Chautauquas

Tags

Benjamin Britten rose, Boudicca, chautauquas, David Austin rose, goat stew, kasbah, Moto Guzzi, Motorcycle Maintenance, San Sister, satellite phone, Spotted Dick, suet pudding, Tetnus, Turkish silk leather jacket, Zen

What to buy for a PA when she has kindly typed up your oration’s

transcript for Speech Day?

Augustus Snodbury was somewhat lost in the aisles of Suttonford Garden

Centre when he suddenly bumped into The Previous Headmaster’s Wife.

He couldn’t remember her name and couldn’t very well call her ‘darling’.

Oh, what are you doing here? she asked, giving him a suspicious look,

which being interpreted read: Shouldn’t you be at your post of duty?

I’m- ah- looking for a present, he appealed to her.  Something floral.

Well, you’re in the right place.  I always say a rose goes down well.  There

are some lovely David Austin ones on offer.  And she pointed to the

signature green tubs.

Ah. Yes.  Benjamin Britten.  A climber? he asked.

No, he was a composer.  She looked at him as if he was stupid.

Nice colour.  Yes, I’ll take it.  No point in explaining.

And how is your dear husband? He attempted some small talk, which

didn’t come easily to him.  He had forgotten the name of his

predecessor in the unexpectedness of the encounter.

His Moto Guzzi broke down.  Sand in the engine when he was on the last

leg, or wheel, to Erfoud.  Luckily he had a satellite phone, so he and his

side-kick contacted a mechanic near some kasbahs and had some goat

stew while the chap took three days to fix it.  I blame that Ewan

McGregor for encouraging all those oldies to mobilise themselves.  And,

everyone knows that you should never let an engine run rich.

Quite.  Ah- see you at Prize-giving.

As he put the rose on the back seat of his trusty vehicle, Boudicca,

he punctured his forefinger with a thorn.  Ouch!

He nearly swooned at the sight of his own blood.  Where was

San Sister when you needed her?  When had he last had a Tetnus jab?

Then, as he tried to suck out the thorn, as if it was venom, he had an

epiphany, right there in the car park.

He was going to abandon that contrived speech which he had struggled to

produce.  Ideas were streaming into his mind and he drove back to school as

quickly as he could, without making the earth move in the plastic tub.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!  He still had the book somewhere

and he was sure that it would yield a series of chautauquas which would

illuminate, yea irradiate his audience.  The boys would think his field of

reference cool and, while delivering his peroration, he could wear the silk

leather jacket that he had bought in Turkey, if it would stretch over his

burgeoning tum after a winter of too many Spotted Dicks and suet puddings.

Virginia might not like it if he asked her to type a new transcript, but he

would phone Drusilla; she would help him.

Stumped for Something to Say

Tags

Christingle, cow shot, Devil's Number, dibbly dobbly, dinks, Educating Essex, glovemanship, Harley-Davidson, innings, mankad, Morality play, Nightwatchman, Ofstead Inspection, pantomime dame, psychobabble, red cherry, Sahara, snickometer, Speech Day, St Birinus, sticky wicket, stodger, stonewaller, tautology, Test Match, the crease, the Yips, World Cup, Zen, Zoota Flipper

Augustus Snodbury was trying to compose his Acting Head’s Report

for Speech Day.  He was endeavouring, in vain, to find a string of lexical

chains to give rhetorical cohesion to his oration.

When I first came to the crease, I felt a bit of a Nightwatchman, but I

determined that I would never be a mankad who left before the bowler

released the red cherry.

But would everyone latch onto his cricketing references?  They were

probably anticipating him making allusions to standing on the shoulders

of previous giants, acknowledging colleagues who would be off to

pastures new and so on.  Nevertheless, he decided to be true to his own

field of interest and continued to unearth parables from the sphere of the

Test Match.

When I was invited to assume Captaincy, I was hoping that I wouldn’t

be on to a sticky wicket.  Speaking as a ferret, I feel that I have played a

cameo of an innings and, if I have been a bit of a stodger, at least no one

could accuse me of having been a stonewaller.

Hmmm, maybe too much damning of himself with faint praise…

We- ah, the first person plural always lends a bit of authority!-have never

been a school which encourages cow shots.  We have dealt firmly with pie

chuckers. (Here he found his thoughts straying to Boothroyd-Smythe)

We have survived sledging, marilliers, dibbly dobblies, dinks and

haven’t got off our duck yet.

I may hear the death rattle and realise that I am bowled, but I- eh,

we haven’t reached the Devil’s Number yet and refuse to offer tea towel

explanations of policy to those who are little better than Zoota flippers,

or who have the Yips.  Trundlers need to be faced down and what we

need in this day and age- a cliche or two could be allowed to slip in- is

all-rounders and future generations who do not expect a featherbed.

He was beginning to enjoy himself.

We can offer our incoming Batsman a belter of a pitch.  He is, we know,

no hack and has a proven glovemanship in other series, so we wish him

a good knock.

We are happy to demote to match referee, so long as we are able to

uphold the spirit of the game.  We gladly bequeath him the snickometer

of a 2015 Ofstead Inspection.  May power hit his sweet spot every time.

Oh!  He’d better mention his predecessor.

The educational de-toxification of our previous Head Teacher has already

commenced.  Even now, he is indulging in a catharsis of his delayed mid-life

crisis and is kicking up a sandstorm with his Harley-Davidson, somewhere in

the Sahara, a trip which his wife understands has little to do with Zen.

He is clearly in touch with the Zeitgeist as other Heads have recently

been in the news for absconding- granted on unpaid leave- to follow

their dreams, or delusions regarding national success in the World Cup.

But here we award trophies to more achievable victories gained by our

future global citizens- attaboy, Snod!-to young people of distinction. 

Now he  was sounding like that Educating Essex chap.

Oh, maybe the whole thing was too dense.  He’d better start again.

Every school is unique and St Birinus is unique in its own way.

Useless!  Complete tautology.

In the family community which is St Birinus, we try to support each other

with tolerance and humility…

He could hear inner heckling and felt as though he was a character in a

Medieval Morality play, or a pantomime dame subjected to shouts of Oh

no, we don’t!   He heard the piping voice of John Boothroyd-Smythe shouting,

It’s behind you!, presumably referring to his career.

Okay, this was enough for tonight.

Mr Poskett’s marvellous Christingle concert illustrated the benefits of PTA

involvement and co-operation with staff, and pupils from our-hah! sister

establishment, as well as funding from our beloved stakeholders.

Oh, what was the use?  He couldn’t sound enthused.  He would just

have to purloin some cribbed sycophantic drivel and motivational psycho-

babble from the internet and hope for the best.  No one would be listening,

anyway.

He had drawn stumps and so he could only hope that he’d be remembered

as the tail that briefly wagged the dog.  The best bit would be when the twelfth

man- that Milford-Haven twit brought the drinks to the pavilion.

 

 

Letting Go

Tags

Bath stone, Cavalier, clairvoyance, dv, engagement ring, foreknowledge, foreordination, lacrosse, Memory: Cats, Mother Shipton, noun phrase, poltergeist, Tarot, wedding band, Zen

Diana Fotheringay had removed her rings and was having the stone

in her engagement ring re-set and her wedding band was in

meltdown.  She was now seeing herself as a Free Woman.

In fact, she had made the New Year Resolution to sell her cottage

in Bradford-on-Avon and to move much closer to her daughter and

erstwhile lover.  Consequently her home was now on the market

and had been appraised by a rather posh, but dim representative

from an estate agency.

She could have written the schedule herself and could see immediately

that the description of her home was off-beam and would be guaranteed

to deter any prospective purchaser.  She had to proofread a document

which she was paying someone else to generate.  A sign of the times,

she sighed.  I mean, what is it with the breed that they have to construct

inordinately long noun phrases?!

She read: An absolutely charming, exceptional, sought after, deceptively

spacious, smartly-appointed, versatile, detached Bath Stone, character

cottage…

Could this be her property?  She hardly recognised it.  The lenses of

the camera had made it seem as if it had curved walls- which, in all

honesty, it had.

The vase of lilies on the dining room table looked good and covered the

redcurrant sauce stain which simply would not wash out of her antique

tablecloth.  Really, Augustus was a very messy eater.  It must be that his

table manners were being corrupted by his professional habit of dining

with children.

At least Dru’s harp was no longer in the way and the alcove in the hall

could just about justify its description as an additional study/bedroom.

Anyway, there was no turning back.  It was a good time to sell and she

could put her hand on her heart, like all sellers, and swear that she had

the most wonderfully quiet neighbours and that she had never had a

single altercation with them, not even when their son was learning

the drums.

Now that his pupils came to the house, it was remarkable how there was

always an available parking space.

If the cottage sold in one open weekend, as was being suggested, she

would simply put everything into storage and would go and see her ex-

colleague, Sonia Peascod, in Suttonford.  They’d exchanged Christmas

cards religiously since Sonia’s retirement as Deputy Head at St Vitus’,

which had also been the year of Diana’s confinement.

Sonia was Diana’s daughter’s godmother.  Our vendor felt that

she would be welcome to stay for a week or two until she got on her feet

in a new county.  Sonia was rattling around in that huge Royalist House,

so she would probably welcome some company.  She was getting on and

maybe Diana could take her shopping, or help with the housework.  If

the legalities took longer, she could always offer her some rent.

Sonia had once reminded Diana:  I always foresaw trouble when you

married that picture framer chap.

Diana had snapped:  You didn’t need to be Mother Shipton to see it

coming!

But they hadn’t fallen out over it.  And, in retirement, Sonia had

progressed in her skills of clairvoyance.  At least she thought so.

She even took up Tarot reading.

Diana opened her address book and, just as she was about to contact

Sonia, her phone rang and she nearly knocked over the vase of lilies in

her rush to answer it.  Maybe it was the estate agent!

Sonia here!  Happy New Year!  Long time; no speak.

You must be telepathic, Diana began, before realising that she, of course,

was, in her own opinion, at least.

Of course I am, Sonia laughed. Listen, I haven’t seen you for ages, so why

don’t you come and spend a few days with me? We could go to the new cafe

we have in the town.  That is, weather permitting and DV.

Oh, it’s okay,  Diana reassured her.  I haven’t had that bug.

What bug?

The diarrhoea and vomiting one.

I didn’t suggest that you had.

I thought you said ‘d and v’?

No, replied Sonia, puzzled.  Oh, no.  I meant DV -deo volente.

As a lacrosse teacher, Diana hadn’t required a qualification in

Latin.

I think there was interference on the line, Diana excused herself.

I couldn’t hear you.

Well, can you hear me now?  If you can make it through all the floods

and fords, drive up and stay.  I’ve always got the attic room free

because people are too pathetic to cohabit with the ghost.  But I know

you don’t mind sharing a bed.  You’ve met our resident Cavalier before,

haven’t you?

Diana was not phased by occult presences.  After all, she had coached

a team of weapon-wielding teenagers who were capable of behaviour

which would have made the activity of your average poltegeist seem like

a single Zen hand clap.

There was only one drawback: Diana may have been accustomed to

Sonia’s foreknowledge over the years, but she didn’t want to be the

subject of her fore-ordination.

As for the phantom fugitive from The Battle of Suttonford, sleeping with

him couldn’t be much worse than having to share a bed with Murgatroyd

Syylk.

She replaced the handset and started humming Memory from Cats.  Yes, a

new day had begun.

Muzzard Magic

Tags

Alex Salmond, Andy Murray, Angela Tilby, Bacon, Church of the Holy Rude, Dunblane Cathedral, Educating Essex, Flushing Meadows, galaxyzoo, James Bond, Macbeth, Montaigne, Rowan Williams, Sean Connery, Shakespeare, Sir Alex Ferguson, Stephen Drew, Stirling, US Open, Zen

So, a new star in the firmament then?  Let’s look at galaxyzoo.org.  We may be dazzled by the reflected effulgence from a great big rock on Kim Sear’s left hand, or it might not be too many light years before we get its blue shift.  I mean the girl has sat through so many cosmic matches and had to put up with a boyfriend who watches Wedding Crashes rather than wedding planner videos.  She hangs out with the near eponymous Too good to hurry mint.  Muzzard’s mum lit up like Venus when squeezed by Sean Connery, so there could be feeling somewhere out there in the dark matter of their tennis universe.

Or is there?  Andy did express some emotion at misplacing his sponsored watch after the game, but even though this triumph was one giant leap for Murraykind, he limited himself to a fairly Zen-like self-appraisal about being happy on the inside, if not exhibiting it on the outside.  If ever there was a time for a burst of: If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands, then this was it.  Sir Alex nearly choked on his chewing gum, for Goodness sake.   At least he didn’t hug anyone.

Philosophy was topical, with Canon Angela Tilby on Thought for the Day recounting the Zen reaction of a falsely accused monk, who only reacted by reiterating, Is that so?   This was a reaction also much favoured by Stephen Drew, Deputy Headmaster, who failed to respond prematurely to teenage angst in Passmores School, as shown on the programme Educating Essex.   Clearly it is a successful modus operandi.

Rowan Williams appeared to be a Zen master, as well as a bardic Druid, when he neither excused nor justified himself over his past record, but merely made the low key comment : I don’t think I cracked it.

However, understatement is different from dissimulation, which is pretence and projection of a false self.  So, when an interviewer asked Andy to comment on his 2.30 am victory-..if you could dissimulate that..  my ears could not fail to detect this crass lexical choice with all of its Macbeth, or even Malcolm connotations:

False face must hide what the false heart doth know

or the advice not to be

as a book in where man may read strange matters.

Andy roared like a rutting stag when he was taking control, so I do not see that he is guilty of equivocation.  It is more a feature of Lendl to restrain himself.  Maybe the latter has been making a study of Machiavelli, Bacon or Montaigne, in order to advise his young prince.  Malcolm was the character who adopted the strategy of dissimulation to engineer his claim to the Scottish throne.  Now there’s an over-reaching step to set oneself after the Flushing Meadows novelty has worn off.

So, maybe the Church of the Holy Rude at Stirling, a coronation site, could prepare itself for a nuptial celebration, or an elevation to the Salmond hierarchy for the boy who done us proud {sic}

Dunblane butchers are already promoting their Grand Slam sausages and burgers, so the wedding breakfast could be served with a bit of black pudding and some deep fried Mars Bars, to continue our astral theme, and if the Hydro could be considered too windy a venue for an outdoor barbecue, at least it would deter Culicoides impunctatus, Meanbh-chuileag, or the biting midgie.  The males are benign; it is the female who are the deadlier of the species.  However, a little touch of OO7 appeared to cure the Queen’s Evil and Judy seemed a lot less scrofulous after that wee cuddle.  She got the real Bond, whereas Her Majesty only got Daniel Craig.

Aye, Sean, I’d put my kilt in the cleaners pdq and check the pleats for moth damage because I think you’ll be giving it an airing pretty soon.  Let’s hope you are not double booked for October 5^th. (Global Bond Day)

Mind you, Dunblane Cathedral would make a pretty backdrop for such a ceremony, with its plaques to three poisoned sisters who aspired too high for the nobles of the day- a fitting reminder to Kim to keep her nose clean?

If she can bear to keep playing Scrabble without winning and can avoid words like dissimulate, she is probably on to a high word score.

Lo he comes with clouds descending is a brilliant rallying hymn for a conquering hero, so they might choose that as an antiphon or introit.  Mummy could give him away (not really) and the floral wreathed Border terriers could be attendants.

See yez all at Scone!

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012