She knew it made good sense. Great-aunt Tiffany had given an understanding smile and patted her hands, folded like pinioned birds in her lap.

“It will keep the money in the family and it’s not like Cousin Richard is a monster or anything.”

Not a monster.

No.

Kind, but thirty years older than her and smelling of foot powder and stale pipe tobacco. 

At the altar, he took her hand.

“You alright, m’dear? We can call it all off. Even now. I’m an old bear but not a grumpy one.”

For a moment she hesitated.

“My old bear,” she said.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Conservative

1. (adjective – pronunciation note: con-serve-a-toff) Being very strongly opposed to the class system and the idea that the lower classes exist only as servants for the landed gentry
   Example: Being a working-class hero, Sally was a conservative activist.
2. (noun – pronunciation similar) A servant drawn from the criminal classes
   Example: Lord Whinny was shocked to discover his butler was a conservative.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

It’s morning and
blue is the sky
And all the birds are
singing on high
It’s morning and
I sure know why
Summer is bloomin’
cos we’re in July.

July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

It’s evening and
twilight is nigh
But the warmth lingers
as night comes by
It’s sunset and
the moon’s in the sky
Summer nights’ promise
as with you I lie.

July,
would you stay with me?
Whisper your promises
of lazy days.
July,
would you show to me
The beauty of summer
and its hazy ways?

E.M. Swift-Hook

True mating is for life: and beyond

The golden queen dragon stretched her talons and moved sensuously against the green scales of the male who had just pleasured her.
“In certain cultures I would eat you now,” she murmured.
He winced and blew a small gout of flame out of his left nostril. She laughed.
“Trick flaming?”
“No. A nervous tic. It’s the thought of being eaten.”
“Oh you are safe enough. It would be a waste to eat you.”
“A waste?”
“Yes. You are far too pleasurable to kill. But leave me now before I get hungry.”
The male scuttled away leaving the queen somnolent and amused.
She slept, and in her sleep she dreamed.

She was making her first mating flight and the dragon who caught her was an entity she had never encountered outside her dreams, his scales were as golden as her own and his eyes as green as the emeralds in the master dragon’s sword hilt. He was magnificent, and her soul yearned towards him. Even as they mated high in the sky, with the lack of oxygen making their eyesight grow dim, she knew this was about more than fertilising eggs, this dragon was the other side of herself but her fear was that she might never meet him in this life.

As always, she awoke with tears running down her aristocratic snout and she sniffed indelicately.

A quiet tap in the door of her chamber brought her back to herself.
“Who knocks?”
“N’a’mma and mine new friend.”
“Come in my darling,” the golden queen’s love for her only female child was evident in the cadences of her voice.

The door opened to admit the still childlike dragonet who was dragging another hatchling along in her wake.
“Mamma, this is S’a’rthyr and he is my friend.”

The queen made welcoming noises whilst studying the young male.

His scales were a peculiar yellowish colour, but this was balanced by a strong symmetrical body and iridescent green-gold wings. He looked up at her, and she was immediately pulled into the sorrowful depths of his grass green eyes. Those eyes had already seen too much of bullying and belittlement, the queen thought, and the hurt that lurked in their limpid greenness made her want to clasp him to her breast and croon a soothing song.

“See,” N’a’mma crowed. “Mamma don’t think you are wrong because your scales is yellow.”
S’a’rthyr bowed his head.
N’a’mma opened her mouth to say somewhat else, but her mother shushed her gently.
“Quietly now, you must let S’a’rthyr speak for himself.”
The young male found his voice.
“I am of the clan of Queen A’u’nti. Sent with the young males for breeding. Sent as a servant. Because of my colour. The Lady N’a’mma seeks me out, but I will understand if you deem me not suitable as a friend for a young queen.”
“Not unsuitable at all, my son. Not at all.”
She nodded to N’a’mma who raised a chubby claw.
“N’a’mma gives her oath to S’a’rthyr. Friends while there is still blood in my body.”
For a moment the youngling was too stunned to move, but he gathered himself together and placed his own taloned extremity against N’a’mma’s upraised claw.
“S’a’rthyr gives his oath to N’a’mma. Friends while there is still blood in my body.”
The queen placed her huge front paw atop both of theirs.
“Oaths witnessed.’

For a moment, the air itself seemed to be still then a single silver note chimed.

The queen smiled at the two hatchlings who stood before her.
“You need to sleep off your emotions,” she said kindly.

N’a’mma led her oathsworn friend to a sleeping platform at the back of the room and they curled around each other before dropping into a deep slumber.

Their mother watched with a single tear running down her snout. She had recognised S’a’rthyr as soon as she looked into his eyes. Her dream lover. Now sworn to her daughter. Why was life never easy?

But she straightened her spine and swiped that tear away with an impatient claw. Her dream of a true mating of mind and heart and soul wasn’t to be for her.

But for her darling N’a’mma there was hope…

From The Dragonheart Stories: Fairytales for Grownups by Jane Jago. You can also listen to this on YouTube.

An everyday tale of village life and vampires…

Ginny was getting ready to go to the brutalist-designed village hall for the meeting of the Ladies Association. She had decided she should go in disguise – as a normal middle-aged woman. 
This would have two advantages both anonymising her as she walked through the village and maybe allowing her to blend in better with the Ladies Association. Turning up dressed in her usual kind of outfit, looking very much like the slightly out-of-date lifestyle guru she really was, would be bound to cause issues. 
What if someone recognised her?
The horror of that thought sent her back to her wardrobe for her flattest of flat shoes and the once-upon-a-time ‘office smart’ black trousers she had been contemplating donating to charity for the last year but which had still somehow made it into the packing boxes when she moved. A suitable slightly baggy blouse-top with fake buttons and a slate grey thigh-length cardigan completed the ensemble.
Makeup was a minimum. Then she recalled Lucinda’s pithy comment and sighed.
“At a certain age you have to cake it to fake it, darling, or just throw in the towel and give up.”
Should she?
Did she even have time?
As she dithered over that, there was a sharp rap on the front door. Which was odd as she had a very visible doorbell.
The man who stood on her threshold was somewhere in his sixties at a guess, close to six foot tall, his grey hair a bristle on his scalp and his eyes pulled into a slight squint. His posture was severe, as if he had something uncomfortable pushing in the small of his spine and forcing his shoulders back. In one hand he held a large manilla envelope and under the other arm was a short cane with a silver ferrule. Ginny found herself staring at the cane.
“Doorknocker,” he said in a clipped tenor. Then proceeded to demonstrate by fluidly reversing the cane into his hand and rapping on her door with the ferrule. “Major Sidney Harmsley-Gunn at your service. Please don’t ask about my military service, hush-hush and all that.”
“I wasn’t…” She stopped herself, hearing in her head how rude that might sound so she changed it quickly. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“No. I didn’t send ahead. On a sort of recon, you see. Recruiting.”
“Recruiting?” Ginny echoed weakly, desperately thinking what he could mean. “I think I’m a bit old to be eligible for the army – even the reserves.”
That made his squint turn into a frown. It occurred to Ginny that he probably couldn’t see very well. Too proud to wear specs and not suited for contacts. She had met a few of those in London.
“Recruiting for the PC. We have a vacancy and I thought with your metropolitan – er – heritage, you’d bring some much needed common sense about progress in the village.”
“PC?”
“Parish council.” He thrust the manila envelope into her hands. “Just fill these in and bring them along and we’ll co-opt you. Village hall. Second Tuesday.” He stepped back almost clicking his heels then spun on the spot and marched back towards the gate. He paused and lifted the cane as he reached the corner of the cottage. “That’s next week.” 
Then he was gone. Ginny caught a glimpse of the clock and realised there was no time to think about her makeup, she had to go or risk being late and having to sneak in and hope no one noticed. She grabbed her shoulder bag, the one she had chosen as it looked most like a regular kind of handbag, plain faux-suede with tagged zips. All her bags had shoulder straps so that was not something she could choose to do anything about.
There was something happening at the church, but she didn’t have time to find out what, although she was sure there was an outside broadcast van from the local TV in the car park partly concealed from view by the trees. 
The doors of the ugly hall were open as she arrived. Inside the room was cavernous and steel-strutted rafters gave the whole a very grunge feel. There were three doors at one end, the two on either side marked with representations of male and female and the one in the middle labelled ‘Kitchen’. At the other end was a small stage and three rows of chairs were set in a horseshoe facing it. But their focus was not the stage. Someone had set a small table with a laptop in the middle of the horseshoe and a woman sat there who looked to be about the same age as Major Harmsley-Gunn. She was short and comfortably rounded with a neatly cropped head of snowy waves, a pair of hugely trendy horn-rimmed spectacles and a determined chin. She was dressed from head to toe in eye-wateringly bright colours culminating in a ‘pair’ of hand-painted DMs, one of which was orange while the other was violet.
She stood up as Ginny walked in and smiled a welcome.
“Hello there! You must be Virginia Cropper? Em mentioned you might be along. I’m Agnes Millman. Do take a seat. Wherever you like.” She accompanied the final words with a sweeping gesture to the rows of empty chairs. ”Oh and don’t worry, everyone will be here in a few minutes. I asked them to be ten minutes late today so I could brief you first. It’s always a bit daunting walking into a room full of people who all know each other I find.”
Ginny felt a sharp prick behind her eyes and blinked. This was another heritage of the depression. Simple acts of understanding and kindness aimed her way always made her feel teary. But gone was her plan to hide at the back and hope not to be noticed – to observe quietly and see how she might fit in. She took a reluctant seat in the front and to the side mumbling her thanks.
“The Ladies Association is a very venerable institution in the village,” Agnes told her, sitting down again. “We can trace our organisation back to the middle of the Eighteenth Century, but we have always kept up with the times and changed our remit accordingly. In fact, part of our AGM is reviewing the charter so we can discard the outdated and update the dated.”
Ginny nodded and when silence followed she risked a question.
“So what is it the Ladies Association actually does?”
Agnes laughed.
“Oh, everything. We do everything. From organising the annual fete to raising funds for village causes. You’ll soon gather what we’re all about when the meeting starts. Please don’t feel pressured to take anything on first time out. It’s very hard not to, but you’ve barely been here a couple of weeks and I’m sure you’ll still be settling in.” She leaned forward over the table her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’d just try and learn a couple of names and accept a few invitations for coffee. Everyone is going to want to have you over as you’re new here, so be careful not to overfill your diary.”
Agnes sat back and her voice changed to a cheerful bellow that resembled a roll call.
“Adriana! Stacey! Parminder! Rose! Charlotte! Lilian!” There were a number more and Ginny had turned to see a parade of women most in middle age or older with a scattering of those under forty, before Agnes finished with “Wonderful to see you all. This is Virginia And now let’s get started.” She beamed at one arrival who had a large plastic tub in their hands “Oh Cathy you remembered it was your turn and brought cake. How very kind.”
Ginny found herself shaking hands and trying to put names to faces for a confusing few minutes before Agnes cleared her throat loudly and the room settled down. There were apologies from Emmeline Vanderbilt and the minutes of the last meeting which were approved unread. Everyone seemed to know the agenda and it must have been obvious she was a little a lost as the woman sitting next to her – who had to be around eighty and Ginny recalled was Lilian – whispered “Emailed out – except for Brenda and Clarice as they have no idea about technology, they still think a tablet is what you take for arthritis and a mouse is something you keep cats to prevent.”  
Unfortunately, it was a stage whisper and some sharp looks and the odd giggle came their way.
“Now, let’s get on with the business in hand, ladies.”
For the next half hour they talked fetes and sharing school runs for children and grand-children, charity pushes and knitting bees, bake-ins and who should get the annual award for their garden in bloom. Then the room fell into a kind of expectant hush and Agnes finished making some notes on the laptop. When she looked up and there was something different about the atmosphere in the hall.
“Has anyone got any new problems to report?” Agnes looked around and must have spotted something. “Chloe?”
Chloe turned out to be one of the few younger members.
“Well some of us on the Brownfield Estate is getting eviction notices. The housing association saying we’ve not met some cry-tear-thing what’s on the contract. Me and some of the other single mums has nowhere to go. Kylie’s scared she moves back to her parents and her ex’ll find her again and old Jack Pleasance has been getting sick with his heart after they told him he’d not get his renewed.”
Agnes had become very still and she tapped away on the keyboard of the laptop into a suddenly silent hall. Then she looked up again and smiled warmly at Chloe.
“Thank you for bringing that to our attention. Now, ladies, it’s tea, coffee and some of Cathy’s wonderful cake!”

Part 8 of Much Dithering in Little Botheringham by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook, will be here next week.

The Elf King was owed a princess, and a princess he was going to get. Just not the one he expected. Princess Marianne was a delicate fairylike beauty, and, in her father’s estimation, far too valuable to waste on a promise. Princess Ella, by contrast, was plain and meek and only too aware that her father had cheated.
It took all her courage to look into the Elf King’s face. To her surprise the tall brown-skinned monarch laughed.
“I do not,” he said, “value human beauty highly. But I am enamoured of bravery.”
He held out his twiggy hand.

©️Jane Jago

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Profundity

1. (noun – pronunciation note: pro-fun-ditty) A song much in favour of, and used to advocate the enjoyment of, ill-advised jollity.
   Example: The whole pub broke into a profundity.
2. (noun – pronunciation note: prof-fund-itty) An extremely small academic research grant.
   Example: Professor Smith visited a food bank as she was unable to live on her profundity.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

A niche beside the doorstep once held a scraper to clean mucky boots, but as long as I could remember we’d called it ‘the begonia niche’.

The key was there, under a bulbous pot of begonias. I picked it up and for a moment, I was just home from school to a house of baking smells and laughter.

It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted – the photograph album, the mantle-piece clock, a few trinkets – parts of my history.

When I left, I slipped the key back under the begonias – so the house clearance people could find it.

E.M. Swift-Hook

In an effort to educate the nominally literate and inform those with sufficient humility to understand their own lack of comprehension, Esme offers the correct definition of misunderstood words…

Metronome

1. (noun, pronunciation note: metro-nome) Garden ornament travelling on the Paris underground railway, usually sending ‘witty’ postal communications from famous landmarks as it travels. Notable for exquisite timing.
   Example: The metronome arrived just in time for Roger’s big bash.

2. (noun, pronunciation note: met-rown-home)
A type of dating app for those seeking to gondola-share in Venice.
Example. Luigi relied on a metronome to manage his love life around his career.

If you have any words whose meaning escapes you, Esme Crockford is always happy to share her lexicographical knowledge and penetrating insight into the English language.

The last train passed a while ago
The whistle no longer sounds
It’s a silent track, no clickety-clack
No wheels going round and round
The last train steamed to the quiet sky
On a Sunday afternoon
But I sometimes hear its wheels pass by
Under a gibbous moon

jj 2023