Strawberry: The devil’s own fruit.

It’s a little known fact that of all the plants in the world (most of which were designed by angels under contract) only the Strawberry was designed specifically to tempt, frustrate and ultimately damn mortals.

Consider this humble fruit: Planted in a garden it will delight the eye with its white flowers and leave behind a tiny green nub of fruit. Over the next week or two the fruit will swell and begin to turn pink. Observers, aware of the sour nature of an unripe strawberry, will wait, anticipating that morning when it will glisten a deep crimson, perhaps with a drop or two of dew to complete the photographer’s dream of a perfect fruit.

Long have they nurtured the plant. Layered it from its parent, potted it up, planted out and grown on, then dressed in straw or gravel, the better to ripen the fruit and watched and waited.

They will go to bed the night before certain that Tomorrow id The Day when their patience will be rewarded; when the fruit will be at its most succulent: sweet but firm, and in no need of sugar or cream. They rise the next morning and hurry through their ablutions, already salivating at the thought of the perfect strawberry.

And the slugs have eaten it.

There is the curse to God, the declared war on gastropods, the tears and recriminations and the self-pity.

“We should have picked it yesterday!”

Strawberry: The devil’s own fruit.


Image: Strawberries by J F Hancock

Beneath the Mask

Maynard’s Party! Party! On Cheap Street* had a sale on over the weekend. ‘Masks galore’, the advertisement in the Times said. ‘Be who you want to be.’ It sounded intriguing so I went along. Sure enough, they were selling off every variety of mask you could think of – animals, clowns, fairies, goblins… and devils. Since the person I most want to be is myself, I bought a blank white mask and painted it with oils to look just like me. Now I can wear my false mask and everyone will think I’m someone else pretending to be me.


*Don’t be fooled by the name – Cheap Street is houses two banks, a building society, a solicitor’s three estate agents and a jeweller’s as well as Maynard’s Party! Party! party shop and haberdashers and Murray’s Newsagent and Tobacconist. Indeed, the word ‘cheap’ comes from the old English ‘ceap’ meaning ‘trade’ (from the Germanic ceapian "trade," which in turn was from the Latin caupo "petty tradesman, huckster.". The word didn’t become synonymous with low-cost until 1509.



Image: Klein's 'A Comprehensive Etymological Dictionary of the English Language'
(and what an excellent birthday present that would make)

Flute, Whistle and Barking Dog

We went to Ada’s house last night in The Terrace. She has new neighbours at number 26, a pleasant couple in the twilight of their life. Not that they’re emo vampires or anything, just a pleasant older couple moving into a little rented terrace house. It’s a good little income for Ada, anyway, and she pays a company to deal with the rent and upkeep on her behalf.

There’s just one little problem.

The couple have a pair of West Highland Terriers who (obviously) can see what their owner’s can’t. Mr. and Mrs. Maybury were chatting to Harold over the intervening fence* but what the dogs saw was a part-demon apparently about to eat their humans. It’s not surprising they barked all evening. There we were, trying to have a pleasant barbeque and all we can hear is the yap-yap-yap of the two Westies and their ‘mum’ trying to shush them.

Ada put on Peer Gynt in an attempt to give us a pleasant background to the flames and burning souls… er… I mean, sausages, but there was no part for fire, flute and barking dog.

Eventually I let them see the True Me, and they spent the rest of the night crowded under the Maybury’s sofa.

*Although two house numbers separate them, the two intervening houses fell down when the cellar beneath them collapsed. 22 and 26 both gained larger gardens.

Image: A New Owners Guide to West Highland White Terriers (JG Dog)

Coming of Age Party

We had a different sort of night out last night. We left Lucy with Frederick (at least he’s already dead and can’t be affected by the sight of anything stronger than tea) and went out to a coming-of-age party.

It started at sunset, allowing the vampires to attend. Gillian, as the host vampire, took pride of place and became ‘Lord for the Day’ over the two attending vampires and the other guests. Mandy Curtis was fourteen some hours before and had travelled with her parents to Laverstone for the celebrations, and to receive a blessing from Ada, of all people. Peter Curtis has been a vampire for seventeen years and her mother Jennifer (How I wish she’d been called Mary) had Mandy fourteen years ago, by means of artificial insemination with an egg fertilized by her deceased husband’s DNA. An expensive process, but if vampires don’t have viable semen, what they do have is access to large amount of cash.

At the stroke of midnight Ada gave Mandy the Sight and with a kiss released the genetic code that would begin her transformation over the coming months. Mandy and her mother, you see, are Fae. It’s likely that they’ll never be accepted by the Faery Court but Ada doesn’t hold with all that political nonsense.

And then we partied like it was 1854.

Image: The Great Encyclopedia of Faeries

Headaches

Egad for headaches!

Not mine, of course. I don’t have to suffer such things but Harold is a martyr to them.* I wouldn’t care, but we all suffer when Harold has a headache. I asked him why he had a headache and he said, in a strained voice, that it was a ‘pressure headache’ that wouldn’t dissipate until a storm broke.

A storm? Fabulous! I love summer storms where the rain lashes down and the thunder and lightning crashes overhear making you wish you had a tower and a lightning rod to draw it closer. Oh! Wait…

However, although the barometer agrees with him, there’s little sign of a storm brewing today. There was a bit of a summer mist this morning when Felicia and I went out a little after dawn, but nothing that would warrant a raincoat. The sun was up by nine and burned away the clouds leaving it a hot and muggy day.

Harold asked me if I had something for a headache. I clouted him with a steel pipe.



*So he says, anyway. If he was really a martyr to them we could go back a couple of hundred years and have him burned as a heretic. Sadly the decline of the Catholic Church means that burnings are far less common now (though they do still occur).


Image: Yoga Therapy: Overcoming Headaches

Watery Ends

Julie came back from lunch with a strange purchase today – she’d bought a plant for the garden. “It’s water mint,” she said, when Harold asked her. Just as well, really, considering it was raining already.

I pointed out there’s a ruddy great lake in the garden full of water plants but this was different. “You can’t plant mint,” I said. “It’s invasive. It’ll take over the whole pond.”

“It’s not for the pond, though,” she said. “It’s for the water butt in the walled garden. The water in there smells foul for some reason and I’m hoping the addition of water mint will improve it.”

It sounds reasonable, but I’m not convinced. It’s just rotting leaves and algae that make the water smell. She needs to stop the leaves going in the gutter and keep it out of the sunlight. I tried telling her that but she thought I was talking out of my bottom.

What do I know? I’ve been tending the gardens of Laverstone Manor since Lady Melissa was alive.

Image: Slim-jim Waterbutt

Tea for Nine

Harold and I had to park up on Puttle Road and walk the last two hundred yards this morning. He was out of puff, too. He hasn’t been exercising enough lately – too little sword work, I think. I’ll have a word with Gillian and see if she’ll take him for half an hour a day with the saber. I’d take him on with the rapier, but it’s really not his style and Ada, though an absolute marvel with the katana, is reluctant to teach him at all, though he picked up a little by watching her so often.

Today, though, the road was blocked by two council lorries, a steamroller and one of the old-fashioned stripy tents they brew tea in. Harold paused outside it and tapped on the wooden frame. “May I enquire,” he said, “what brand of tea you’re brewing?”

A tousled face appeared. I say face, but it was more of a base upon which hair was attached by dint of eyebrows and beard and capped by a woolly hat even on the hottest day of the year. “None of yarn’ business,” he said, seeming to take affront at Harold’s suit and cane. “We drinks what we drinks and there’s none to spare.”

“Well!” Harold said as we moved on. “I was merely going to offer him some of Fortnum and Mason’s finest.”


Image: The Connoisseur's Guide to Tea by Jane Pettigrew

Calming Down

Smithsgate, the road that runs past the back of Harold’s shop has taken a turn for the worse, in Harold’s opinion. The council made plans last March* to introduce traffic calming to the street. Now Smithsgate is a small road the services the buildings on Dark Passage (upon which Alexandrian Gold opens) and Knifegate, the next street in the Shambles. It’s a no-through-road, which means it’s not subject to heavy traffic or the street races of the Laverstone youth.

Why then, you might ask (and Harold did), was the road deemed in need of traffic calming measures: three speed bumps in a fifty yard stretch. It serves no apparent purpose other than to annoy Harold (and possibly the other users of the road) and cause him discomfort on the way to work.

Of more benefit was the addition of double yellow lines, effectively preventing the public from using the narrow road as a source of free parking spots. It does inconvenience Mr. Barker, who runs the Pot Shop (purveyors of specialty teas and coffees) and has no parking space at the back, but Harold doesn’t like him anyway.

The council told Harold it was ‘Phase One of a estimated twelve year rollout of traffic calming measures in Laverstone, culminating in 2023 with a new passenger transport system.” Harold perked up after that. “Perhaps I’ll be on a bus route,” he said.



*i.e. before the budget allocation so they could use every last drop of the previous year’s coffers

Image: Towards an Eco-city: Calming the Traffic by David Engwicht & Michael Gunn

Books and Galleries

Hard times come to us all, and the recession currently sweeping the country has finally come to Laverstone. I could expound upon the delights of misery facing many of the townsfolk but it loses its pall when it hits home. Looking around the dinner table at all the miserable faces really puts me off my food, and we ate Chinese last night as well, fresh from Beijing, according to Devious who fetched it.

Harold hasn’t sold a book – other than by very special order – in a month. Books have become a luxury item, apparently, and people are less willing to buy them.

Harold tried to blame the burgeoning e-book industry and data piracy until I pointed out that the sharing of pirated books and music generally gives rise to increased spending. Giving an e-book away actually encourages people to buy the paper copy, and when Amazon sell the e-copies for only £3 less than the same book in print, it’s the print that benefits.

The truth of the matter is that people just don’t read as much as they used to, even in the summer when book sales generally increase.

I took the liberty of creeping out. Probably the most delicate thing to do in a ruined evening. I don’t even know why he’s upset. He deals in rare and antiquated books where the market hasn’t changed in decades. Summer for him does mean a slump in sales, since his purchasers are businessmen. They won’t spent five grand on a facsimile of Partridge’s “Ode to a Hanged Man” to read on the beach. They take a prostitute instead, and good luck to them.

To be fair, though, it wasn’t Harold who had the problem. It was Felicia. The Downstairs gallery will have to close. Perhaps she can become a hairdresser instead. Or a butcher.



Image: Selling Art without Galleries by Daniel Grant

Solstice

At Meinwen’s insistence, we all stumped up to the Laver Stone in the pre-dawn light, accompanied by a multitude of songs from what seemed to be every bird for five miles. Just what is it with the dawn chorus, anyway? I’ve never understood why they all choose to sing at the same moment, heralding the dawn. I’m not complaining, mind, I think it one of the most beautiful sounds the earth produces. I just don’t know why.

We reached the stone in plenty of time and Julie set out the picnic basket. She’d bought enough tea for everyone (and coffee for Felicia, hot water for Meinwen (who found a sprig of some herb or other to make tea with)) and we had a small slice of cake as we watched the sun rise from the top of the falls. The clearing at the stone is surrounded by trees, but you can see the Eastern sky clearly from the waterfall.

Obviously, when I say ‘everyone’ I’m not including Gillian, since the sunrise would be the last thing she ever saw. Not that I didn’t try to persuade her to come, mind.

Lucy didn’t have tea and cake, either, though she did seem pleased to be included. It’s hard to believe she’s two-thirds of a year old already.

So that was Our Solstice morning. How about yours?


Image: Peak District by Roly Smith

Travelling Expenses

Harold has shoved his planning application decisions in a box. “I’m not paid enough to do council work on weekends,” he said. “It can wait until Monday at the very least.”

I pointed out that he wasn’t paid at all. Just expenses occurred during the pursuit of council business.

“Expenses only?” he said. “That means I’ve done twenty hours this week for sixty pence.”

“You could get creative with the expenses sheet,” I said. “A moat for the manor, perhaps?”

He frowned. “I’m only a councilman,” he said. “I’d have to be at least an MP to claim that.”

“How about your journey to the council chambers?” I said. “You could claim travelling costs.”

Harold shrugged. “Five minutes walk across the square,” he said. “Hardly an expenses claim.”

“What if you drove, though?”

He frowned. “That would take half an hour around the one-way system.”

“There you go,” I said. “An hour’s travelling expenses, plus limousine hire.”

“Hardly ethical, though.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment. “How much is an hour’s travelling?”

“Thirty pounds plus.”

He pulled the council box toward him again. “I have an afternoon appointment, I think,” he said.


Image: Ethical Studies by Robert A Bowie

In the Circle

With the sky looking as though it was about to send a torrent of brimstone, Felicia and I went up to the standing stone at the top of the Falls, it being almost midsummer and all. The circle around it is grassy at this time of year and makes a splendid site for contemplation.

And camping, apparently.

In the circle was a two man tent with camp fire and cooking pot. The ashes were still warm so I added a bit of fuel and got a full blaze going. The tress kept off the worst of the wind. Fortunately, I happened to have a teapot and mug with me, though I had to summon Devious to fetch a bottle of milk as I spied only long life in the camper’s supplies. The Darjeeling (I carry a small selection) had just brewed when the imp returned, and Felicia and I were able to enjoy a fresh brew looking out over the falls.

Whoever the camper was (and Felicia was desperate to stick her head in the tent for a quick taste) hadn’t stirred by the time we returned. I sincerely hoped he’d move on before Meinwen came up her for her traditional nude dancing and to that end emptied his packet of sugar in front of his tent, staying only long enough to direct the first of the ant scouts.

The rain held off.


Image: The Summer Solstice: Celebrating the Journey of the Sun from May Day to Harvest
by John Matthews

Cutting the Red Tape

The garages on Tragus Rise are in a state of flux, a council spokesman said to me yesterday. He wouldn’t give me his name, nor the crux of the flux so I resorted to the underhand but tedious means of breaking into the planning offices. Actually, it wasn’t so much of a break-in as a send-Devious-in since the imp can gate in and out faster than dog can break wind.

It appears that the land – some 100 yards by 40 – is under consideration of sale and the only sticking point is the council-owned and leased garages occupying it. Lo and behold, some unknown person has stolen all the buildings and the land is now clear. What a surprise. The last time this happened (to the allotments on Badger Lane) the council promised the revenue from the sale would go to buy books for the school library. Unfortunately, a sudden crisis meant that it was spent on a new fencing and Victorian-style street lighting for Paget Road, which coincidentally is where Howard Peabright, the Chair of the council, lives.

The only consolation in the affair is the house at the end which will find that the last fifty yards of its garden will be recovered by the new owners.



Image:The Little Black Book of Red Tape: Great British Bureaucracy by Ian Vince

Another Slip of the Planners

Time washes everything into the past. It is a fact of life but it doesn’t mean that we cannot mourn their passing.

There are a series of old council-owned garages on Tragus Rise that were built the year Harold was born. Over the intervening years a couple have been lost as the house on the end surreptitiously expanded its boundaries, swallowed fifty square yards of public-owned property and put up a fence topped with barbed wire. You’ve got to love avarice.

By the end of the seventies there were six left and one “fell down” suddenly when the lease was given to someone other than the owner of the house it was built behind. That left five, mostly well-tended, annually painted affairs housing the Austins and Truimphs of the local residents who leased them.

After the turn of the century the original leases lapsed and the garages began to fall into disrepair. When it was pointed out that the roofs were made of Asbestos the council sealed them with a polymer coating on the inside but insisted the new renters signed a waiver.

And now they are being dismantled. The council have paid a vast sum for ‘professional dismantlers’ (three blokes and a transit van) who are very sensibly wearing coveralls and masks to remove the asbestos, but stand to make a tidy profit on the steel structures beneath.

You should have seen how cross the chap on the roof (obviously the gaffer) became when I took the photograph. You can’t tell who they are, and their van was unmarked, but it’s a good indication they were up to no good.

Bless ‘em.

A Biting Defence

Gillian, as you may recall, is a solicitor in Isaacs, Isaacs and du Point. She works nights, as you may imagine. As she said when she took the job Isaacs offered her (when he went on his sudden holiday to darker climes) “I’m a blood sucker already, why not be a lawyer as well?” In England we say ‘solicitor’ but there’s television for you.

She told us of an interesting case last night. She was called by the police to defend an odd case, that of a gentleman who had been detained because he was a passenger in a stolen car. They were charging him according to Theft Act 1968 section 12 which lumps together those who steal a vehicle and those who allow themselves to be carried in it and carries a possible sentence of up to six months (assuming no damage or injuries occurred). *

What amused Gillian so much was the innocence of the man. Graham Talbot had been in the back seat of a Triple-S taxi on Laver Bridge Street while the driver nipped into the Gents to relieve himself. The vehicle, left running with the keys in, had been taken by person or persons unknown and driven to Bottom Offley and abandoned. Mr. Talbot had been found fast asleep on the back seat and when woken asked if they were at Church Street already and how much was the fare.

The Police suspected a ruse and his case comes up on Friday.





* There was a case of a similar nature in Hampshire following an incident on 20th August 2008 where a driver without a licence or insurance collided with a cyclist, killing him, and with another person causing serious injury. The driver was charged with:

* causing death by dangerous driving
* causing death by driving without a licence
* causing death while driving without insurance.

The passenger was charged with:

* aiding, abetting, counselling or procuring causing death by dangerous driving
* aiding, abetting, counselling or procuring causing death by driving without a licence
* aiding, abetting, counselling or procuring causing death by driving while driving without insurance

Cross my Palm

It is possible, according to ancient soothsayers and modern charlatans everywhere* to divine the past from a persons palm. A map of life, if you will. Here the three children, the miscarriage, the lost sibling; there the heartbreak of childhood, the twist of fortune, the health scare and so on.

To a demon, the map of life is simpler. Here is the time (at age nine) you stole a tube of Smarties; there (aged fifteen) you wished your mother dead. Age sixteen, lied about your age, seventeen, took a car without permission, nineteen lied about your finances.

If you’re lucky, that’s all there is but they may go further into the more serious sins – lust, wrath, avarice…

Cross my palm with promises and I’ll read you your destination in Hell.



* Except the three who really can – you know you are.

Around the Bend

Harold watched a documentary on Bog people last night. He tried to explain it to me by telling me their bodies had been preserved in peat; but as soon as they were released from the mud they started to decay and therefore had to be kept under water.

“That’s why they’re called bog people,” I said. “Best kept around the U-bend.”

An Interview With Rachel Green

Stusplace: An Interview With Rachel Green

Mirrored ConversationBarber Shop Quartet

I watched Harold have a hair cut the day before yesterday. He’s terribly vain and will go to the barbers if he thinks his hair has grown longer than a few millimeters. Honestly, you could shave him bald and he’d still complain that he looked like a bogbrush.*

“I shall be glad,” he said, “when they develop instant healing and walk-in cosmetic surgeries like they had in that old film.”

“The Godfather?” I said. “I don’t recall the instant healing bit, though. More like six months in plaster.”

“No.” Harold scowled at me through the barber’s mirror. “It was a science fiction film.”

“Saturn Five,” I said. “Kirk Douglas and Farrah Fawcett.”

“Logan’s Run,” said the red-haired barber. Either he was a proponent of the modern Geldof style or he didn’t trust his barbershop partner to cut his hair. Or his stubble. “I used to fancy Michael York.”

“That was it,” said Harold. “Logan’s run. Instant facial surgery. Marvellous.”

“Sad end, though,” I said. “The dome breaks, everyone starves.”

“I don’t remember that bit.”

“Director’s cut,” I said. “They lynch Logan and Jessica 5 afterwards.”

“Would you keep your children off the windows,” said the barber. “Can you not see the sign?”

“I don’t have any…” I looked behind me. “Oh.” There was a chap walked in with three toddlers** and had attached then to the plate glass with suction cups to keep them out of trouble.

“Oh. Sorry, mate.” The gentleman very sensibly hung them by their toddler reins from the coat pegs instead.




*He does, actually, but that has nothing to do with his hair.

**He must have been Catholic

Scots Jackets

A beautiful day today, alas. And a Friday to boot. A demon could get mightily depressed with all the good cheer about. Half days, business men in cheap suits knocking back pints in the pub garden at lunchtime, kids cheering as they come out of school. Tch! We need another good downpour. Time I went to chat up some storm gods.

Walking today was pleasant enough. We cut through the woods to the cemetery (no change in the policy but the usual loopholes got us in) then down Park Lane past St. Pity’s and the infant’s school into the Royal Park. Tea in the café was spent while mothers set their toddlers free to play in the adventure playground (soft floor and nothing too high – Parents please supervise your children.).

We passed a delightful woman with a couple of dogs herself. One was some form of poodle crossed with a Louisiana backwoodsman – all misshapen fur and too many teeth – and a delightful little Scottie dog. The small black breed rather than a random Star Trek loving canine. It was sporting a rather natty tartan coat.

What is it with Scottie dogs and tartan coats? I’ve never seen one of the breed without one. Are they not hardy enough to be allowed to sample the English air without a warm woolly on? Do they have some aged mother at home telling them no to go out without a cardi on? “It might look like a sunny day but you could be lost in the mountains as quick as Pi.”

Perhaps they’re not coats at all but a naturally occurring fur pattern. Perhaps the black fur stops at the shoulders and turns tartan, depending upon the colour of the clan, then better to blend in amongst the kilts. Or are the jackets surgically applied at birth.

Is there a Scottie breeder in the audience? What’s the deal with the jackets?

Flood Warning

Yesterday Lucy was a crying monster, today she’s a laughing machine. What’s all that about? Why do babies alternate between such wildly differing states? Everything I do elicits a peal of laughter – not least when I pull funny faces, and a demon can distort their features to a significant degree. Lucy finds everything hilarious from three heads to gorgon hair to full peeled-back flesh with a hundred nails hammered in. Thanks, Clive, for that one. It’s great for parties.

The face she found so funny that she wet herself, however, was her father’s. At least Harold thought she was pleased to see him.

Yesterday brought the first of the summer thunderstorms. With the recent spate of almost a week of good weather, the ground was dry and hard and impervious to the deluge. We like our rainfall light and often and these summer downpours do the land no good at all. The River Laver rose four feet in an hour, washing away so much debris off its banks it blocked the tunnel entrance on bridge street and flooded the lower part of Bricknall Lane to a depth of two feet. It’s a pity that after the floods of 2007 the insurance companies refused to renew Buildings and Contents insurance on Bricknall lane without a clause against river damage. A lot of people will be out of pocket today.

I foresee a few new contracts being issued.

Toodle-pip.

Photograph by Matt Dobson

Teething Troubles

Save me from feature films! Harold, Gillian, Julie and Felicia made the trek up to Oxford last night to see the new comedy ‘Drag Me to Hell’. I was left holding the baby – quite literally for at least one of the four and a half hours they were away since she was teething again. What do you do when a baby’s teething? Nothing comforts toothache, I’m told, though to be fair a good slap often takes Harold’s mind off it. I couldn’t do that with Lucy, though, so I spent a goodly while searching online for solutions.

“Something Cold” was the general advice – a chilled teething ring, a bottle of cold water, cold food – or else something to counter the pressure – a teething ring or daddy’s fingers. With Harold out (and I don’t think he’s appreciate the minor amputation anyway) I tried the cold food remedy. Frozen sprouts kept her occupied for a little while but when she began crying again I phoned Ada.

“Teething?” she said. “I used to dread teething. The poor mite.”

“Never mind ‘poor mite’,” I said. “Poor me. She won’t stop crying. What do I do?”

“Give her something cold,” Ada said.

“I’ve tried that,” I said. “She doesn’t like frozen sprouts.”

“Give her ice cubes,” she said, sounding distracted over the phone. “That’s what I gave Harold when he was teething, only I used to dip them in gin.”

Digging for Dirt

Bin bags left on public land constitute a fly tipping offence. Interestingly, while it is perfectly legal to search through them to ascertain their origin (you’d be surprised how many people get a £200 fly-tipping bill after leaving an old envelope in the rubbish) it is illegal for any member of the general public to remove or dispose of the rubbish – whether it be a bag of kitchen refuse of a burned out car.

I don’t count myself as a member of the general public so feel it well within my remit to firtle through people’s rubbish. Happily most people, who use the bins the council provide, are trusting enough to throw away old envelopes and circulars with their names and addresses on. An easy matter, then, to insert such items into the bags of fly-tipped trash. The results are outstanding and far outweigh the minimal effort involved. The shock as someone receives a notice to appear in court is worthy of a thrice-doomed soul.

Marvellous.

Harold’s no fool, mind. He shreds all his letters and bills and then adds it to his compost. Almost a pity, but the best laid plans are subject to change. That’s why I subscribe him to Fetishist Monthly, which comes in a clear plastic wrapper, non-recyclable.

Council Madness

I avoided the cemetery today and instead opted to tackle the great silence that is the Laverstone Council Building. Situated on Cheapside (somewhat ironically, since the building cost well in excess of three million to construct in 1986 and is already crumbling – one wing has been closed off completely and is sealed from entry) it houses both the revenue offices, benefits department and the Parks and Recreations department.

Far from the concept of public accountability, the offices presented a closed door attitude to is policies. No-one was allowed to see the policies before they came into force, or witness the proceedings of the council members. Fortunately, the closed door policy didn’t extend to the front door and I was able to schedule a meeting with a minor official, Cecil Waldegrove of the Amenities (cemeteries) division.

I pointed out that although I applauded the policy of not allowing people to walk their own dogs through the cemetery it was, like many such laws, only hurting the law-abiders. People without dogs had to wait at the gates to be allowed to visit their loved ones and the target of the regulation – those irresponsible walkers who allowed their dogs to foul the cemetery – generally used the hole in the fence at the back anyway. What of the mourners who had dogs? Were they to be penalised because they only felt safe to visit their dearly departed when accompanied by their faithful companion?

Cecil frowned. “We had a complaint…” he began.

“And now you have a counter complaint,” I said. “Why not put it to a vote?”




On the subject of voting, congratulations to Sharon Wilkinson, who won the Padiham and Burnley West ward for the BNP in a record low turnout of voters. We’ll be seeing a new era of racism and segregation there, I think. There’s nothing like the BNP (who stopped calling themselves the National Front after the eighties race riots) to promote the twin policies of anti-feminism and hatred of minorities. Ms Wilkinson, known in the local pubs as ‘Shazzer’, opposes money to build new schools because they will force children to integrate. She wants ‘a larger number of schools, each one segregated by colour, religion and income bracket.’

Congratulations also to Nick Griffin (leader of the BNP) who was elected for the North West region wand Andrew Brons, who picked up another BNP seat in Yorkshire and Humber, where it won 10% of the vote. Apathy at the polls means racism works, it seems. I suspect they took tips from the California legislation of Proposition 8. Who knows? Hate crimes may soon become as legal as politician’s expenses.

Remember: A vote for BNP is a vote against Jesus.

Second Attempt

I tried again this morning.

Albert Broomhill still had the gates locked; almost a surprise since Sundays must be the busiest day of the week for a cemetery. “Is this still the ‘no dogs’ rule?” I said, “Only I haven’t had time to change the council’s policy yet.”

“It is, sir,” he said, “though I’m very sorry to say it. One rotten egg spoils the barrel, as they say. I can’t go clearing up dog muck from the cemetery, and I see you have no bags with you for your dog.”

“She’s not my dog, and she carries her own poop bags on her little harness.,” I said. Technically, this was correct, since if anyone owned Felicia, other than herself, it was Gillian. It was Gillian’s name on the tag, after all.

“You’re walking someone else’s dog?” he said.

“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m not walking a dog at all. I’m just walking and she tagged along.”

“Oh.” I could almost see the gears turning. “Well, that’s all right then. I suppose you can come in.”

And so I did. Since I wasn’t walking a dog, the new regulations didn’t apply to me.

Felicia, since she wasn’t walking a dog either, came in as well.

Gentle Gatekeeper

The cemetery was closed this morning, rather to my surprise. I rapped on the gate with a rapidly conjured walking stick summoned the gatekeeper. Far from the Infernal ones such as Charon or Cerberus, the chap that came out was a gentle old soul called Albert Broomhill. I’ve seen him about the place planting up the flowerbeds in technically brilliant but rather outdated designs. He’s such a nice fellow, in fact, that I made a mental note to look him up in the database and see what his sins are.

“Why is the gate locked?” I asked.

“New council policy,” he said. “They reckon people shouldn’t bring dogs into the cemetery no more. Someone got upset, like, when the found dog muck on the grave of their loved one.”

“But I don’t have a dog,” I said.

He looked down. “Whose is that then?”

Felicia wagged her tail and tried to look charming. Difficult, I know, but she tried.

“Ah,” I said. “That’s Fliss. She sort of owns herself.”

“I still can’t let her in,” said Albert. “I can let you in, if you like, so long as she takes herself off home.”

I frowned. She could do that, it’s true. She could go to the park and have a cup of tea while she waits for me.

“All right,” I said. I tucked a ten pound note under her collar. “Go to the park and order a pot of Earl Grey. I’ll be along shortly.”

Fliss nodded and trotted off. The Long way to the park would take her ten minutes (fifteen with sniffing time) and I’d catch up via the short cut through the cemetery.

“Smart dog,” said Albert.

“No,” I said. “Not that smart. She drinks coffee.”

Summer Reading

Beautiful weather again today, though Harold can’t afford to take another day off. Unchecked stock is piling up and the imps are getting restless. John finished replicating – we don’t say the F-word where Harold can hear it – a copy of the Guggenheim Bible. He’s not reproduced it exactly, since he elected to replace the word ‘witch’ with the original word ‘poisoner’ so that it reads ‘Thou shalt not suffer a poisoner to live’, as it did before St. Jerome made his political edits on the King James version.

You know, that always amuses me. Modern Christians who swear on the Bible or declare the book as God’s honest truth pay no heed to centuries of edits. It’s like a group of Tolkien nuts who insist that everything was happy in the Shire because they only watched the film and therefore have no knowledge of the last third of the third book. Hey folks, listen up! You’re reading the Reader’s Digest Condensed Bible. Wait until the BNP (the British equivalent of the KKK) re-write ‘poisoner’ as ‘non-Anglo-Saxons’ instead of ‘witch’.

The weatherman said it would be glorious all weekend, so I’m anticipating storms. At least we’re selling plenty of books – people like to read in the summer, for some reason. Perhaps they equate reading with a leisure activity. Harold thinks it’s work.

A Head for Heights

Image via Wikipedia

Needless to say I won’t be returning to the Angry Women’s group on Wednesdays. Today, though, was flea market day and the traders were pleased with some of the improvements made to St. Marples’. It’s been rewired, for one thing, with plug sockets on every pillar so no more trailing wires across the room. Each stall now has their own access to light and power so no more excuses about the poor state of goods. Harold and I had a pleasant wander around this morning looking at the books, though the prices of some of them would have had Harold blushing to charge them. £8 for a 1974 pamphlet about the town, for example. I looked the trader in the eye. “Avarice is a sin, you know.” I said.

He shrugged. “I didn’t, actually, but it doesn’t bother me. I’ve got no head for heights anyway. You’ll never catch me flying.”

Minority Group

I attended the Ecumenical Community meeting in St. Marples’ today. For a bunch of left-wingers they’re certainly very conservative in their views. “This is a meeting for minority groups,” said the group leader, a middle-aged woman with a bad perm and spectacles on a chain. She chewed the end of a green-topped pen and I hoped (briefly) it was a nesting ground for viruses.

“Am I not a minority?” I said. “I’m a Jewish Italian immigrant.”

“You’re also very well off,” she said.

“The suit?” I asked. “It’s all on a sale or return basis. I tell you, I own nothing. Even the Rolex is a knock off.”

“This is a women’s group,” she said. She could have flown Messerschmitts in the war by her tone of voice alone. “I’ll thank you to leave.”

“How?” I asked. “I mean, if I leave, how will you thank me? I wouldn’t be here to thank. You’d have to send me a letter, or at the very least phone me. Do you have my number? Here, let me give you a card.”

I cave her one. The odd thing is, people never read the bit that sayd ‘Demon of the 5th Pit’ or if they do, they think it a joke.

She glanced at it. “I’ll e-mail you,” she said.

Street Preachers

Have I mentioned the Street Preachers who’ve taken up residence outside St. Marples? It’s like a regular Hyde Park in town on a Tuesday and Thursday. One of the fake tombs (you’ll recall that St. Marples was an edifice of vanity and came pre-stocked with vacant tombs and unoccupied graves) has a platform from which these modern-day orators can air their views to the public.

It can be quite edifying. Apart from the political pundits and urban rebels (say no to segregated refuse collections?) there are some quite respectable religious and moral viewpoints put out. Agree or not, when a good orator speaks, people will stop to listen. There’s many a public tooth been cut on the bone of public speaking. I almost felt sorry for the chap who called for an end to council tax, however, claiming that the Community Charge was a much fairer system. He was laughed off the tomb.

Upon noting the rise in popularity of these speakers, I employed a small boy to go around with a collection tin. We split the profits.

Flaming Poo

Flaming Poo Lane used to called All Butts Lane until the council election of 1992 brought in a change of officials. Councilor Martin Jake, who lived on the lane (which leads from the lower gate of the park (where the archery butts were situated in the seventeenth century) to Cherry Tree Road, became so tired of being asked if he was ‘The Jake of All Butts’ that one of his election pledges was to change the name of the road.

Quite why it became Flaming Poo Lane is unclear to the general populace, but enquiries were made into a large donation to council coffers by Mrs. Mildred Stevenson (1934 – 2003) who, in a letter to the mayor (cc the Laverstone Times), complained that the whole affair of renaming the road upon which she’d lived for 43 years was “a pile of flaming poo” and the Mr. Jake should move if it didn’t suit him.

I saw Mr. Jake at his election Winner’s Party (I was, after all one of the party contributors since it gave me an ear to suggest policy changes*) and complimented him on his fine garden and his wife’s purchase of seven pink flamingo statues from the little second-hand emporium on Low Street. “Flamingoes?” he said. “Yes, My wife loves the wretched things.”

“And your silver wedding anniversary’s coming up,” I said. “Perhaps you could re-name the street in honour of her passion.”

“Why, Mr. Jasfoup,” said the councilor, pumping my hand. “I think you’ve just killed two birds with one stone.”

“And sent a thousand souls screaming into Hell,” I said. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you could have the new signs unveiled on the very day?”

I recall visiting the council building that year to arrange a rebate on Ada’s council tax. She’d been paying full rate on her house in The Terrace when she should have had a carer’s rebate on behalf of Harold. I saw the requisition for the road signs on the desk of the Department of Transport (Road Signs) division. It wasn’t my fault that the requisition got mixed up with the paperwork relating to Mrs. Stevenson’s complaint, was it? It was only two extra letters and a space.

Mrs. Jake was not amused with the new name of her road. Oddly, neither was Mrs. Stevenson, who had, after all, supplied it.

Flamingo by Eric Cornwell