Twenty-four hours of non-stop smoking and intensive intake of Pinot Grigio and the words Stringent Cutbacks ringing in our ears. The very nasty letter from the bank manager is preying on all of our minds – to the extent that when any of us (including Bloggiana’s daughter Teener) goes to the loo, we take a good deal longer than normal. It just does seem to absorb more time when you are working with only one sheet of loo roll.
Then after 24 hours, Bloggiana and I agree that this gloom thing is not really our style. I know what, the Old Girl says with the first hint of cheer in her voice since she found a photograph of the bank manager taking part in the 2008 Fluxcombe Nora Batty lookalike competition, let us go back to the Girlsville College magazine obituaries column. At this, the Old Girl disappears. Teener and I sweep up the crumbs from our toast ready for breakfast tomorrow (crumbs excellent with milk and water). By light of candle, we scrape the scrapings from one chutney jar into another. A small broccoli leaf that seem to have escaped from the chopping board is picked up and placed into a bucket – just in case one of our chickens feels like it turning into an egg.
And as we work, we hum – not too loud lest we lose more body heat than we can afford but loud enough that we don’t hear Bloggiana coming back into the room.
So that when we turn round and she is there, fully bedecked in a college scarf, Starsky and Hutch dark glasses and fuchsia pink jersey that seems to have a tail to it – the jersey being not unlike a tailcoat except fuchsia pink and knitted – both of us jump. Why Bloggiana, I exclaim. Mu-um, expostulates Teener. And Our Dog too must be taken aback because he begins to howl, almost but luckily not blowing out our candle.
Never mind all that, Bloggiana says dismissively. Take this, she says, handing over the magazine, then stepping backwards into the tail of her jersey and landing somewhat sharply on the sofa. Now read.
Then after 24 hours, Bloggiana and I agree that this gloom thing is not really our style. I know what, the Old Girl says with the first hint of cheer in her voice since she found a photograph of the bank manager taking part in the 2008 Fluxcombe Nora Batty lookalike competition, let us go back to the Girlsville College magazine obituaries column. At this, the Old Girl disappears. Teener and I sweep up the crumbs from our toast ready for breakfast tomorrow (crumbs excellent with milk and water). By light of candle, we scrape the scrapings from one chutney jar into another. A small broccoli leaf that seem to have escaped from the chopping board is picked up and placed into a bucket – just in case one of our chickens feels like it turning into an egg.
And as we work, we hum – not too loud lest we lose more body heat than we can afford but loud enough that we don’t hear Bloggiana coming back into the room.
So that when we turn round and she is there, fully bedecked in a college scarf, Starsky and Hutch dark glasses and fuchsia pink jersey that seems to have a tail to it – the jersey being not unlike a tailcoat except fuchsia pink and knitted – both of us jump. Why Bloggiana, I exclaim. Mu-um, expostulates Teener. And Our Dog too must be taken aback because he begins to howl, almost but luckily not blowing out our candle.
Never mind all that, Bloggiana says dismissively. Take this, she says, handing over the magazine, then stepping backwards into the tail of her jersey and landing somewhat sharply on the sofa. Now read.
And we are back to our old friend Jeannie May. “First eleven hockey at primary school,” I read. “Captain of netball. Poetry prize, Literature prize, Debating prize, Most consistent winner of the Egg and Spoon prize. Head girl. Leading Brownie of the year, Duke of Edinburgh Platinum award, Highest Grades in the school award. Head Girl. Crikey”, I say, almost involuntarily.
“Read on”, bids Bloggiana.
“One of the earliest intake of Girlsville College”, I read. “One of the first girls in the college to study Applied Zoology”, I read. “Leading light of the College Theatrical group,” I read. Crikey again.
As I read, I find my mind wandering slightly. I picture Jeannie May and an image of Bloggiana’s old nemesis, the Blue Stocking, looms into view. Her meteoric professional life, her charmed family existence, the charities she supported, the good work she dispensed all round. By the end of the penultimate paragraph, I am ready to stifle a yawn. But Read on, Bloggiana bids imperiously.
And then I read: At the age of 66, Jeannie May died relatively young by today’s standards. This was due in no small part to the fact that she remained an enthusiastic smoker to the end.
I look over at Bloggiana and see that she is lighting up. A spark drops from her cigarette butt onto the tail of her favourite student jersey and flares up, causing a brief storm of fuchsia coloured smoke. Thinking fast, I bound to the kettle and extract the latest bank manager letter from the spout. We hold the letter over the heat, watch it disintegrate, raise our glasses and toast Jeannie May. An impeccable woman, we concur. And laugh until our eyes hurt.
“Read on”, bids Bloggiana.
“One of the earliest intake of Girlsville College”, I read. “One of the first girls in the college to study Applied Zoology”, I read. “Leading light of the College Theatrical group,” I read. Crikey again.
As I read, I find my mind wandering slightly. I picture Jeannie May and an image of Bloggiana’s old nemesis, the Blue Stocking, looms into view. Her meteoric professional life, her charmed family existence, the charities she supported, the good work she dispensed all round. By the end of the penultimate paragraph, I am ready to stifle a yawn. But Read on, Bloggiana bids imperiously.
And then I read: At the age of 66, Jeannie May died relatively young by today’s standards. This was due in no small part to the fact that she remained an enthusiastic smoker to the end.
I look over at Bloggiana and see that she is lighting up. A spark drops from her cigarette butt onto the tail of her favourite student jersey and flares up, causing a brief storm of fuchsia coloured smoke. Thinking fast, I bound to the kettle and extract the latest bank manager letter from the spout. We hold the letter over the heat, watch it disintegrate, raise our glasses and toast Jeannie May. An impeccable woman, we concur. And laugh until our eyes hurt.
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