a wedding.  It was such a shame that she was missing out.  You do, when

you’re deceased.  Pity!  Carpe diem, and all that.

Of course, the old bat had never married.  A lot of those old girls had not

had the opportunity after the war.  However, she had demonstrated the

powerful effect of relative celibacy on longevity and the advantages of

‘keeping safe Nerissa’s ring.‘ Dru just hoped that her decision was going to

be worth it.

 

 

 

 

 

Slow Burn

Tags

Botham, Corn laws, Curricular Development, Dotheboys Hall, Ed Balls, Farage, Gracchi, guillotine, Jethro Tull, La Vache Qui Rit, Monster Raving Loony Party, National Service number, Nick Clegg, Nicola Sturgeon, Nigel Hawthorne, O tempora O mores!, Populares, Radio 4, seed drill, Shredded Wheat, Weetabix, Wisden

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus’ Middle School,

wandered into the corner of the staffroom that was designated

the staff ‘kitchen’.   It was there that he usually prepared his

solitary breakfast, while the more diligent members of his profession

were singing tunelessly at Assembly.

He opened the fridge.  There was the usual array of plastic tubs

brought in by female members of staff, containing strange salads

and supermarket sushi.  He was looking for milk.  Nothing weird and

wonderful, such as the rice, soya or coconut variety, but something

white that had drained out of an udder in some English rural hamlet.

He was just about to place a third Shredded Wheat into his personal

cereal bowl with its calligraphic flourish: Dotheboys Hall, when he heard

the voice of his conscience- ie/ the dulcet tones of Virginia Fisher-Giles,

School Secretary and personal PA to the new Headmaster:

Two would be lovely, but three would be too much.

Now that seemed familiar.

Of course, that was exactly the sentiment he felt regarding school

terms.  After the Moveable Feast, it used to be all downhill: sitting under

a Sycamore tree with a couple of scholarship acolytes, ‘analysing’ poetry,

while actually studying Wisden; coaching the Junior Team on a Wednesday

afternoon to the mellow thwack of willow on leather.  The most strenuous

activity might have been manning the bottle stall at the school fete…

Ah, now he remembered.  It was Botham who had appeared on that

advertisement for Shredded Wheat.  A big, beefy guy like him was a good

endorser of the product.  Snod felt that personally he had more in common

with Nigel Hawthorne, who had also recommended the carbohydrate-ridden

wheaten rectangles, in a scholarly capacity on one of the other memorable

promotions.  No doubt the health freaks on the staff would blame his madness

and purple urination- Nigel’s (not his) on the evils of gluten.

This wretched newcomer of a Headmaster had Ideas.  Snod sensed the danger

of that approach.  When the children were finished with their summer exams

and were on school trips, that was usually the time for the Senior Masters to

take a little well-earned snooze in the somewhat lumpy chintz armchairs in

the Senior Masters’ Common Room.  Some had even been known to smoke a

pipe, or study racing tips.  Not now.  Oh no!  Not now.

More meetings had been arranged on the school calendar.  Curricular

Development, they called it.  More ****** worksheets to be prepared

for the following year.

Snod had never used a worksheet in his entire career.  He was a chalk

and talk man and somehow vital information had been driven into the

resistant skulls of his protegees as effectively and ruthlessly as if it

had been planted there by Jethro Tull’s innovative seed drill.

It was all too much.  No rest for the wicked.

He pressed the Weetabixes flat with the back of a spoon which still had

someone’s National Service number engraved on its bowl.  He managed

to squash the third pillow-shaped nibble down, before dowsing it in

white sugar and then drowning it in full-fat Gold Top.

Nigel Milford-Haven breezed in singing ‘O what a Beautiful Morning! 

Assembly had ended a few minutes early as Mr Poskett had played

the recessional molto allegro.

Snod gave him one of those looks which he had perfected over the

decades, which was wont to silence the most ebullient pupil.

Not feeling so good, sir?  Nigel was complicit with the mythic alibi that

all absentee and truanting Senior Masters employed, should their

absence be noted.

Snod stepped aside with a heavy deliberation that would have

characterised one of the heavier dinosaurs.  Nigel opened the fridge

and took out some rice milk.

So, it was his after all.  ******typical!  Gus inwardly commented.  ‘Milksop‘

came to his mind.  However, he tried to dismiss that term as he knew that

Nigel might end up as his son-in-law.  O tempora!  O mores!  That

unsweetened muesli rubbish was his too, it seemed.

The election will soon be upon us, Nigel pressed on, ignoring Snod’s

reticence.  Nick Clegg’s on a diet.

I suppose he doesn’t want anyone asking: Does he take sugar?  (Snod

was referring to a Radio 4 programme from the past.  He laughed at

his own joke.  He always did.)

An annoying habit, thought Nigel daringly.

Well, the Junior Master continued, the boys are setting up some

hustings and we will need to borrow the staffroom guillotine to cut the

ballot papers.  We have created various parties for them to feel affiliated

to and they are electing representatives.  John Boothroyd- Smythe is

wearing a rosette which represents The Monster Raving Loony Party. 

Who will you vote for, sir?

The Populares Party.  He sprayed Nigel with some cereal.

The Popular Party?  Not like you, sir.  Is that Farage and Co?

No, that sounds more like you.  Same name for a start.  I refer to the

party whose principles the Gracchi supported.  Whoever controlled the

grain supply held control over the city of Rome.   Grain collected as

revenue would be sold at a subsidised rate.  Like keeping the price of

Weetabix reasonably low so that a working man could have three,

should he so desire.  And I do.

Oh, I see.  Politics has always been about Corn Laws and public ire has

always been aroused if the -I was going to say ‘plebs’-  Can I say ‘plebs’?-

Nigel appealed to the Senior Master for clarification and permission-

if…if the people have to eat brioche, or whatever they were offered

instead of bread.

Something like that, muttered Snod.  And don’t let that Boothroyd child

stir up insurrection.  Tell him from me that there is still a guillotine in the

staffroom and I won’t be using it for trimming flyers.

And what do you think of Nicola Sturgeon, Mr Snodbury? asked the new

French mistress, provocatively.  She reached into the fridge and took out

a Vache Qui Rit to unpeel at break, which she took in the Modern

Languages base room.  That department always kept themselves to

themselves.

Snod looked pertinently at the red disc in her hand.  No laughing matter,

he opined and, bolting the last fibrous spoonful, he dumped the un-rinsed

bowl in the staff sink and headed for his first lesson, which he was

preparing even as he walked the length of the corridor.

‘Slow burn‘ was something Ed Balls had worryingly claimed to be a master of,

but three Weetabix was truly the slow energy release that all in authority

needed to perform their challenging roles, whether that be PM, or plain

Senior Master.  And, as for third terms- yes, they should be abolished.

Snod would certainly make his mark against that one.

Two Brains Are Better than One

Tags

amygdala, bliss point, blueberries, fight or flight, frontal cortex cells, frontal lobes, hippocampus, Jeremy Clarkson, Man Flu, Mocha, multi-task, showrooming, Stick Cricket, Superfood, tend and befriend, Tesco, walnut oil, Weetabix

Aaagh! sighed Carrie, dropping her shopping bag on the floor and settling

herself onto the awkward height of a Costamuchamoulah trendy bar stool.

What’s the matter? I asked.

Oh, they’ve just run out of blueberries in Tesco- again.

Not a major tragedy, I think.  This was unspoken.

Well, it’s all the mummies in Tiger-Lily’s class. They bulk buy just before

the exams, as blueberries are supposed to be super foods for the brain.

I know, sympathised Clammie.  Sherry wanted Weetabix and stocks are

running out because of the poor wheat harvest.  Brown cereals are so big

this year.

Quick! Look! nudged Brassie.

What?

It’s that woman whose daughter is in the accelerated set.  She’s

showrooming, breathed Carrie.

What’s that? we enquired, annoyed that we weren’t au fait with the latest

argot.

It means, explained Carrie, that she just zooms around Costamuchamoulah

and suchlike premises, noting what they stock and their prices.  She then

stores the information on her phone and orders, more cheaply, what she

fancies online.

How very enterprising! I ventured to remark.

No! I was contradicted.  How can shops and retail premises survive, if

customers don’t support them?  We like coming in here for over-priced

coffees, but management have to cover their council tax and cost of staff.

That’s why customer service and ambience is so important, reinforced

Brassie.

So where is that Mocha you ordered ages ago? I asked mischievously.

Apparently some stores are going to charge for entry, to combat such

behaviour from people who have no intention of purchasing, Clammie added.

Then, if you buy something, the entry fee would be deducted from the

purchase price.

Well, there she goes.  She’s just noted the price of that

virgin-pressed walnut oil.  What a brass neck!

complained Clammie, monitoring Mata Hari’s

modus operandi.

Some people are just wired differently from you and I,

soothed Carrie.

Yes, I agreed.  And most of them are men.

What do you mean, Candia? 

Oh, I was reading the BBC news online today, and there is research to show

just how differently the brain works in the two genders.

But are there only two genders? Brassie asked, provocatively.

I ignored her.

Oh yeah, interjected Carrie.  I read that a man’s amygdala

triggers a fight or flight response, like whenever I ask Gyles to

do something practical, such as taking out the bin.

Whereas, contributed Brassie, a woman’s response would be

to tend and befriend. That’s why we meet here, isn’t it? 

To support each other. I read the article too.

Yes, and all that talk about men not being able to multi-task is

apparently another male diversionary ploy, I confirmed.

Men multi-task 39 hours a week, but women have to do it for

48 hours per week. (Brassie substantiated my point, showing that

she had, indeed, studied the report in depth.)

That’s why guys have 9 hours more spare time than we do, so they can

play Stick Cricket online, or watch Jeremy Clarkson, I agreed, with

feeling.

Men are supposed to be decisive, owing to their strong frontal lobes,

added Clammie, but I seem to make all the important decisions in our

house.

In the report, I continued, it said that in evolutionary times, women

had to be alert at all times, as they had responsibility for looking

after the children.

So, we are not living in evolutionary times now? queried Brassie.

Well, nothing has significantly moved on, pointed out Clammie.

Oh, come on, girls: men do cook sometimes. Carrie defended her

spouse.

Yes, but do they ever clear up properly? I retorted.

Women can remember things better than men, observed Brassie.

That’s true, we all agreed.

It’s something to do with the hippocampus, she elucidated.

Well, you seem to have forgotten that you ordered a Mocha

some time ago, and so has the waitress, so where does that

leave our theory? I joked.  Everyone ignored me.

Gyles is always amazed that I remember everyone’s phone number and

I send out all the birthday cards- even to members of his family that I

have never met, Carrie elaborated.

Such as? I pressed.

Oh, I forget- his aunt so-and-so and uncle Thingy.

Brassie changed tack: And men always claim to feel pain more

intensely.

Man Flu!  We all laughed.

They’re really just little boys, Brassie pronounced.

Yes, that’s why they bite people on the football pitch when they

get over-excited, stated Carrie.

Yes, agreed Clammie.  But women have been shown to have superior

planning skills and with more frontal cortex cells they govern their

impulses better.

Oooh, look! They’ve got blueberry slices! Carrie couldn’t contain

herself. The waitress had just placed a plateful beside the till.

A Dutch study has shown that women need to eat more to achieve a

feeling of fullness, or satiety.  We crave sugar more than males and store

fat to support babies through gestation, I informed everyone.

I’ll have one now that my Mocha has arrived! enthused Brassie.

What? A baby? I teased.  She ignored me.

See! I told you the waitress hadn’t forgotten. And she selected one of

the biggest cakes on offer.

But, remind me- you are not pregnant, I cautioned.

No, but I recognise my bliss point, she tried to say, while stuffing the goo

down her throat.

Which is? asked Carrie.

Oh, I forget!  Something to do with the balance between food and joy..;

the precise level of sweetness that makes consumption enjoyable.

You mean when you transgress that feeling of guilt? I suggested.

Absolutely, she laughed.

Let’s all have one and another round of coffees, Carrie tempted us.

Sugar lights up the brain, so let’s fuel our grey matter and keep ahead

of our families, Clammie encouraged us.

There’s no harm in that, agreed Carrie.  And, let’s face it: we are only sinking

our teeth into a fruit slice; not into our fellow man.

Mmmm! Certainly more palatable, I agreed, forgetting the calories.

Must check these out online.  They must be cheaper elsewhere.