A Comedy Of Eateries

'Shall we hie us forth to the glorious town that is Stratford upon the Avon this fine Sabbath Day of Our Lord twenty thousand and ten?' said Mistress Denise.
'Yea, we shalt,' quoth Master Andy, 'but don't be over-doing the olde Englishe, eh?'
'I know not of what you speaketh,' sniffed Mistress Denise, 'but I do know I could partake of a cup of tea pretty soon.'
'Then let us hie to Stratford! At the pull of the power of sixteen hundred horses, we shall be there in the blink of a street hawker's eye,' cried Master Andy.

Our merrie travellers arrived in the town forth-herewith-in.

'Which olde worlde tea shoppe shall we patronise?' said Master Andy. 'Is there a favourite amongst the many that strew the streets?'
'I suggest we hie to Hathaway's Tea Roome,' said Mistress Denise. 'For we have partaken of tea and muffin there once before and you know how I dislike change, and also, although the floors were verily wobbly, there are indoor lavatory facilities available, and not only do I need some tea, mine bladder is verily as full as a swine's after it hath supped a gallon and a quart of ale, foresooth 'tis.'
'Too much information,' quoth Master Andy. 'But to Hathaways! For I can purchase a copy of the Daily News whilst passing on our travail, and we can spend merrily an hour readin' 'n' suppin', me fine beauty.'
'Steady on,' said Mistress Denise, 'th'art slipping into George III forward slash Blackadder speke.'

And so the companions purchased a copy of 'Th'Observer', it having the best available colour supplement compared to the other media offerings of the day. And into Hathaway's Tea Roome they entered, whereupon they were greeted by one sullen maiden who barely could raise an eye from an i-pod (Cor, that was good!), afore muttering 'Upstairs for tea.' A quick glance across her wares showed her eclairs were likely of yesterday's leftovers and not worth a groat nor a French guinea.

'I am liking to visit the indoor facilities firstly,' said Mistress Denise, 'for once I am sat, I may never rise no more.'
'Okay dokey, Mistress Mine,' said Master Andy. 'I shall loiter in the vestibule and toy with my dagger a while.'

Mistress Denise found the indoor facilities lacking in anything soft, strong and absorbent - luckily, for the stars were kind to her that morning, she had a Kleenex in her hand bag.

Once relieved, she returned to the vestibule, where Master Andy toyed with a faraway look in his eye.
'Stop thy toying now, Master Saucy,' said Mistress Denise. 'Let us secure a table in a corner and read a while, and take some tea and maybe a bun.'

For ten minutes and more they sat, on chairs that were verily meant for smaller tushes than the ones they presented, but no matter, for the diet begins tomorrow. Many young serving wenches schlepped around the place, looking for all the world like they wished to be home in the arms of Orpheus. Or is it Morpheus? Or Duveus? It matters not. Onward with the tale! More and more people brought their custom to the tea roome; and then...

'Ere,' said Mistress Denise, 'those people arrived post us, yet are being dealt with kindly by yonder schlepping wench before us.'
'Yea,' said Master Andy. 'And see the party in yonder corner. They have been dealt with also, yet they pitched up a goodly five minutes after our arrival.'
'That's hardly on, is it?' said Mistress Denise, who liked it not to be ignored when in situ as a customer with many groats to spend. 'Is't because we are perched, tight-buttocked, in a corner hiding behind the broadness of 'Th'Observer' dost thou thinkest?'
'Tis possible,' said Master Andy. 'But I am growing verily pi....'
'Yea, verily, me too,' interrupted Mistress Denise, because our heroes were of high-breeding and not ususally given to blaspheming in public, especially on our Lord's Day. 'How long shall we loiter in hope of being delivered of tea 'n' muffin think you?'
'Five minutes?' said Master Andy, for generosity abounded in his veins.

And so they waited five more minutes, rustling their papers, and coughing, and trying to catch the eye of one of the schlepping wenches, but verily, 'twas a waste of precious life, for 'twas as though they were rendered invisible by some dubious plot device like in 'The Tempest' or 'Cymbeline,' or Polonius behind his arrass. And not wishing to be inadvertently stabbed by a Hamlet wannabe, Mistress Denise and Master Andy left, nay SWEPT, from Hathaway's Tea Roome, vowing never to return there again.

'Never shall we darken thy door again,' said Mistress Denise, shaking an angry fist at the facade as they entered into the street.
'Come away hither,' said Master Andy, not wanting his lovely companion to start a scene as she is wont to do when scorned and in need of tea and muffin. 'Let us instead partake of luncheon at the Baguette Barge that floateth 'pon the lovely Avon. They shall not ignore us.'
'Only because they're stuck on a boat,' said Mistress Denise, gumbling like a cat with wind from eating too many mice. (What??????)

But yea verily, Master Andy was right and two baguettes of excellent filling were purchased and consumed whilst sitting on the grass watching some rather entertaining street theatre. Followed by an icecream.

The National Trusting Bunch

The National Trust are a trusting bunch. Perhaps that's where they got their name from. Hadn't thought of that before now but it would explain why they have sent us our new membership cards without us having actually renewed our membership for this year. We've had a polite reminder to renew with an offer of a free organiser bag (whatever that is. This household already has an organiser bag - me!) if we pay by Direct Debit, they've even sent us the latest copy of the National Trust magazine.

But sadly, our NT membership is one of the casualties of me being an as yet unsalaried writer. That, and running a second car, having my hair coloured every six weeks and going on long weekends away to watch lovely Shakespeare productions by the RSC (although we are off to Stratford for an overnighter in June to see 'The Winter's Tale.' When I was a teacher I ran a drama club called 'Pursued By A Bear', a nod to the famous direction from the play -Exit, pursued by a bear,' and I am very excited to see how the RSC handle the bear issue. I hope they have a man in a costume rather than try and fob us off with clever use of shadows and sound effects. The play also has a clown and characters called Florizel, Mopsa and Dorcas. And false beards. And satyrs. And clothes swapping to bring confusion to the plot. Who said Shakespeare isn't a laugh???)

Anyway, we decided to let the NT membership lapse because we've 'done' all the properties in our vicinity. We like going to Sissinghurst because they have a nice restaurant, but you don't need membership to go into the restaurant or the gift shop as they are situated outside the gardens. Also, we've been around the gardens many times already and to be quite honest, there is only so much one can take of Vita Sackville-West and her lady-shenanagins with Virginia Woolf and the rest of the morally loose Bloomsbury set before they all start getting on one's nerves.

Of course, we now face a moral dilemma. We are in possession of the new cards. There is no way staff can check the validity of your membership from your card via a bar-code or chip 'n' pin, for example. And to be honest, they never check your cards properly anyway. I have a theory you could wave an old chocolate bar wrapper at them as you sail past and get in, no probs. It would be quite easy to get a year's membership for free.

We won't, of course. We are too honest to do something like defraud a charity. Besides, we'd both look too shifty to get away with it and God would make us choke on our Sissinghurst apple crumble for our sin. And the guilt trips would keep us awake at night. We'd end up doing something like bulk-buying NT advent calendars, bird feeders and collapsible walking stools to make up for not paying our membership fee.

I wonder if an MP would feel the same? Nah. I expect they'd try and claim it back on expenses.

Oooh, yes! My order from the Domestic Fowl Trust arrived yesterday. One bottle of gentian violet spray (very pretty - the girls will LOVE it! Purple pants all round), one pecking post (already installed with Mrs Pumphrey who is giving it a valiant pecking but it's made of solid stuff so should keep mad Mrs Slocombe occupied for her two week confinement) and eight anti-peck bits which look like nose rings. You attach them through the hen's nostrils, a bit like a bull nose ring, and it prevents them from gripping hold of feathers yet allows them to eat and drink normally. Only one ring at a time, I hasten to add, not all eight. Don't want Mrs S looking like a wayward punk rocker.

So come the weekend, Mrs Pumphrey will be released and Mrs Slocombe can begin her intensive psychiatric treatment. Goodness, but I hope it all works. We shall try our best.

Alfie

Leaving the house together this morning, Andy and I are assailed on the driveway by an exuberant boxer dog. He is the size of a small horse and is galloping up the middle of the road until he spies us emerging from our front door. There is a lady in hot pursuit so I hang onto the boxer's collar which is no mean feat given his size and strength and keeness to play 'thrashing about like a fish on a line until I choke.'

'Oooh, thank goodness!' the lady puffs. 'I was afraid he'd run out into the main road. Is it okay if I leave him with you?' It transpires the running lady is not the owner of the boxer. And without really waiting for a response she turns and disappears in a puff of relief at no longer being responsible for this runaway creature. This is the second time in four months we've suddenly found ourselves reluctant guardians of lost dogs. The previous one was a tiny border terrier puppy. We are starting to feel like dog magnets.

'This is very inconvenient,' I think. The dog is wearing a collar and we try to read the attached tag. The dog seems capable of producing much saliva and, excited at being with new people, he immediately covers Andy's coat and shoes with a thick layer of foam. The dog translates our attempts to read his collar as a willingness to get up close and personal in a friendly, 'let's have a doggy romp' kind of way.

'He's called Alfie,' I say. 'ALFIE...SIT!' I command. Hearing his name, Alfie sits on my foot for all of two seconds before leaping up again, almost wrenching my arm from its socket. Andy manages, through a mass of doggy licks and kisses, to get the telephone number from the reverse side of the tag. Whilst he goes inside to call the number, I stand outside on the path with Alfie. 'ALFIE...SIT!' I say, again. And again. And again. To give him his due, he responds to the command but sustains the behaviour for an average of 6.7 seconds each time. It's a bit like teaching a teenage boy Shakespeare.
'So who does Macbeth meet on the Heath?'
'A flasher?'
'No, three witches. And they make three predictions for him. Can you remember what they were?'
'Wossa prediction?'
'Telling someone's fortune.'
'Oh right.'
'So what did the witches tell him?'
'Tell who?'
'Macbeth.'
'Who's Macbeth?'

It's a weary process...

Andy returns. There is no reply from the telephone number. Tybalt and Phoebe are building a barrier against the front door using the kitchen chairs and broomstick. We can't put Alfie in the house.
'And don't you even think of bringing him back here,' shouts Mrs Miggins from the back garden. She is standing on a pyramid created by the other hens and some obliging collared doves from next door and peering over the back gate. 'I'm allergic to dogs. They make me sneeze.'
'I had a Shi-tzu once,' says Mrs Pumphrey from the bottom of the pyramid.
'I don't think we need to hear about your toilet habits, thank you,' says Miggins.

Andy decides the only course of action is to take Alfie to work with him, leaving me to try an d contact the owner during the day. Luckily, we have a people carrier with a spacious open boot. As soon as Andy opens the tailgate, Alfie drags me across the drive. Clearly he knows about cars. In fact, I'm willing to bet his third favourite occupation after running wildly down the centre of a road and slobbering, is travelling in cars. He's in the back like a shot and sits obediently and expectantly as if to say 'Where are we going? Seaside? Paris? Abseiling? Let's go to the seaside.I love the seaside, I do.'

Somehow, we manage to undo Alfie's collar, slip it through a seat belt, and refasten it in an attempt to restrain him during the journey because he looks like the kind of creature who would be quite keen to sit up front and play with the CD controls and gearstick as Andy is driving. And off they go, Andy and Alfie, man and dog, Thelma and Louise.

On returning from my swim I set about the task of contacting Alfie's owner. But there is already a message from Andy. They've found her. She is very grateful and Andy is bringing Alfie back this evening to reunite them as he lives just along the road from us. Apparently, he was very good in the car on the way over to the surgery. Didn't change the radio channel once.

Just a quick extra to tell you about - I spent a very informative hour or two yesterday researching bees and bee-keeping and whilst doing so I found the website of the bumblebee conservation society. It's an excellent site and well worth the visit. You can find it at www.bumblebeeconservationtrust.co.uk Have a look. It'll make you go 'aaahhhhh!'