Two Women and Some Books
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 consequences of disharmony between mount and rider…
***** ***** *****
I’ve been on a diet,
But now I am through
Tiramisu, banoffee
I’m coming home to you
I’ve been eating celery
Dining on air stew
Strawberry cheesecake, apple pie
I’m coming home to you
I’ve been counting calories
As I have to do
Sticky toffee caramel
I’m coming home to you
I’m putting the scales away
Cos they make me blue
Tiramisu, banoffee
I’m coming home to you.
Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…
Bearson reached into his capacious pocket and pulled out a packet of hunny sandwiches. He unwrapped the greaseproof paper and handed them around, frowning a warning at Homes who seemed about to question Yore.
“Leave the man be, Homes. He needs to eat before he talks.”
Homes glowered, but buried his sharp little teeth in a doorstop of brown bread liberally spread with butter and hunny.
After he had eaten his sandwich, Yore looked a little better and he turned his long mournful features to where Homes sat licking hunny off his trotters.
Once Yore was satisfied he had the pig’s attention he put a hand in his inside pocket and withdrew a newspaper which he passed across. The headline across the front page was smudged but readable.
‘Fearful Haunting. The Dartymuir Dog strikes again.’
“What has happened, man?”
“Yesterday the old Lord Sleepytown went for his morning walk on the muir. When he didn’t return, his heir went looking for him. The old man was found fallen in a bog, he had suffered some sort of a seizure. The young one carried him home on his own broad back. The doctors say the old one is close to death. He has only spoke three words since they laid him on his bed…”
“And what were them three words.”
“Orange bounding dog.”
“That was very much what I feared.”
Homes hunched in his corner of the carriage, looking, Bearson thought, like a wizened old crab apple hanging from a tree.
For a very long time he said nothing. But when he did speak, his words were utterly unexpected.
“Bearson, old chap. Do you recall the name of that rogue whose circus was accused of harbouring known criminals?”
“The man whose name you so cleverly cleared?”
Homes puffed out his skinny chest. “Yes. Him.”
Bearson closed his eyes to better think, calling to his mind’s eye the hulking brute who swore to be Homes’ servant for life. For a moment his brain paused among the tattoos that liberally decorated a torso rippling with muscles. And then the name came to him.
“Crispermeadow. The man’s name is Arnold Crispermeadow.”
“Well done old man.”
Homes scrabbled about in his many pockets, coming up with a pad of telegraph forms and a purple indelible pencil….
Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…
Prunella teaches you how to cook like a toff!
The biggest test of any woman’s cookery skills (as well as her patience and tolerance for alcohol) is luncheon for a group of her own sex.
The best advice, honestly, is to never allow oneself to be inveighed into hosting what can only be accurately described as a bitchfest.
Should you be foolish enough I have a few words of consolation.
However badly the occasion falls out there will always be worse in living memory – with the proviso that you remember the three golden rules.
Never serve chicken (by some intervention of Beelzebub it will always be raw in the middle)
Never run out of booze
Never allow your husband/offspring/brothers within shouting distance (they will find it terribly funny to cause mayhem and leave you apologise for them)
So, ladies, to our muttons. Now might indeed be a good time to break out your finishing school cookery. Or it might not. Perfect salmon en croute may be the normal order of the day for you, but with fifteen arch-critics at the door, failure is guaranteed. Burned pastry with raw fish inside is the best you can expect. Do. Not. Attempt. Anything complicated. If you must show off your culinary talents I strongly suggest a casserole which can be perfected the day before and merely heated on the day.
But. Having, unbeknownst to me, been made a member of a group of ‘ladies who lunch’ (I believe my unlamented mother-in-law to have been responsible) I have developed a coping mechanism which I am prepared to share here.
The food.
Tapas. Consisting of whatever you can find at your nearest German supermarket (not Waitrose, or Samantha, Lucinda et al will even be au fait with the price). Shove your purchases onto the best Coalport serving platters and smile your best humbly self-satisfied smile.
The booze.
Unlimited amounts of sangria and/or Agua de Valencia. Shakes head at puzzled young women. These drinks are both ironic and carefully lethal.
Mix as follows.
Sangria
2 litres red wine
1 litre Fundador or similar sherry-based brandy
2 tablespoons muscovado sugar
2 large oranges sliced
1 large lemon sliced
2 punnets strawberries
1 cinnamon stick
2 star anise
1 litre lemonade
Mix all ingredients except lemonade in large jugs at least three hours prior to luncheon. Add lemonade at the last minute.
Agua de Valencia
2 litres orange juice
4 sliced oranges (blood oranges for preference)
1 bottle cheap gin
1 bottle cheap vodka
4 tablespoons granulated sugar
2 bottles cava
Mix all ingredients except cava beforehand. Add cava just before the wenches descend
And there you have it. A no-fail luncheon for your natural enemies.
Just one last thing. Make no attempt to hide the supermarket packaging the food came in. If you do, your husband’s ex-girlfriend will seek it out and parade it about the room. Which bitchery there is no point to if you leave the packets in a neat pile on the kitchen worktop. Benefit two of this strategy is that when a mildly intoxicated young woman demands to know if the king prawns were prepared to Mary Berry’s recipe or Nigella’s you can recommend her to go and read the packet.
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…
***** ***** *****
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…
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.
Above,
On wings,
A flight achieved
Beyond
The reach
Of human scope,
Clouded
Skies embrace
The solitary spirit.
Dreams
That lift
The humbled mind
Endure,
And ride
The silent wind
Forever,
Through clouds
Imbued with gentle grey.
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 what to do when your pony is unwell…
***** ***** *****
Ends of wool in multicolours
Memories of projects made
Shades and tones recall the hours
And the games our fingers played
Gathered in a box together
From a child, a girl, a wife
Wind and rain and summer weather
Scraps of wool reflect a life
Join Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson as they investigate the strange affair of the Dartymuir Dog…
The train huffed and puffed across the quiet countryside and Piglock sat huddled in one corner of the carriage. He was obviously deep in thought, and Bearson managed to ignore his rumbling stomach while hoping Homes would remember Mrs Miggs’ pies before they went cold. Fortunately for Bearson’s temper, Homes lifted his face from contemplation and thrust a trotter into the bag and passed out an oozing pie.
Bearson sunk in his teeth into the pastry and groaned silently as the gravy ran down his chins. By the time he had finished his pie, Homes was halfway through his. The great detective belched discreetly and threw the second half of his pie to Bearson.
The rattle and groan of the express train lulled Bearson to sleep, while Piglock Homes pondered the problem they were speeding towards.
The great train groaned and shrieked its way into the station concourse at Brizzle. Homes leaned out of the window and studied the press of humanity on the platform.
“I say, old chap,” he ejaculated. “If it isn’t our old friend Yore.”
The inspector was pushing his way through the crowd towards the train, but the guard was already slamming the doors closed.
Homes poked the top half of his body out of the window.
“Guard,” he shouted. “Hold the train. There’s a guinea in it for you if my friend there catches the train.”
The guard slowed his progress along the train while Yore increased his efforts to reach the express before it slid out of the station. Homes threw the carriage door open and, as Bearson dragged the inspector aboard, flicked a coin into the guard’s horny palm.
Yore just about collapsed onto the faded plush of the seat. He was obviously exhausted, his limbs were shaking and his face was grey and drawn. Although, to be brutally honest, Yore’s face was always grey. He appeared to be struggling for breath and Bearson hurried to feel his pulse.
Homes looked concerned, but Bearson smiled.
“He’s fine. Just over exerted.”
Bearson reached into his pocket and brought out his hip flask. He put it to Yore’s lips. The inspector drank deeply.
“Ye gods Bearson, what is that?”
“It’s creme de menthe and Irn Bru.”
“It’s vile. But I’ll have another belt if it’s all the same to you.” He drunk again. “I’ve been waiting for you. Homes. But I’m afraid we’re too late…”
Piglock Homes and his sidekick Doctor Bearson will continue their investigation into The Affair of the Dartymuir Dog next week…
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