BASHING ON

(in which I Piccalilli introduce a new character, Great Uncle Cymbeline (pronounced to rhyme with Valentine))

It is all too much, pronounces Bloggiana. She is standing next to a wheelbarrow with a special delivery court summons in one hand and a half-eaten horse carrot in the other. Around her lie the scattered contents of her wheelbarrow which has just blown over in one of the year’s latest wind events. Upon her person is her glo-warm, stay-bright, lemon-yellow equi-fleece – a Christmas present that already sports a large hole, thanks to an unfortunate moment with a cigarette, a lighter and an earlier wind event.

I have had enough, she goes on.

And in case we are not already rapt by her protestations of despair, Bloggiana picks up her fork, hurls her half-eaten carrot into the air, hurls her fork after it and causes such an almighty clatter that Mrs Bliggins falls off the charmingly named Lilletta and bruises her coxics.

Why, what on earth, Bloggiana? we exclaim, simultaneously trying to coax Lilletta back into her stable with the rescued carrot and removing the fork from the soft-top of Mrs Bliggins’ cabriolet.

I can’t possibly say, the Old Girl sobs. But it’s all too much. And I’m off. Off to great uncle Cymbeline’s.

And indeed the Old Girl is as good as her word. We watch her break into a run – away from the upturned barrow, the now windswept court summons, a lame and yet inflamed Mrs Bliggins. We watch her throw open the door of her unfeasibly small car and climb in. We watch the gravel fly as she tears out of our yard. We watch her indicate right and turn right – towards Scotland.

Now a few of you may know that Bloggiana has to be in very dire straits indeed before she will contemplate a visit to the S-place. When you mention its name to Bloggiana, all she hears is Abu Greib. Or the shed in Cold Comfort Farm. Or the workhouse in Oliver Twist. For Bloggiana, Scotland is ‘too, too ghastly’; full of value meals and dreadful shops and worst of all, full of Scots. So the idea that Bloggiana is going to take refuge with Great Uncle Cymbeline – who lives alone in the Naples of the North, who has never married, who eats nothing but value meals and who only watches television on Budget Day – brings us all up Very Short Indeed. During the five days of her absence, I Piccalilli and Bloggiana’s friends share a great deal of anxiety between us. I mean honestly, I say to Gluggyella, this time it must really be serious.

Then five days go by and bless us all if the unfeasibly small car doesn’t reappear in Our Drive. I know she must be back because Our Dog leaves the stool he was delivering in the dining room only half-complete and instead stands at the front door, dags hanging, and howls. Bloggiana walks in and I greet her with a tumbler full of PG, a lit cig, a smile. I am nervous that the Old Girl will be in a filthy temper because generally speaking when she does go to Scotland, she comes back with piles, chilblains and a parking ticket. In a Pilates style sweep of her body, I raise my eyes slowly – from her quads to her midriff to her pectorals, finally to her oculars themselves – and find to my astonishment that the Old Girl doesn’t look too bad.

Why Bloggiana, I exclaim, how the hell was it?

We take our tumblers through to the parlour and sit down on top of the Expensive Cooker. Fuck the piles, the Old Girl bellows, lifting her glass ahoy. Cheers, she adds. And then proceeds to tell me All About It.