john lennon we hardly knew you

I knew John Lennon in the early days in Liverpool. I was his headmistress at Chive High, as well as running the tuck shop, and he was often sent to me for chastisement. I was nearing retirement at that time (it was 1958) and he was soon to leave the school for pastures unknown.

I remember once I had to tell him off for putting a runny pudding in the geography teacher’s sandals, which of course failed to hold any of the mess which of course spilled out onto the geography teaching room floor of course. ‘John, John’ I sighed. ‘What are we to do with you?’ He was typically brusque, declaring it made no difference to owt.

I continued to detail his crimes. ‘You drink in class, you have no respect for school camping equipment, and your arse is spongey,’ I said.

‘’Ere, you nutter,’ he then outcried, ‘I don’t mind what you care about.’ There followed some hours of caning – him, by me.

‘I know you have a propensity towards visual art,’ I squeemed, ‘and you are always making us laugh with your mangled, goon-like language in the local rag. Perhaps you could put these two together, then leave the school and never come back?’

My constructivity seemed to be both surprising and refreshing to John, who quickly agreed this was a fine solution. He was wearing a chinese worker’s cap, as I recall, and had just impregnated his soon-to-be wife, Cynthia, a few hours earlier (their son, Julian, would not be born for four years: such was the British talent, perfected during wartime, for holding it in. ‘It’ being a fetus).

He left and never came back: later that afternoon, he wrote one of his best loved songs, ‘Maybe I’m Amazed’ which I often think was somehow connected to our little conversation. And no, it wasn’t yellow matter custard!

daddy, we hardly remember you

Had my dear father lived, he would have been 200 years old this very day. He was a charming fellow, all laughs and toffees, until it all went sour, about 1830. Here is a beautiful picture of him by Whistler, who was a pal at Cambridge (tea rooms):

As you can see, he was given a fright while the picture was being painted. But I really think this portrait captures his eyes (shifty blue) and his moustache (though it was properly captured by the Royal Society in 1922, having got away from Daddy himself the previous year while he was swimming in the London Aquarium).

As a boy, he was a marvellous inventor - the Joe Meek of his day, really, including the murder but not the suicide. He invented stereo, but could never quite eliminate the slobber aspect. Here he is demonstrating a prototype while standing on the balance knob.

In 1878 he married Mummy, a rare beauty, though curiously as I was looking through my old albums I could only find pictures of her as a ghost:

Broken by his cruel and unhappy marriage and the unfortunate birth of myself, who took all their time by being too brilliant for a mere two parents to manage, Daddy ended his life as a ruin. Always appropriate in everything he did, he made sure to also live in a ruin:

He lived on the third floor, so as you can see it wasn't a very cheery arrangement. He died alone and friendless in 1957. I prefer to remember him in his heyday: the parties, the drinking, the feather dusters, the STDs. Men knew about balls in those days! And so did women.

journey to the outer islands - XOXOIIII

Let me draw a veil on what next transpired, dear reader. I know you have followed this story long and ardently in the hope that Old Rogers and I would ‘get together’ in the end, like some kind of Sculder and a sort of Mully. Well, as the poor people have so often said, it ain’t goanna happen. Indeed, I am afraid you have somewhat been the victim so to speak of non-canonical Grace and Rogers fanfiction, and the ending of the story contains both Buffy and Tom of Finland. I hope you like it. When I find it. I think it is possible that I accidentally typed the last few pages on greaseproof paper and then used it to turn out some cupcakes on. At least, I am sure the cakes we had last night were covered in some sort of queer porn, and I remember quizzing Cook about it. She said dildo or dildon’t it was all the same to her, which maden’t sense to me, and I’m a woman of the world. Which reminds me, have I ever told you about the time I went to the Outer Isles?

You see, every year, ever since I was a gel (short for gelding) the Laxes have travelled to survey their kelprote – that’s right, it’s a key ingredient in emprote, and much better for you and even tastier than the final product, but what can you do? - properties at the ripe snout of the known world, the Outer Islands. The enormous riches I generate from my property, fat deposits, the three wishes I got where one of them was that I had all the money I ever wanted, and Grace Lax scare-the-children-into-goodness posters are not, you see, sufficient for me to retain my all-important status as a rich person, so it behoves me to run other greenhouse gaseous enterprises elsewhere wherever possible. Just as my readers are dependent on me for instruction, I find it most appropriate to run industries in remote places where I can extort maximum kelp from people with poor union representation; it works so well, frankly, I don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do it.

To be continued if and whenever, though possibly not.

journey to the outer islands - XOXOIII

The sun shone so brightly on the ocean that we squinted at the glare, and our squints made us seem like we were glaring; with our partially-closed eyes it seemed as if the sea was squinting back at us, which completed the whole synchronicity or as some might have called it, the squintronicity. It was way rad.

Suddenly I saw Old Rogers in a new light. He had always been there, somehow – indeed, I had known him since he was a baby with the darlingest red hair; Ginger Rogers, we used to call him. The name came from his tendency to express trepidation, that is, to approach things ‘gingerly’. And it occurred to me that I did know him as a baby; he is considerably younger than I. Then, he had not seemed so particularly lovely; all whingeing and wailing, as though he were some kind of incapable being. Now, I noticed little things about him: the playful freckles dancing round his cheeks (admittedly they might have been potato bugs); the cheery way he used one half of his divided beard to wash the plates, and the other to dry them; the careful alignment of snot stripes up and down the sides of his pantaloons; the mellifluous sound of his ‘aye, ma’am’ and ‘that it is, ma’am’ as he cheerfully agreed with everything I have ever said or thought.

journey to the outer islands - XOXOII

Within a few days we found ourselves with more than passable furniture for the interior of the home. Carlo and I had two beds each because Rogers, who had never spent a night in a building with a floor before, felt (he said) ‘mos’ peculiar’ about doing so at his advanced and, frankly, ancient age.

Nevertheless, we were comfortable in our home, and Rogers was, in his way, comfortable in the blinding sleet that fell for many days outside where he lay, weeping.

‘Now, Rogers,’ I quoth, ‘we must cook some food, to eat.’

‘I’ll fetch Cook, ma’am,’ he volunteered, and up and left. I was most amused, of course, as we had left Cook at home, and there was really only he and I. He was gone some hours, and returned jubilant. ‘Cook says dinner will be ready at five, ma’am.’ He made to exit.

‘Where are you going, Rogers?’

‘Going to kill me’sel’, for lyin’ to ye, ma’am,’ he cheerfully volunteered.

‘Rogers, don’t be silly. If you go, who is left to look after me? We’ll have to cook our own food, in the kitchen.’

journey to the outer islands - XOXOI

The processing of kelp is possibly one of the most fascinating things ever seen, heard of or thought about, even in the abstract. I can confidently say if I did not know anything of the production of kelp-oriented products, such as ankelpracelets and kelpee records, I would probably have such an empty and idle brain that a rapid tap on my skull would shatter it to tiny dusty pieces. I am equally certain your own tiny intelligence could not cope with it. It would be like trying to record a television program onto a turnip by shoving it into a sock, so let’s just say kelp processing is really good. Having thoroughly inspected (and, in Old Rogers’ case, named) all the kelp, we returned to Lax Lodgings in need of refreshment and succour. But it transpired we were the succours! Particularly since, as it was entirely made of glass, I should have noticed that there was not a stick of furniture in the entire building. ‘Oh, Old Rogers,’ I gasped. ‘How could you do this to me?!’

He said nothing, having not come in the door yet so he hadn’t heard me.

‘Rogers,’ I said, this time ensuring he would be in my presence when I spoke, ‘there’s no time to waste. What we need is some wood and some nails, or an upturned turtle.’

‘Is it for furniture makin’, ma’am?’ he wheedled. ‘I packed some very fine furniture afore we left, so…’

‘Rogers!’ I snapped. ‘I need to fix your error post-haste. Find me some wood and some nails, for we are making chairs, tables, four beds, a sideboard and a new hat for me to travel to town on Thursday.

‘Aye ma’am. Ma’am?’

‘Gammon! What is it now!’

‘Could I just break up the chairs, tables, beds and sideboard I already brought over? There’s not much wood on the island, so…’

‘Rogers, please keep your sentences concise so I don’t have to continually break into them! Yes! Do what must be done!’

journey to the outer islands - XOXO

‘What on earth is the good of you, man, when you bottle this knowledge up and don’t use it for the good of others?! All my life, I have sought to instruct and inform on the appropriate way of doing things. Rogers, now is the appropriate time to put that brake on. Now is the time, Rogers, and even one so servile and submissive as yourself should see that, in truth, you perhaps need not even ask me whether you are allowed to put the brake on, when it will quite surely save our lives, or at least – for we may become compressed into cardboard-thin wall-hangings in our own shape and appearance suitable only for scientific investigation – save a rather beautiful piece of modernist architecture designed especially by Mies van der Rohe for the Lax family, and worth millions.’

We sat in aggrieved silence as he mulled this outburst.

‘So may I, Ma’am?’ he finally asked.

‘May you what?’ I harrumphed.

‘May I apply the brake, Ma’am?’

‘Gammon! Confound the man. Yes, please, if you would be so kind Rogers, apply the brake.’

He did so, and we stopped at the glass door of Lax Lodgings in precisely the nick of time.

Overcome with relief at seeing what a hideous fate we had been spared from of, I did something I must admit I was rather not expecting. I fell on Old Rogers, my man who ‘does’, weeping. ‘Rogers,’ I cried. ‘Rogers.’

‘Ma’am,’ he responded, as is his wont, usually.

‘Rogers,’ I said. ‘We’re safe.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘I simply asked moiself, what would Jesus do? And of course, Jesus would ask your permission to apply the brake, Ma’am.’

‘Yes!’ I laughed, ‘Yes, Rogers, I do believe he would!’ I patted him fondly on the cheek, as though he were a person of my own standing, an action which I think surprised both him, me and you, my reader, who knows that in general, I am prone only to appropriate behaviour, rather than the inappropriate behaviour that this action signified. I gathered my wits, my Wad, and my knitting and stepped down from the carriage.

‘Rogers,’ I now stated, firmly and back in my familiar stentorianness, ‘I am glad we arrived here in good time. Well done, man. Please attend to unpacking Carlo, and then we will inspect the kelp processing works, if you please.’