Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

As the little train rattled busily through the countryside, the sun made its lazy way over the horizon and by the time they reached Ashbaconton it was well on its way to being fully dark.
The engine huffed importantly as it bustled into the station, before whistling once and subsiding into steamy hissy stillness.
“What do we do with the hamper, old chap?”
“Leave it here. I will be transported back from whence it came. But by all means remove the linen bag you will perceive beneath the scone crumbs and the empty jam and cream pots. It contains a little light supper for later.”
Bearson did as his small friend recommended, although even he thought the bag heavy for a light supper. Being wise to Homes, he made no comment merely lifting the bag by its convenient handles.
Outside the station, a uniformed constable awaited them, beside a high-wheeled gig. The gig was shining in the yellow light that streamed out of the station, and the horse in the shafts was equally well turned out. But neither of those things were what had Bearson’s jaw drop until it bounced against his cravat. No. It was the person who sat at ease on the driver’s seat, with the reins held in sensibly gloved hands. It was a woman. A woman dressed in male clothing and obviously intending to drive three male creatures across Dartymuir in the darkness. Yore stopped in his tracks.
“What is this?”
“Your conveyance,” the constable spoke woodenly.
“But. But.”
The female woman laughed, it was a soft musical sound oddly at variance with her sturdily masculine appearance. Her voice when she spoke was educated, and lacked the strangely rounded vowels of the local patois.
“If you want to get to the Fan of Feathers tonight, myself and Artos here are your only option.”
Homes strode over the the carriage and looked up at the driver. Something passed between the pig and the human woman, and he smiled. He bowed in the grand manner.
“Very well, madam. We are in your hands.”
Bearson decided that now was not the time for argumentification. He gently placed the linen bag in the footwell before climbing aboard. He too bowed to the driver.
“Aloysius Bearson at your service ma’am.”
The woman laughed again. “Pleased to meet you, Doctor Bearson.”
While he was trying to figure out how she knew he was a doctor, Bearson busied himself stowing away the bag and hauling Homes up into the high carriage.
Yore still stood as if transfixed and Holmes leaned over the side of the gig.
“Come along, Yore. We don’t have all night. We need to be out on the muir when the sun rises.”
Yore literally shook himself so hard that spume flew from his lips. He fixed the constable with a glare.
“You need not think you’ve heard the last of this.”
“Leave the poor man alone. I doubt that candidates to drive across the high muir in darkness are in abundance.”
Yore made a very rude noise with his bottom before climbing aboard, still grumbling beneath his breath. When he was settled in his seat, the woman looked around and the yellow light from the station lanterns illuminated her face Bearson was struck by her beauty and the refinement of her features.
“By gad,” he muttered. “I wonder who you are my proud beauty.”
Homes put a trotter to his lips and Bearson subsided.
“I think we are ready to proceed.” Homes was scrupulously polite.
The woman chucked to her horse and the gig moved steadily away from the lights of the station up the darkening hill that led to the heather-clad soughing uplands of Dartymuir.

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

The nemesis of all right-thinking women. But sadly unavoidable. You can dig your heels in all you like, you can even have a lovely plebeian tantrum, but in the end you are going to have to buckle down.
The Hon. Rodney, or your own equivalent thereto, is almost bound to have a whole slew of exceedingly wealthy clients who choose his services above others because he’s a posh boy.
There’s no way to avoid it. Being the daughter of an impoverished Scottish Earl carries with it a certain cachet, and every so often one’s indecently wealthy (but infinitely less well-connected) spouse is going to want to take advantage of a lineage that stretches back to Macbeth and Duncan. In this house we have a bargain. Twice a year I will dust off his mater’s exceedingly ugly diamonds, and remember to smile while explaining that the Hon. Rodney won’t become a Lord until his pater (currently residing in a kindly home for the terminally bewildered, where he has a lovely time shouting at the television and only addressing his carers in Latin) shuffles off this mortal coil.
However. To the meat of this dissertation. What to feed the philistine hordes.
Keep it simple, hearty and wholesome. The men will scoff it and their thin, overproduced, wives will be able to feel superior.

To begin. Soup. Potato and leek (or tinned tomato) with grated sharp cheddar on top and bread rolls. NB. Do make sure the butter is at room temperature – there is little as annoying as trying to spread an iceberg of yellow dairy product.

Main course. Something that cooks very slowly and can be prepared a long time in advance. My own go to is beef in booze. Which is prepared the evening before the shindig.

You need.
(Serves 8)
3lb-ish beef skirt cut in about half-inch cubes (By weight about 12oz per person.)
6 large mild onions peeled and finely sliced
6 trimmed leeks also sliced finely
250ml passatta
2lb peeled chopped tomatoes (or the equivalent of canned)
2lb button mushrooms
4 large red bell peppers sliced
2 cooking apples peeled and chopped
4 large potatoes peeled and cut into small cubes
6 large juicy cloves of garlic
2 litres cheap red wine
1 can stout
1 tablespoon dried oregano
2 tbsp Worcestershire sauce
2 tbsp soy sauce
1 tbsp Dijon mustard

You will also need a large casserole dish with a very tight fitting lid. Grandmother’s for preference or something French, cast iron, and eye-wateringly expensive.

Brown the beef and bung in the bottom of the casserole, fry the onion until darkly caramelised and put atop beef. Throw the leeks, mushrooms, peppers, apples, potatoes, passatta and chopped tomatoes in on top. Mix crushed garlic, stout, oregano, soy, and mustard and pour over beef etc. Finish with wine. Clamp lid on tight and shove in the slow oven of the Aga. Leave severely alone until lunchtime next day. Remove from oven. Check seasoning. Add more wine if gravy level looks low. Shove back in oven until it’s time to serve. (If necessary, gravy can be thickened with cornflour mixed to a paste with cooking brandy.)
Serve with mashed potatoes and peas.

Alternative main course – slow cooked lamb shanks from your nearest German supermarket, which you shove in your own casserole dish with extra wine and give another couple of hours cook. Same accompaniments.

Pudding: either Eton Mess or some sort of steamed sticky with custard. Or it can be glossed over altogether by providing a humongous cheese board and some of the Hon. Rodney’s aged port (or, better still, cheapo port in a pretty decanter or three).

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

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…

Polygamy

1. (noun – pronunciation note: poly gamey) A parrot with chronic halitosis, perspiration rash and nuclear flatulence.
   Example: They couldn’t tolerate it in the house so the polygamy had to be in the garden shed.
2. (noun – pronunciation similar) a parrot who spends the children’s inheritance online gambling.
   Example: Thanks to the polygamy they had to sell the house.

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 doesn’t matter what you sell,
Long as you sure can sell it.
It doesn’t matter what you tell
The folks as who’s gonna buy it.
It doesn’t matter if your pitch
Is always moved on and along.
It doesn’t matter if you’re right,
‘Cos the customer’s always wrong.

Eleanor Swift-Hook

Ponies and Progeny or the graceless art of equine management as envisaged by the pen of Jane Jago and inspired by the genius of Norman Thelwell (1923-2004)

Today we consider the correct way to approach your mount…

***** ***** *****

June comes in beauty, decked out with flowers
Bluebells and harebells, buttercups and celandine
Bringing us days with long daylight hours
And lily-of-the-valley and sweet columbine

Every hedgerow and meadow is blooming
Poppies and daisies, cornflower and chamomile
Gardeners’ know midsummer is looming
Forget-me-nots, campion and hoary cinqfoil

Summer is coming with all nature’s glory
Comfrey and clover, valerian and marigold
Wildflowers blooming tell their own story
Agrimony, saxifrage, and dandelions bold.

So out in the fields and gardens we ramble
Pansy and tansy, willowherb and cow parsley
Braving the sun and the rain and the brambles
For foxgloves and meadowsweet and bird’s foot trefoil.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…

Hustle it was as the little cross-country train was already tooting its whistle. Homes, who had the speed of an athlete when he chose to exert himself, shot over the bridge with Bearson and Yore puffing in his wake.
“You would think,” Yore grumbled, “that a serving officer of the law would be able to outpace a normally sedentary pig.”
Bearson didn’t bother to answer – being not built for physical exercise he had no breath left for debating police donkeys.
On the platform the train awaited, and if it were possible for a contrivance of wood and steel to appear impatient one would have said that the little train seemed to be waiting for them with barely concealed annoyance.
Homes had a carriage door open and the two confederates all but fell into the train.
“I say, you two,” Homes was in self-congratulatory mood. “I thought we were supposed to be hustling. It’s a good job one of us isn’t too fat to run.”
He barely evaded the heavy clout Bearson aimed at his porcine snout.
“If you are going to be like that I’m sorry I held the train for you.”
Bearson, who was feeling thoroughly disgruntled, glowered. “Well I don’t suppose you would have bothered of it wasn’t for the fact I have your ticket in my pocket.”
Homes chortled. “Good deduction old chum. But never you fret, I have your interests at heart.” He showed his sharp, yellow teeth in a gin before carrying on. “Yonder is an emporium where one may purchase a cream tea, or, should one be about to embark, a hamper containing scones, country butter, strawberry jam, and clotted cream.”
Bearson’s mouth watered.
“It’s an awful shame we hadn’t enough time to obtain such a thing.”
Yore sat up.
“I could make them hold the train,” he said determinedly.
“No need, old chap.” Homes was expansive. “If I’m not very much mistaken here comes our hamper.”
Indeed, two stout gentlemen in stripy aprons were cantering along the platform, bearing between them a large and obviously heavy wicker hamper.”
“Cream tea for Piglock Homes,” the fattest of the two cried in stentorian tones.
Homes threw the carriage door wide and hung out at a precarious angle.
“Over here,” he cried and the hamper was brought to the door.
After pushing it through the aperture the men held out their large, red hands. Homes put a shilling in each and the men saluted politely.
The guard came along and slammed the door and the train pulled busily out of the station.
Bearson and Yore picked up the hamper and followed Homes’ scuttling little figure. They found an empty compartment and Bearson opened the hamper.
He groaned. “Look at this.”
Yore elbowed him aside and stared at the Lucillan repast.
“I suppose,” he said in an awed voice, “this means we have to forgive Homes for being such an annoying little piggy.”
Bearson didn’t deign to reply, being too busy slathering a sultana scone with strawberry jam and thick yellow cream.
He passed it to Homes, who had settled in one corner of the carriage. Homes sunk his teeth into the sweet treat.
Yore, who had sunk into his Ulster like a grey phantasm of depression, blinked slowly. “I have a premonition of disaster,” he enunciated.
Bearson made a rude noise with his lips and passed the inspector a scone oozing cream.
“Stop premonitionising,” he advised, “it’s injurious to the digestion.”

Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…

Jane Jago

Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!

It’s not bit of good you groaning like that – little Parasol (or whatever outlandish moniker you have decided to burden the fruit of your loins with) will have been invited to, and attended, parties for every other little monster in their group at school. Ergo, when the anniversary of their own birth comes along it is incumbent on you to do the decent thing.
I have suffered through several of these occasions, before Rodney Junior and Caroline reached the age where they would sooner have their eyeballs plucked out than have a party anywhere near their aged parents, and I am feeling magnanimous enough to share what I have learned.
First. The invitations. It is neither cute nor funny to write the things yourself – most particularly if you elect to do pretend child writing. No. Get your local speedy print, or the geeky nephew of your daily woman, to make them and then all you need to do is pen the name of a child on the envelope.
Next. The entertainment. A conjurer no longer answers the trick (even if you can find one without a police record). No. A discotheque is the thing. For preference in one of the outbuildings and with a sensible mummy tasked to keep and eye on the deejay.
The Food. Ask yourself what children actually eat and prepare accordingly. Do. Not. Be. Fooled. By. Any. Popular. Cookery. Expert. Children really won’t eat couscous, raw vegetables with dips, hummus, homity pie, cupcakes (they eat the icing and attempt to murder each other with the rest), jelly, or any trendy little number whose texture resembles cold porridge. What they will eat is chips (fries if you are of colonial descent), burgers, sausages, chicken dippers, crisps (chips to colonials), chocolate buttons and ice cream. Therefore the plan goes as follows. The day before, assemble the actual burgers. They should be small, flattish and consist solely of minced steak (with a little breadcrumb and egg to bind). Place same in the refrigerator overnight. If you are lucky enough to be in possession of a large enough refrigerator, the burgers can be placed on lightly greased oven trays before refrigeration – thereby making it the work of but a moment to shove them in a hot oven. Purchase sufficient small bread buns in which to shove said burgers when cooked. The addition of a slice of revolting processed cheese will serve to convince the bloody little heathens they are eating ‘proper’ burgers and not pale home-made imitations.
On the day, place packets of crisps and ‘fun sized’ packs of chocolate buttons on a table and let the little darlings help themselves.
At the appropriate time shove the burgers in the oven alongside trays of ‘American fries’ (very thin chips) serve in cardboard boxes with paper napkins.
On No Account let the brats have salt, vinegar or ketchup. It is not worth the tantrums.
When the main course has been eaten/stamped into the floor/thrown up save the day with ice cream cones. Don’t be cozened into buying the expensive stuff from the local artisan place, or offering choice of flavour. You want soft scoop vanilla.

On the other hand you could make the Hon. Rodney put his big fat fingers in his wallet. (He was there at the conception (probably) and has had little to do with the brats since.) Take the tribe to the cinema where they can sit through whatever Disney has on offer, and then troop them all across the road to the golden arches where they can stamp their food into somebody else’s floor.
Note: this also has the advantage of you not having to provide gin and canapés for their dreadful mothers.

Look out for more tips on how to cook like a toff next week!

Things are not quite how you might remember them in the 100 Acre Wood for Christopher Robin, Pooh Bear and their friends…

***** ***** *****

Jane Jago