We got back from the funeral at about three o’clock and Mother went straight to the kitchen. I went up to change. On the way down I glanced into Emmie’s room. The two chairs were as we had left them, facing each other, a coffin’s length apart. I set them back against the wall and went down to tea.
[Liverpool, July 2013]
Click on any image for slide show or scroll dow to read text.
Rutland Water is a large man made lake in the County of Rutland. The area was flooded in 1976 and part of the lake is used for water sports (sailing, fishing, etc.), and part has been developed as a wild fowl reserve, with other areas set aside for other bird species. I visited it while I was at the British Bird Fair, held in the nearby village of Egleton.
Rutland Water
ABOVE Map of Rutland Water BELOW Stand at British Bird Fair
There were stands from many countries – this one is from Santa Lucia, in the West Indies
From the birding point of view, the area is divided into three parts, two on the same side of the lake, either side of the main reception building and a third across the water. From this third area it is possible to see ospreys fairly close up; I stayed on the nearside as neither time nor transportation was on my side, but with approximately twenty hides to visit there was plenty to see.
Ospreys on the nest (from http://www.ospreys.org.uk/category/osprey-team-blog)
ABOVE Ospreys at Rutland water BELOW Little ringed plover
Little ringed plover at waterside
The ‘new’ for me included a little ringed plover, pretty but hard to spot, and a little egret (first time for me in the UK, although common enough in Argentina). Lots of Egyptian Geese (I counted 21 in simultaneous sight at one hide), and an unusual close up shot of a couple of little grebes building a nest in open water close to the 360 Hide. At one distant hide I opened a hatch and found four swans, two adult and two of this year’s cygnets, about two metres from me; they were quite unmoved by my presence.
One of several little egrets I saw on Rutland water
ABOVE Little egret BELOW view from one of the hides
View of wetland — from Grebe Hide
I managed to visit all the hides bar one (I took the wrong turn and missed it) and my legs tell me I did a fair bit of walking but it was worth it. This is one of Britain’s premier birding sites and if the pickings were a little lean in mid summer that is hardly to be unexpected. I have made a note to come back in the winter, when migrants are likely to be passing through, and in April, reputed to be the best time of the year for the reserve.
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I’ve just come back from Egleton, a sleepy village in equally sleepy Rutland. The last time I was here was on an intermediary leg of an inter-house road race relay, back in 1965. I would have been 16 or so, and was carrying the winning baton on a crucial leg through what today is the approach road to the Green Car Park for the British Bird Fair, held at Rutland Water, which is where I find myself today.
The Bird Fair, with part of Rutland Water in the background
ABOVE Egleton with bird fair / BELOW Admiral Hornblower
The Admiral Hornblower Inn, Oakham
I spent a good couple of days at Egleton, but not perhaps for the best of reasons. I stayed at a comfortable Inn (I use the word ‘Inn’ advisedly) in Rutland’s small county town of Oakham, where I had spent eight years of my schooldays as a boarder, although on this trip saw little of the town other than the insides of bars and restaurants. Transportation to the Bird Fair, a couple of miles away, was iffy as regards buses (organisers please note) but cheap enough by taxi if you could get one. I also benefitted from the occasional offer of a ride by the driver of one of the Oakham School buses. The Old Boys’ network is not dead.
Visitor’s Centre – with access to the hides
ABOVE: entrance to Rutland Water Visitors centre BELOW: Me with Bill Oddy
Me with Bill Oddie – I’m taller than him and he’s fatter than me
The British Bird fair is the biggest of its kind in the world, with exhibitors from all over the world except, for some curious reason, the United States. Go figure. There were a few celebrities around – Bill Oddy, who was very chatty, and Chris Packham, strolling determinedly across the meadow with a very serious look on his face that no doubt served him well as as protection against cholulos like me. I also met Enrique Couve, co-author of my favourite birding book Birds of Patagonia, Tierra Del Fuego and Antarctic Peninsula: The Falkland Islands and South Georgia. He was very pleasant and we have arranged to meet up in Punta Arenas in November.
Shetland Lass with a tempting smile
ABOVE: an invitation to the Shetland Islands BELOW interview with world-famous photographer Ben Tarvie
Ben Tarvie, bird photographer par excellence
I spent time on some of the Latin American stands, especially the Argentine one, and found all the stand holders exceptionally friendly and knowledgeable. There were useful stands offering photographic and other birding equipment but no bargains. There were several second hand book stands specialising in birding books but I somehow lacked the focus to pursue this (see below). And there were a number of stands dedicated to various aspects of bird crime: a message very well worth driving home, and to be copied to Argentina.
There were several stands highlighting the problem of bird crime
ABOVE Bird Crime BELOW Islay whiskies
Some of the many smoky malts on offer from Islay
The Islay stand was particularly hospitable, and I took up their offer to try nearly all of the malts distilled there. The whisky was excellent, but may have clouded my judgment and I soon tired of all the commercial side of things and decided I would pass on any further invitations to invest twelve grand in an all-inclusive trip to, say, Costa Rica: not my style of birding at all. And then I remembered that I was on the edge of one of Britain’s premier birding sites, Rutland Water, so I left Marquee 6 and headed for the hides. More about that in a separate blog.
At the bottom of Rutland Water (under the water, that is) is the submerged village of Hambleton, whose inhabitants were relocated when the valley was filled with water. I used to cycle all over the county when I was at school here, but here I shall ride my bike no more; it belongs to the wild life that have reclaimed the land and water.
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A light-hearted look at some verse forms – including limericks, clerihews and double dactyls. Published in MET Vol. 10 No. 4 (October 2001) [This is a continuation of an article you can find here]
In a previous article in MET Vol.10 No.1 (Jan 2001) we looked at Tom Swifties. Here’s an example to remind you: ‘Give me your gun,’ said Tom, disarmingly. Yes, they are very bad puns but that’s the point – the reaction is supposed to be a groan, not a laugh. In fact there is more than one kind of Swiftie. The kind we’ve looked at is the adverbial kind (‘They say I overuse adverbs,’ said Tom, swiftly). But there is another kind which uses a verb instead of an adverb. An example might be ‘What a lovely brook,’ Tom babbled, where babbled refers both to what Tom says and the noise of the running water.Here are some more ‘verbal’ Swifties: ‘Don’t you get angry with me,’ Tom growled. There is a rarer third type, using a prepositional phrase: ‘I’m leaving you, Rupert,’ said Rodney in gay abandon. These are rather harder to construct than the other two (and my apologies for the stereotyping here). Another variant of the Tom Swiftie matches a person’s name with an appropriate adjective. We might for example speak of The hasty Mr Swift, where the adjective hasty picks up on an attribute contained in the name Swift. Some more examples: thinking of ELT authors, we might refer to the brutal Mr Harmer where the word ‘harm’ (embedded in ‘Harmer’) is associated with the idea of brutality or violence; the festive Ms Revell (‘revels’ are parties); or the towering Mr and Mrs Soars (to ‘soar’ is to shoot up high into the air).You get the idea. But Swifties are only one example of ways in which people play with words. Let’s have a look at some other ways of bending the language to our will, playing this time with what might charitably be called verse but should more accurately be termed doggerel. The limerick The limerick is an institution throughout the English-speaking world. In fact, there is actually a Limerick day – celebrated on the twelfth of May. I’ve no idea who decided this, or when, but one year US novelist Erica Jong celebrated the occasion with a tribute to the inventor of the Limerick, Edward Lear: A bespectacled artist called Lear Edward Lear first published limericks in 1846 and since then the craze has never really died, although the majority in circulation are probably not suitable to tell your grandmother. The rhyme and rhythm are supposed to be always the same (AABBA) and the last line is supposed to produce a humorous climax. The format is not as restrictive as it might seem. Here’s another, slightly less conventional one. It’s a favourite project of mine Lear’s original Limericks usually started with ‘There once was a man from…’ or ‘There was a young lady from…’ and the final line echoed the first one. This form is rare now, and there is really no limit to the ingenuity of some people who turn their hand to writing limericks. I was once challenged to write a limerick beginning ‘There was a young girl called Victoria’ (Victoria was the name of the Institution I worked at) and it took me quite a long time to work out a suitable rhyme scheme. If you’re sensitive, skip the rest of this paragraph – but I was quite proud of what I eventually came up with: There was a young girl called Victoria Rapidly shifting to a loftier example, a graduate of the University of Birmingham has embarked on the extraordinarily obscure task of putting Shakespeare’s tragic masterpiece King Lear into limerick form (see box). Don’t ask me why, but if you compare this extract with the original text (King Lear, Act I, Sc ii) and try to continue for a verse or so, you will rapidly realise just how impossibly difficult the task is. This comes from Act I, Sc ii, where Edmund and his father Gloster are reading and discussing a letter, supposedly written by Gloster’s bastard son Edgar, in which it is proposed that the two sons murder their father. To appreciate this tour de force it helps considerably if you know the plot.
Here are a few more limericks for you: This self-same young girl called Victoria The limerick is furtive and mean; There was a young lady from Kent 12, 144 + 20 The clerihew This is another verse form that has a strict rhyme scheme but the rhythm is rather more flexible. It was invented in 1890 or thereabouts, perhaps unsurprisingly by a gentleman of the name of Edmund Clerihew Bentley. His first clerihew is said to have been as follows: Sir Humphry Davy Although very possibly the first of its kind, this is far from the best example of the genre and other writers with time on their hands have since gone on to produce far more skilled examples. Here are a couple more: Sir Christopher Wren And another I found in my notes: Billy the Kid The structure of the clerihew consists of two phrases, each consisting of rhyming couplets and spread over two lines of indeterminate length, giving a total of four lines. The first line is the name of a person and the other three lines make a comment or observation about him (or her, technically, but strangely all the clerihews I have read seem to be about men. There must be a paper in that somewhere …) The double dactyl This is a variation on the clerihew, although a little more structured, and is known in the US by the name Higgledy Piggledy. The form is said to have been invented by Anthony Hecht and Paul Pascal (see references below). It consists of two quatrains each of four lines. The second line must be a person’s name and the fourth and eighth lines must rhyme. At least one line must consist of a single word only, almost always multisyllabic. Here’s an example from The Sunday Times Guide to Wordplay and Word Games: Tweedledum Tweedledee And another from Helen Grayson at the University of Leeds Opera seria Double dactyls are as not easy to write as limericks or clerihews, especially when the sense of the poem is supposed to relate to the life of the person mentioned in the second line, although the form has found popularity on university campuses where people tend to be more used to long words and convoluted language. Material consulted
Translation of Nigel Dunn’s limerick: A dozen, a gross and a score
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Published in Modern English Teacher, ISSN 0308-0587, Vol. 10, Nº 1, 2001 , pp. 18-19
A game which developed amongst language lovers back in the fifties was based on Tom Swift, the hero in a series of boys’ adventure books who never simply ‘said’ anything, but always said it ‘morosely’, ‘resignedly’, etc. This adverbial inclination led to the ‘Tom Swiftie’, a kind of word game in which you have to link an adverb to the meaning of a phase in such a way that it has a double meaning.
For example, if poor Tom is hobbling around after a skiing accident and has mislaid his crutches we might say:
“I’ve lost my crutches”, said Tom lamely.
where the word ‘lamely’ has the double meaning of a poor excuse and the difficulty Tom experiences in walking.
If you like playing with words and their meanings this kind of thing can be immense fun and highly addictive. Like all puns the more outrageous it is the better: few Tom Swifties arise accidentally.
The Random House Dictionary of the English Language, 1st edition (1966) defines Tom Swifties thus:
Tom Swiftie, a play on words that follows an unvarying pattern and relies for its humor on a punning relationship between the way an adverb describes a speaker and at the same time refers significantly to the import of the speaker’s statement, as in “I know who turned off the lights,” Tom hinted darkly. [named after a narrative mannerism characteristic of the Tom Swift American series of adventure novels for boys].
In actual use, “Tom Swifty” seems to have a somewhat broader meaning, and includes the form sometimes called “croakers” or ‘groaners’, where a verb rather than an adverb supplies the pun, e.g.
“I’m dying”, Tom croaked.”
Who is this Tom Swifty character anyway?” asked Tom unselfconsciously.
Tom Swift first appeared in the eponymous series “Tom Swift” written by Edward L. Stratemeyer and first published in 1894 and later revived to continue (under different writers) until about 1935.
In these stories Tom never merely “said” anything; he asserted, asseverated, averred, chuckled, declared, ejaculated, expostulated, grinned (plainly or mischievously), groaned, quipped, or smiled. In particular, sentences of the form “xxx”, Tom said xxx-ly were used ad nauseam. Over time a person or persons unknown decided to satirize the mannerism by using puns, and the Tom Swifty was born.
The following examples (courtesy Mark Israel) will demonstrate how they work. Let’s start by taking an adverb such as ‘abstractly’ and look at three sample Swifties we can make:
“I like modern painting”, said Tom abstractly.
“Now that’s worth stealing”, said Tom abstractly.
“This is the first step towards my thesis”, said Tom abstractly.
Here we can relate the concept ‘abstract’ to, in turn, ‘modern art’, ‘the verb abstract’ (meaning ‘to steal’) and the kind of ‘abstract’ you make of an academic paper.
Here are some more complicated ones (with hints in brackets)
“The executioner has received the tool he needs”, said Tom with a heavy accent. (Axe end)
“Let’s all play an A, a C#, and an E”, cried the band with one accord. (A single chord consisting of the notes A, C# and E)
“I got this ballpoint pen from a Yugoslav friend”, said Tom acerbically. (A Serb BIC)
If you found these painful, the whole point of Tom Swifties is that – because they are puns – they are contrived (the more contrived the better) and make you groan rather than laugh.
In the box on the right / below / wherever you will find some more examples for your amusement – you should be able to work them out for yourself without too much trouble. Once you get the idea perhaps you might like to try and invent a few of your own. We’ll publish the best here, propriety permitting.
More Tom Swifties . . .
Here are some better known Tom Swifties. Readers of MET may have fun making up their own examples and are invited to contribute these for a follow-up issue.
And a couple more croakers …
[Article continued here]
It was over coffee that Marie decided the time had come to kill her husband. Like the milk spiralling in her macchiato, the idea had been swirling around in her head for some time but the after dinner conversation had finally stirred her to act. It had also suggested the means to bring Derek’s life to a timely end, as pleasingly as the excellent coffee rounded off a fine meal.
Things had been bad between them for a long time, and it was perhaps odd that it was on this, the most enjoyable evening she had spent in Derek’s company for as long as she could remember, that she was finally goaded into action. Still, she reflected, all things have their time and purpose. Or as Derek, who could only speak in clichés, would constantly say, ‘there is a time and place for everything’.
Well, now there was to be a time and a place for Derek. The time asap, the place tba, she mentally diarised as they thanked their hosts and agreed that yes, they must do this again soon, and yes, it was a warm night for this time of the year, wasn’t it, and no, they hadn’t been at all offended by the host’s obnoxious neighbour who, under the influence of fine wine and dining, had become a little too intimate. The usual platitudes, but it had been a good evening and the drunken advances had not been altogether unwelcome. That would be something she would want to follow up in more sober circumstances.
And the method? Her wine-befuddled mind went back to the coffee table discussion. One of the dinner guests had been talking about her experiences in Haiti, where she had lived for some years as a field anthropologist. She had been telling them about some woman who had been found wandering the streets of Port-au-Prince, confused and unresponding, some thirty years after her death. It seemed that this condition could be induced by injecting toxic substances into the bloodstream.
Well that wouldn’t be much use to me, she had thought at the time. Derek’s bad enough as it is, with his phoney bonhomie and his trite observations, but at least he can dress and feed himself. The thought of wiping away a zombie Dereks’s spittle and getting him in and out of bed or a chair to wipe his arse quickly ruled that one out. But the anthropologist was still speaking to one of the guests, who had now asked about voodoo dolls. No, said the academic, who was holding court with undisguised condescension, in New Orleans, perhaps, but sticking pins in images was more of a European practice. One of many misconceptions of Haitian voudou. Next question please.
Academics, Marie sniffed. With their superiority, their pedantic hedging, their inability to sit either side of the fence without reams of actuarial data and supporting evidence. God save us from academics. But the image of the voodoo doll, or as she had been reliably corrected, the European poppet, stuck in her mind as Derek drove them home and before going to bed she consulted her electronic oracle,Wikipedia. This Pandora’s box of all things wonderful unreliably informed her that a poppet was
‘a doll made to represent a person, for casting spells on that person … may be fashioned from such materials as a carved root, grain or corn shafts, a fruit, paper, wax, a potato, clay, branches, or cloth stuffed with herbs … intention is that whatever actions are performed upon the effigy will be transferred to the subject’.
Outside Marie could hear Derek taking up residence in the bathroom. She printed out the Wikipedia entry, locked it in the top drawer of her escritoire and went to bed. Her own bed. She and Derek hadn’t shared a bed for ten years, hadn’t made love for five, unless you counted that fumbled attempt in Heysham the night the Douglas ferry was delayed, when they had spent the evening in that ghastly local pub warming themselves with the cheap supermarket brandy the bartender had poured from an expensive Courvoisier bottle. Last time she’d had a glass of brandy of any kind, and last time she’d touched Derek in any way. And now to sleep, hopefully to dream of tonight’s drunken dinner guest, who she was now far more likely to touch than Derek. In her dreams, at least, for tonight. Tomorrow she’d see about more physical contact.
* * *
Eight fifty-five the following morning found Marie bright and sober outside the local library. In the cold light of day the idea of causing her husband’s death by sticking pins in an effigy seemed laughable, but she had nothing else planned and at least it would get her out of the house and away from Derek who as she left was braying on the phone in an attempt to get enough cronies around for a bridge morning. God save us from Bridge players, she sniffed. And in my house. Cigarette and pipe ash everywhere. Yellow piss stains around the rim and base of the loo. She’d have to have another word with Mrs Roberts about the way she cleaned lately. Not letting the standards slip in her house.
Marie spent a couple of hours in the library, making notes about the history of poppet dolls in Europe and England. Mumbo jumbo, she thought to herself, this is never going to work, and after a while she abandoned the idea and thought she would look into untraceable poisons instead. She found herself formulating a theory that most criminals were only ever caught because they were stupid, and what would be more stupid than to be seen with books on toxic substances when you would be the prime suspect in your husbands death. This would have to be done anonymously, and would need careful research elsewhere, somewhere that people won’t know her. There would be time for it, but die he would, if not today.
No problem with poppets though, and she swept her mumbo jumbo papers into her bag and drove off to Waitrose to pick up a few bits and pieces and to see if any decent wines had come in since her wasted visit last week. She would have to have words with the manager again if there was no improvement. She returned home at lunchtime with bag of assorted oddments and a half case ofTorrontes, drinkable she hoped, safe in the knowledge that Derek et al would by now be in the Turk’s Head until at least early afternoon and then clocking up eighteen holes at the club, and possibly half as many pints at the nineteenth hole. She was unlikely to see or speak to him today, thank goodness.
Remembering that Mrs Roberts hadn’t been in yet this week, she collected an empty jam jar and a ladle from the kitchen drawer and went upstairs to Derek’s bathroom. One of the privileges of separate bathrooms was that she no longer had to suffer the sight of his naked, walrus blubber body or the sound and smell of his ablutions and noxious secretions, but this physical presence was very much what now attracted her. In his waste bin she found some orange sticks liberally covered in earwax – yes, that would do for a starter. Greying hairs were easily collected from the waste hole in the shower, mulched into a soft mucous mass along with what might well, knowing her husband’s habits, have been semen – and better for her purpose if it was.
Dark yellow in the lavatory bowl showed that Derek had not flushed away his last piss – no surprise there – and she ladled a generous helping into the jar, covering the putrid grey and orange-streaked agglutination. Using his damp flannel as a cloth she managed to mop up a few nail clippings from the floor and added them to the growing specimen collection, a blend unlikely to be offered for sale by Wilkins and Sons, manufacturers of its previous contents. Some scrapings of dandruff from his brush and comb and she was done.
Satisfied with her work Marie went up to her study and unlocked the top drawer of the escritoire. Something stirred her consciousness. Something wasn’t quite right. The paper she had printed out the night before was there but was face up, with the text visible. Surely she had left it face down? Odd, that. But she had been drinking the night before, maybe she was mistaken. She placed the Tiptree jar and the notes from the library inside, locked up again and went down for a glass of torrontes to accompany the pâté and baguette she had bought at Waitrose. She would start work this afternoon.
* * *
An hour or so later, standing by the Rayburn with her third glass of torrontes she took some new white candles from the plastic Waitrose bag and, reaching up to the shelf above her, took down an orangebain marie, a present from Derek’s ghastly sister Maureen, married to the equally ghastly Donald, some kind of mortician would you believe. God help us. She placed three of the candles in the top part of the double boiler, poured some water into the lower part and brought the water to a simmer.
She then added the contents of the jar – Little Scarlet Strawberry, she noticed with a wry smile, her mind winging rapidly and irrelevantly from Miss Scarlett the Cluedo killer, through Vivienne Leigh bedecked in curtains, that woman boiling the bunny in Fatal Attraction (why her?) to the man she might have married, now an earl and entitled to eight strawberry leaves of his own – and put on the lid, setting the timer to 40 mins. That should be enough, she thought. As an afterthought she turned on the extractor, opened the back door and settled down with Doris Lessing, bottle, wine glass and wooden spoon at arm’s length and the Le Creuset bain marie within reach for the occasional desultory stir.
Her appraisal of Anna Wulf’s black notebook broken by the shrill ring of the clockwork tomato, she moved the Le Creuzet off the Rayburn to cool and rolled out some cling film onto her largest cedar chopping board. By the time she had washed up her few lunch dishes and put them away the wax mixture would be cool enough to handle and not yet too hard to knead. She checked the remainder of the tools she would need and set to work.
Following instructions she had found in the library she put on her rubber supermarket gloves, sold in Le Creuset cerise she reflected approvingly, and scooping a couple of glovefuls of the glutinous mess onto her clingfilmed board she began to shape her poppet doll. The beer paunch was a good starting point, and as she kneaded Derek’s Neanderthal forehead and bulbous nose were easy enough to fashion. Had she ever found him attractive, she wondered. She must have done once, attractive enough to conjoin, to engender two children, both long gone now. But that was long ago and far away; another time and another land.
Some of her schoolgirl dexterity began to return unexpectedly as she continued to work and she found herself singing an old favourite from the French class: ‘je suis une poupee de cire ..’. Enough she thought, in an attempt to restore dignity and determination. Another glass of torrontes, and the arms and legs were in place, roughly shaped but quite clearly – to her at least – a little Derek in embryo, a roughly formed but relatively complete assemblage of candle wax and bathroom bits. It was time to start on the finer detail.
Using an old dental pick she had found in her daughter’s room, presumably something from Art College – useless girl, waste of a good education, and she marries that ghastly musician, God save us from aspiring musicians – she began to form fingers, toes, facial features. She didn’t bother about genitals, leaving him without. She hadn’t seen them for years, and frankly had little further use for them. ‘What you don’t have, you can’t use’ she thought as she smoothed the loins into a flat, featureless surface.
She poured the last glass of torrontes carefully, shaking the bottle to make sure the last drop went into the hungry glass. It was drinkable, she decided. Nothing special, nothing great, but at least acceptable. She wouldn’t need to take the manager to task again this week. The wax had hardened by now, and as she exerted pressure on the pick to accentuate the curve of the right ankle, her left elbow jammed hard against a pile of cookery books, her arm slipped and the pick drove right through Little Derek’s ankle and into her finger.
There wasn’t too much blood and the pain soon subsided but she thought that was enough and put a plaster on her finger and Little Derek, now fully grown albeit with a broken ankle, away in the drawer together with all the evidence of his creation. By the time Big Derek came home there would be no signs of the voudou murder plot – which was never going to work anyway, but was a satisfying way to spend a Saturday morning. Next week she would start on the real plot, plan it properly. No more childish games, she would treat this as a real project. Derek was going to die, by poison and she was going to arrange it. But first she had to work out the details.
* * *
Picking up the phone Marie dialled the number of last night’s dinner guest, the over amorous drunk she would need to arrange to meet in order to accept his apology in person. She competently fixed the assignation for eight that evening in Gino’s and looked forward to preparing for her tryst. Killing Derek would have to take second seat for a while. As she put down the phone she felt a slight headache and a throbbing in her left arm. She inspected her left hand, sporting a blood-stained sticky plaster, and peeled it off to examine the wound, The hand was a little swollen with some discolouration around the cut, but nothing much to worry about she decided.
By around five, soaking in a long bubble bath, Marie really felt quite unwell. Her whole left arm was by now numb, and swollen from the elbow down. Her breathing was short, and her vision was beginning to blur. Abstracted and confused, she decided that a cup of tea might help but as she struggled to get out of the bath she slipped and fell to the floor, banging her head against the side of the bath. Dizzy but still conscious, she tried vainly to get to her knees but fell back to the floor. Collapsed on the bathmat she began to move in and out of consciousness, but never moved anywhere else and there she was found the following morning by concerned neighbours, organised by the drunken dinner guest, himself concerned by her non-appearance at Gino’s Trattoria. Because of the curious nature of her death a post mortem was held and the police doctor determined the cause of death as blood poisoning, with toxic substances of unknown origin.
Big Derek had not come home that night, nor the following morning. In fact Derek never came home again. Neither had he been playing bridge or golf the previous day. Where he had been that day, and what he had been doing will probably never be known fully, but what happened that night is a question of fact. His Alfa Romeo was involved in an accident in which he died instantly, and which was also the subject of a coroner’s inquiry.
In fact, Derek’s death has gone down in local police circles as something of a curiosity. CCTV evidence confirms that he had driven that morning from his house and his car was recorded at various locations around the town. He had been seen shopping in a hardware store and also spotted leaving an adult bookshop that specialised in matters of the occult. On the bypass in the late afternoon he had abruptly and inexplicably driven straight across the central reservation and into an oncoming articulated vehicle owned by IKEA, whose Polish driver was shaken but fortunately unharmed. The incident is recorded in black and white, literally so in the CCTV footage.
That much is understood. What is not clear, and probably never will be, is how he can have managed to break his right ankle while driving down an urban motorway. Forensic reports show clearly it can not have been as a result of the crash, yet neither is it clear how he could previously have been driving a car with a broken foot. For a time speculation was rife, but in the end the case was a nine days’ wonder, known now only to older members of the local police, and then rarely mentioned.
The duty pathologist, in accordance with the duty rosta, turned out to be the brother-in-law of the deceased. Disposing of Derek’s effects after the inquest he was rummaging inside the corpse’s jacket pockets when he came across something rather odd. It was not at all clear what it was, but it seemed to be a misshapen ball shaped object formed of some indeterminate greasy, waxy substance. Momentarily curious, the mortician rolled it around in his fingers a moment, sniffed it inquisitively and then threw it unceremoniously into the waste disposal unit. Later that night he felt quite unwell, but said nothing, putting it down to the police canteen cooking.
Another text salvaged from old zip disks. SAPA was and I hope still is a highland pipe band (the South American Piping Association). I had a couple of friends in the band and for a couple of years spent some time with them. This was published in the ‘Argentine-British Community Bulletin’ in 1992.
Photo of SAPA courtesy of http://musicaceltaargentina.galeon.com
With the swirling and skirling of pipes and drums, the girls with their jabots and berets, the boys with dirks and garter tabs in and around their thick woolen hose, plaids and kilts representing a multitude of clans, the night is a riot of colour and pageantry contrasting oddly with the Mississippi paddle boat on which we are gathered.The evening starts with a Grand March in which Drum Major Lawrence Towers leads some ten pipers and six drummers of various shapes and sizes around the middle deck. Behind them strut several proud little four and five year olds, the ‘sapitos’, determined not to be left out and bearing flags representing Argentina, Scotland, SAPA and the Gordon and MacLean clans, groups into which SAPA members are divided for administrative and competitive purposes.All in all, some two hundred people follow Lawrence round and round as if he were the Pied Piper of Hamelin, in ever widening rows until the physical limitations of the Mississippi Queen put a stop to their peregrinations. The waiters seem a little bemused by all this; in all fairness the confused ritual of a Grand March and the sight of a Highland Band all togged up is perhaps a little awe inspiring the first time you see it.
The Grand March is followed by an Eightsome Reel, in which the problem of the supporting columns is ingeniously solved by forming circles around them. I fear for the speaker stacks as a myriad of kilts and plaids swirl to the sound of Jimmy Shand and his Band; Maclean and Gordon, Black Watch and Fraser, Royal Stuart and Mackenzie, all the hues of the Highlands. A man in a kilt next to me asks why I’m not wearing one. I tell him “I’m English, not Scots”. “I’m Argentine”, he replied, “who cares”. And he’s right, tonight one can be both, or neither; for the time being nationality is playing second fiddle to emotion .Eightsome over, a few disco numbers allow the light reflected from a mirrored sphere to pick out the various swords, pins and brooches on the dancers’ plaids as the relaxed discipline of Scottish country dancing gives way to frenzy of a more international kind. Coloured lights pulse with the music as we work up an appetite. Then down to the lower deck for something to eat, supper with SAPA, as it were.
After the first course Lawrence Towers, every inch a Drum Major when kitted out with baton and sash but surprisingly mild mannered as an emcee, takes the floor to thank the founder members who are present, Alistair Lean, Norberto Bryant, Oscar MacHenry de la Plaza and Luis Eastman, and presents them with an Anniversary Badge. Alistair Lean was the first Pipe Major and he speaks of his debut some 25 years earlier, finding it it fitting that there should be six dancers making their debut that night. This, and the presence of the ‘sapitos’ who are also just getting started in SAPA, provide a chain of continuity which he feels appropriate. The event is perhaps a little hermetic to the outsider but clearly this is a nostalgic occasion, in a sense a family reunion, a gathering of the clans.
Second course over, and up we troop to the middle deck for more entertainment; the top deck, despite the attractions of its artificial turf, canopies, bars and and bunting proves a bit wintry for these Argentines, more accustomed to the temperate Pampa than the rigours of the Scottish Highlands. It’s now 1.00 a.m. Some of us linger at tables, renewing acquaintances, some move it to Ruben Blades, bringing a touch of Central America to increase the international feel, when suddenly the PA informs us that it is time for the Gay Gordons , and Panama gives way to the Borders for a while.
But not for long, and we’re soon back to some anodyne Argentine rap. Good sound system this boat has though, even if the dj looks the wrong side of forty to maintain his street cred. Peter Edwards and I move out onto a quarter deck for a breath of air and to escape the jump being pumped. Peter is an ex-treasurer of SAPA and he tells me he has come all the way from Venezuela where he is now working; he arranged leave so as to be able to attend the anniversary ball. I am impressed. SAPA clearly arouses great loyalty to its members and one wonders whether more might not have attended if there had been more room on the boat and the cost of entrance ticket had been a little less steep. Clearly a policy decision was taken here to splash out on the anniversary.
We go back down for ice cream and coffee. Waiting for Alejandra to reappear I idly read the list of band and dancing group members. The names are revealing; a predictable scattering of Scots names, notably the Mackenzie clan which is seemingly able to put on its own show single-handedly, but the rest is as cosmopolitan as the Buenos Aires telephone directory. Which is of course what you would expect; SAPA is far from a jingoistic enclave, rather it is a group of people united in some cases by a common ancestry and in all by a feeling for Scots music and culture.
SAPA is not just a Pipe Band and Dancing School, it is a family. Nonagenarians Reginald Hortis and his wife are present; so are children, grand children and great-grandchildren of theirs. I look around at all the little children, the ‘sapitos’, got up up in Highland dress and having the time of their lives. SAPA runs a school for these little ones and teaches them how to dance and to play the pipes and drums, not only providing future members but infusing them with a feel for the culture. But more important, it includes them – you feel that this is an occasion for all the family. SAPA seems to be something you have in your blood and on tonight’s showing likely to survive into the next generation at least.
My reflections are interrupted by a new arrival on the dance floor. For reasons not altogether clear a bald headed man with a red bow tie, a walking stick and a pronounced limp has grabbed a microphone and started to belt out the Spanish favorite ‘Granada’. He comes to an end and tells us he is Bolivian. Now it is all clear. Of course, if you get a bunch of Argentines disguised as Scots on a Mississippi River Boat in Buenos Aires, well it is only reasonable that a Bolivian will start singing Spanish songs. I refill my glass.
The Bolivian (I never got his name) is very good. He takes the Mississippi Queen on a tour of the world, and we stop off in Israel, the United States, Mexico, Italy, Chile, etc, for him to give us songs and jokes from each of these places. He has the audience in stitches. As I said he is very good. Nothing to do with Scotland, but very good.
After our world tour the riverboat redocks and the coffee arrives. I chat with one of the dancers who has been with the dancing troupe for longer than she cares to admit, and she explains to me some of the arcane niceties of Band folklore. That highland dancing was really for boys, not girls. That unlike other bands in BA the SAPA girl dancers don’t use sporrans, which are apparently only used by men. (I noticed later that they don’t wear thick woolen stockings either, but that may be a question of economy). That pipers play with straight fingers, not bent ones. That there is Highland dancing, accompanied by pipe bands, and country or formation dancing accompanied by dance bands, and not to confuse the two. We discuss haggis and neats and more lore and wisdom of the Hills and Valleys, until she has to leave me to prepare for the show.
Feeling concerned about her digestive processes I follow her upstairs where the band is tuning up on the quayside, if that is the word to describe the sounds produced by a pipe band getting ready to perform. The music of the bagpipes is certainly an acquired taste, and there is a difference between a solitary piper dimly perceived on the top of a battlement through the double glazing of one’s drawing room and ten of them in the close confines of the middle deck of a Mississippi River Boat. I personally like the sound although you won’t have to go far to find a different opinion.
A man comes up to me and suggests I might like to look around the boat. I surmise correctly that this is the manager and that he has got wind of my press connections. I decline graciously, on the grounds that the show is about to begin, but assure him sincerely that I am very impressed with the quality of the food, the courtesy of his staff, the facilities provided on the boat, etc, etc. A good test of the flexibility of caterers is their ability to handle unexpected demands efficiently. My unannounced request for vegetarian food produced immediate and exceptionally tasty results. I tell him this too, but I keep quiet about the undrinkable bottle of red wine left at our table which we surreptitiously switched with the table next door.
I am informed that SAPA are off to the Cordoba Beer Festival next weekend. Apparently they do a lot of cultural festivals like the Feria de las Naciones , and have appeared in many folk lore or cultural events in theatres and on television. Being a family group they are equally at home playing less formal events, and do many shows, large and small, at kermesses, receptions weddings and private parties. Come to think of it, it’s a nice idea to have a Scots band to liven up your party, and certainly different.
The Band marches in for the Show, Lawrence Towers at the fore, magnificent in full regalia. One of the side drums is played by a boy who can’t be more than ten years old. He keeps good time in any case, and the Band performs its show, consisting on this occasion of a piping and drumming display and three dances, carefully chosen to give all the girls a chance to dance and to provide a variety of different dancing styles.
SAPA is a school, and what better to start the dancing than a number written by one of the members, Ann’s Delight , arranged for SAPA dancing instructor Ann Walker by Lawrence’s elder brother, Andrew. As I said, it’s a family band. One of those foot-tapping tunes so typical of Scottish music, and I find myself somewhat irreverently singing to myself “Auntie Mary had a canary . . .” Memory is a strange thing.
Ann’s Delight is followed by Seann Triubhas , which as I am sure all readers know is Gaelic for ‘old trousers’. An intricate dance often seen in competitions, it is performed by five of the troupe, and followed by Broadswords , a sword dance performed on this occasion by sixteen girls whose feet are not supposed to touch the swords while they dance. They don’t, as far as I can see, which is a miracle in itself given the cramped space available. If I understod my informant correctly this is one of the few dances actually intended to be danced by lassies rather than laddies.
Highland dancing is a joy to watch, with its prancing walk, stylised bows from the waist, scissor leaps and intricate footwork. They say that men love a girl in uniform; whether that is true need not detain us here but there is no doubt that it adds to the overall appeal. The Pipers too sport a colourful uniform, originally designed one feels to make them look more intimidating. The combination of the two, Pipe Band and dancers, is unique, and a joy to watch.
To the sound of Scotland the Brave the band and dancers march round and round ending up in a strange configuration which finally reveals itself as a representation of the letters S. A. P. A. The girls produce flashlights from the recesses of their uniforms to duplicate the same motif on the ceiling. A moving moment, and the show is over.
The band marches out, paper hats, streamers, whistles, masks, etc are handed out, and the dancing starts again. For me it’s time to go home. Fortunately I get offered a lift by the video operator who was filming the event. We leave together at 3.30 am to the strains of Sergio Mendes’ Brazil ; somehow totally in keeping with the international flavour of this Scots night in Argentina. As for porridge for breakfast tomorrow, I somehow don’t think anyone will be up in time.
Note: I found this today while clearing out old zip files and it amused me. It’s odd reading stuff you yourself wrote nearly forty years ago. This comes from way back in the 80s, when I was the owner/director of a language school in Buenos Aires. It was originally published in the Buenos Aires Herald.
Some sample pages from El Inglés Práctico
At the end of every year I have the unenviable task of cleaning and clearing out the Victoria School book room. This means having to decide what to bin and what stays in, effectively a trade off between the squirreling instinct and the pragmatics of shelf space.
One book which seems to survive the chop every year is a rather tattered volume called El Inglés Práctico. No, not my long awaited autobiography (which could certainly never go out under that title, on account of how I am by all accounts un inglés bastante impráctico), no, this is a course book for learners of English from way back when. Look as I would, I could nowhere find a date of publication but judging by the wardrobe of the characters in the line drawings I would place it somewhere in the late twenties or early thirties.
I should perhaps make it clear that this is a wholly Argentine book, and the characters and situations are predominantly set in Argentina. The first vocabulary items presented in volume one are ‘the father’, ‘the mother’ and ‘the honest family’. In fact, honesty would seem to be the theme of this first unit. Consider some of the sentences in the first lectura y conversación:
The father is kind, the mother is good and the son is gentle. The family is good and honest. Is it good and honest ? Yes, it is. Robert is the child. He is very honest. The grandfather and the grandmother are very old and (yes, you’ve guessed it) they are honest.
I’m not making this up. Honest.
Another thing I liked was the pedagogical device of giving in each unit a short list of frases usuales en clase, basically a list of teacher-talk items useful for classroom management. In the list of these ‘useful phrases’ accompanying the very first unit, along with the expected ‘stand up’, ‘sit down’ and ‘exchange places’, appear enjoinders to ‘pronounce well’, and, presumably lest this not produce the desired results, to ‘pronounce better’. Would that things were so simple.
The second lesson introduces some rather more useful vocabulary, setting honesty aside for a while in order to concentrate on the wardrobe. A brief extract should give you the flavour:
Is this bodice flannel or woolen ? It is neither flannel nor woolen, but cotton. Have you not a pretty fan ? And has he not new braces ? No, I have a simple one and he has old ones.
Most teachers I know would be probably be happy if their students came up with these structures after two years, if at all, let alone two lessons, considering the inverted negative questions, anaphoric references, pronominalisation, etc., involved.
Leafing through to the end of the book I cannot resist sharing with you the visit to the peluquero de caballeros (all captions, instructions, etc., in the book are in Spanish, a trend, incidentally, which is returning now in much new ELT material). Consider the advice the customer (looking rather like Ramon in the illustrations of the famous Buenos Aires Herald publication Ramon Writes) is given:
Your hair is very dry and dull; you should put some brilliantine on it every day. I have some which is very good and makes the hair glossy without greasing it.
The customer (hereinafter to be referred to as Ramon and that’s without an accent, please, Mr. Typesetter*), agrees to the transaction at the confusing price of six dollars a bottle, at which the hairdresser somewhat alarmingly comments:
I shall give you a little friction, shall I not ?
Fortunately for sensitive readers, Ramon, after considerable thought (and no doubt working it out that if a bottle of brilliantine sets him back six bucks then a friction job is likely to leave him in the poor house) rejoins “No, it is not necessary’. After all, to sell El Inglés Práctico in schools they would have wanted to keep the ‘G’ rating.
Our students certainly come a long way by the end of the book. I quote from the final unit of what I must ask you to remember is a first year book:
Thus, from the hands of this prodigal son of the Independence, surged this sublime blue and white ensign, which today flies proudly and arrogantly from the masts of ships, public buildings and Argentine forts.
Unfortunately I don’t have a copy of El Inglés Práctico – Segundo Libro, but I should be very interested to see it. The ‘Argentine forts’ seem to have disappeared too.
I am at present teaching a group in the Victoria School who are hoping to sit for the University of Cambridge Proficiency Examination at the end of this year, at a level corresponding to some eight or nine years of language study. With respect to my students, many of them would be pushed to come up with something quite so elegant as the above eulogy to Belgrano. Those teachers of long ago certainly must have known something we don’t know today.
______________
* there were typesetters in those days – how times have changed.
Going through some old, very old files on some Zip disks I found –remember Zip disks?– I found this rather curious piece I had written back in the 80s. A word of explanation is perhaps necessary.
Encotel was the name of the Postal Service in Argentina in pre-privatisation days, and expats like me living in Buenos Aires who had the good fortune to receive packages from abroad had to go down to their International Office on Antartida Argentina and Comodoro Py (this is the junction of two streets in the old dock area). Here you had to queue for ever to pick up your parcel (if they hadn’t lost it), and, what’s worse pay the customs dues.
The problem with this was that you had to pay the importation / customs fee not just before collecting the parcel, that would have been OK, but before knowing who it was from or what it was. My own particular problem was that being the owner of a language school publishers would frequently send me samples –books, audio and video cassettes (remember cassettes)– which were not always welcome. My mum and sisters would send presents for the children too, and I had no way of knowing which were which without paying first. And there were no refunds. Incidentally, despite Argentina being a signatory to the free importation of educational materials, in Encotel you still had to pay – but that’s a whinge for another occasion
And they decided how much. Quite how they calculated custom dues was always a mystery to me. I once received a paper and bamboo Siamese fighting kite something like the one above but rather more artsy fartsy. The customs declaration said in English ‘1 Siamese Fighting Kite’ and the guy on the counter asked me to translate. I told him what it was (and explanation was necessary because the translation didn’t really do it for him) and with no hesitation he quoted me a price as if he was used to people importing these items on a daily basis. And the price he quoted –with no consultation of any sort– was at least twice the cost of the kite in England plus the postage.
I was always pissed off about this, and one day, having a column to fill in the Buenos Aires Herald, I sounded off publicly. Nothing changed, but it generated a little humorous correspondence. Not quite sure why I chose to do this in cod Elizabethan, but guess it seemed like fun at the time. The original text is below – I have resisted the urge to tinker, although should like to.
A pox on Encotel
Manolo: Good even, Jorge: Wherefore goest thou?
Why art thou breathless, wherefore starest thou so?
For do I fear so as I love thee well
The stars have shone unwontedly on thee.
Jorge: Tis true, and vexed I am of late, for now
Hard from that place I come where many hours
Are customed men to wait in hope for news
From foreign climes by th’authorities withheld
And yet must waste for naught yet pay it dear.
Manolo:
What meanst thou? Sirrah, prithee, speak me plain
Nay, riddle me not, yet say thy meaning clear.
Jorge: Of Encotel I speak, yet, bear not hard
That I should so inflamed inform on this
Which wrongs the state: Oh, what would come on it?
Manolo: Yet speak you now. I bid thee that you stand
Not on your love for state yet that I know
You bear for me. I pray thee tell it clear,
What cause hath brought thy countenance so low.
Jorge: I have a mind to tell thee all, I swear;
I’faith I shall: a pox on Encotel.
Fashion it thus: this day upon the morn
A paper through my casement all sealed up
Did tell me presently to make repair
To Antartida and Comodoro Py
Where messages from foreign parts had come
And urged me if I would of this more know
Present myself twixt eight and four o’clock
Manolo: Why, sirrah, then a packet hast received?
And paid it well, in taxes and in time?
Jorge: Yet let me speak. Would wert it thus, yet hark,
It was not so. Methinks thou knowst the place?
Manolo: Indeed, an’t please you, many a time and oft
Cause have I had for frequenting that place.
Jorge: Tis well. Then list, for I shall now unfold
Th’events which me befell ere night had dropt.
With motive plain came I to Encotel,
The yellow paper firmly grasped in hand,
Where to a table at the entrance plied,
A surly fellow was which tended me,
Sleek-headed, dank and bittered as the vetch.
My papers scarcely glanced at, me he sent
T’another table, documents to present.
Manolo: And, so it is, good friend, thou knowst full well
The custom of this land is fashioned thus.
Jorge: So let it be, for ’tis no cause for pain,
Yet seems it strange to me what next befell.
Manolo: I pray thee, sir, to cut thy story short.
Jorge: That shall I. To a gentleman I hied
Whose office ’tis the fees to calculate
On packets here received from foreign lands.
What price, I asked: he answered twenty-six
With forty cents. For what, cried I? Yet hold,
This packet, prithee, sirrah, please inform
The contents what they be, ere I do pay.
Manolo: Methinks thou hast a point: unknowing ne’er
Should man his coin dispense without just cause
and knowledge full
Jorge: I’faith a jot he cared
but I could pay or thence from whence I came.
Manolo: And, paidst thou, Jorge ?
Jorge: Ay, in truth I did
As curiosity doth master man.
And nay, why not, indeed? For unbeknownst
To me a packet despatched might have been
And favourably had chance to be received.
Yet too methought should one consider on
How men desirous to promote their wares
Send unsolicitedly their marketries,
Thus giving me some worthy cause to wish
Their deeds undone wert I to bear their costs.
My argument presented thus rebuffed
So urged I was to pay or hie me home.
But pray thee, truthfully, I vainly cried,
‘Tis meet that I should pay when yet I know
Not what tis that I pay? Ye Gods, ’tis strange,
‘Tis passing strange, perhaps I want it not.
Again they bid me quiet, again I railed
Till blue-robed clods were standing thick on me.
I hung my head, I cried in shame, I paid.
I ask thee, Manolito, canst be fair?
Manolo: The packet, what was’t, that caused thee all this trial?
Jorge: Ha, why, in truth, tell thee yet I can not,
For seeing only of what ilk it dealt,
And ang’ring as the flint that beareth fire
Left I it there: ‘Twas trash I needed not.
Of all the strange things that have reached my ears
It seems to me most wondrous Encotel
The hard-gained drachmas of a peasant poor
Should thus wring from his ignorance, for who
In presence of a packet from afar
Can yet resist, or, unresisting, live
With redress all denied tho cause there wert.
‘Tis strange, I swear, ’tis strange, yet ’tis, yet ’tis.
