PREPOSTHUMOSITY September 2006
Lady Phyllis and I are still ‘en Sud’ as she likes to refer to this part of France. I find it getter hotter here by the year, consider my recent purchase of that Panama Hat showed considerable foresight. Even an old soldier needs to be properly equipped for every eventuality.
After a month’s stay anywhere, I always get itchy feet. Like to keep on the move. Sitting around gives one too much time to think. As President of the Society of Unaffiliated Independents I appreciate when enough is enough, I am surely needed back in the UK. However Lady P insists that we have a proper holiday, says that I am becoming more invigorated by the day. In short she won’t let me home until the Party Conference in October, so that’s that. We are holding our Conference in Bognor Regis this year. Lady P says that she shares King George the Third’s opinion on Bognor. I think she must have meant George VI. ‘Farmer’ George died a long time before she was born.
Well here we are in something of a routine. I stay in bed until six o’clock every morning, Phyllis does not appreciate that the French operate Double British Summer Time, so it is actually four am. GMT. It is by that alone that I set my bio-rhythm. We have a swim in the Lido, and take Breakfast at the café there. I must admit the French make Croissant and Coffee quite as well as we do in England.
We of course have the Rolls with us, and travelled over by Ferry. Never again would I contemplate coming to France without it, nor repeat that dreadful transit through Waterloo. We drive up to the hills most weekdays, but never on a Sunday. The Altitude not only lets us escape the mid day sun, but too the hoards of Tourists who emerge from their hotels sometime after lunch, and keep at it non stop until the early hours. Provence is no longer as it once was, but when one finds a suitable Bistro at lunchtime. It usually serves simple genuine cuisine with a carafe of wine. All one needs at our age.
However the other day we had an extraordinary Literary experience. We found this very welcoming Restaurant in the middle of a village. Marvellous smell of cooking emanating from it, clearly quite the thing. Absolutely delightful. Sort of place that we travellers find, but never reveal the detail of, because before one knows it there will be tourists swarming all over it.
I speak French well enough, the natives understand me. Yesterday I, well my lady wife too of course, established an immediate rapport with the Proprietor’s wife. She had something about her that I found appealing. One has to be careful in front of Lady P, but I know how to handle her when necessary. To cut a longer story short, language seemed to be no sort of problem between Madame and I. After a couple of glasses of Kir I was positively eloquent. It was only then that my wife pointed that Madame was speaking Franglais for our benefit. Seemingly she had come to France as a Cornish Bride.
After the Kir, we had an hors d’ oeuvre of grilled Sardine with hot chestnut purée, the whole wrapped in a smoked lettuce leaf. A most unusual dish and I certainly complimented the Chef on the originality of his creation.
An Officer’s lady doesn’t have to be trained in Pastoral matters, it is an inbred skill. They instinctively know how to deal with the wives and women of other ranks, and are able to put them at their ease, even when visiting them in their own homes. Naturally A chap needs to marry the right sort of woman if he intends to make any sort of Career, be it in the Army or elsewhere.
Madame was most attentive, and in no time at all, my wife had extracted the relevant detail of her dossier. She came from St. Teath Cornwall, her parents catered to the seasonal trade. Visitors think that it’s what the Cornish do, serve teas. The Grockels that’s what they term them, consider it churlish not to buy the things, but I find the cream doesn’t agree with me, so never touch the stuff.
Seemingly Madame when still in Cornwall had been standing in for her parents one afternoon. A couple of very polite elderly gentleman had dropped in to enquire if it would be possible to take afternoon tea there, said that they had been visiting the Church. Well that was what she was there for, and after passing a few pleasantries, she popped some scones in the oven and served them Cornish Cream Teas. Neither man seemed to have much to say to the other, but the one who had spoken to her was seemingly taking notes on the back of the menu. That she’d said is the menu over there, in the frame hanging on the wall. It is a bit of a conversation piece, the French are very jealous of all the different creams that the English have, I do like to tease them over the ‘Clotted Cream’.
She went on to explain that it was what that gentleman had written on the back that made it so special to her. Seemingly as the two had left the Restaurant he’d asked her name, then wrote that too on the back of the menu before handing it to her with an apology for scribbling on it. He’d said that the doggerel he had written had been inspired by Madame, or maybe I should say mademoiselle as she then was. She didn’t think much about it at the time being too busy with other customers. It was only later that She’d read what was written.
She got the frame down off the Wall that we too might see it, adding that she would appreciate my wife’s comments. After first wiping it with her tea cloth, she handed it to Phyllis.
It was indeed a poem, written in soft pencil. My wife has a very even temperament, but as she read it, she became quite flustered. Asked Madame whether it was what it seemed to be? Madame smiled and said that she had always considered it was so.
Phyllis asked whether she might take a copy of it, to ascertain whether the tea guest who wrote the poem really had been the famed Centenarian.
It is in the hope of seeking literary appraisal that she requested that I transcribe the poem onto this web site. If anyone can help with authentication, Lady P. and Madame would be grateful.
To Tamsin
A CORNISH ‘DAIRY MAID’ .
May I take you out to luncheon
Could we munch upon a pie,
fill our time with idle chatter
In the heat of mid July?
I’ll Slumber off or doze a little
waiting for your Maiden’s Cry.
‘Tea is served with Cornish Split
clotted cream, and ‘Strawberi’.
With what rapture to your table
Summoned as in earlier times ,
I muse your Celtic delectation
Wish that all of it was mine.
Fairest skin, and freckled hand
Fraises de Bois your hair.
Oh what rapture oh which joy
That fills me with despair?
You view me as a Father figure
indulged in clotted dreams.
know not that in my early years
I was not, what now I seem.
For I was young, and fresh in hope.
Alas away time frittered,
It left me with my joie de vivre
in a pair of Carpet Slippers.
J.B.
**************
I think that there is a certain reminiscent lilt to the patter, it would not be the first time the ‘Author’ had been Summoned by ‘Belles’ in a Restaurant. There was that Joan someone or another he met in the war. Fine girl that, quite an inspiration to us Subalterns. This ‘Dairy Maid’ business is all very well, but the bit about the strawberry doesn’t really rhyme. Lady P says that doesn’t matter for it was that which makes it doggerel. Anyway she would be grateful to hear from any Critic familiar with the fellow’s work. Very good of you, damsels in distress and all that, what?
We have been visited by my God Daughter Susan and what she terms as her young man. They of course have to amuse themselves. Spend much of the day on the beach, and we meet up for an evening meal outside some café or another, before they go off dancing. One is only young once.
They persuaded me to go to the beach one afternoon. I don’t shock easily but well, well, well put it this way propriety is not what it was in my day. Of course in the Army one did that sort of thing, all men together, but one didn’t do it in front of the ladies. Dammed pretty girls too some of them. Well I am broad minded, ‘Chaque un a son gout’ and all that, but even so. Not sure I will be able to look her father Archibald, my friend and ADC, in the eye next time we meet. Only another month to go, might pop down to the beach gain after Susan has returned home. General Wrant 1/9/06
After a month’s stay anywhere, I always get itchy feet. Like to keep on the move. Sitting around gives one too much time to think. As President of the Society of Unaffiliated Independents I appreciate when enough is enough, I am surely needed back in the UK. However Lady P insists that we have a proper holiday, says that I am becoming more invigorated by the day. In short she won’t let me home until the Party Conference in October, so that’s that. We are holding our Conference in Bognor Regis this year. Lady P says that she shares King George the Third’s opinion on Bognor. I think she must have meant George VI. ‘Farmer’ George died a long time before she was born.
Well here we are in something of a routine. I stay in bed until six o’clock every morning, Phyllis does not appreciate that the French operate Double British Summer Time, so it is actually four am. GMT. It is by that alone that I set my bio-rhythm. We have a swim in the Lido, and take Breakfast at the café there. I must admit the French make Croissant and Coffee quite as well as we do in England.
We of course have the Rolls with us, and travelled over by Ferry. Never again would I contemplate coming to France without it, nor repeat that dreadful transit through Waterloo. We drive up to the hills most weekdays, but never on a Sunday. The Altitude not only lets us escape the mid day sun, but too the hoards of Tourists who emerge from their hotels sometime after lunch, and keep at it non stop until the early hours. Provence is no longer as it once was, but when one finds a suitable Bistro at lunchtime. It usually serves simple genuine cuisine with a carafe of wine. All one needs at our age.
However the other day we had an extraordinary Literary experience. We found this very welcoming Restaurant in the middle of a village. Marvellous smell of cooking emanating from it, clearly quite the thing. Absolutely delightful. Sort of place that we travellers find, but never reveal the detail of, because before one knows it there will be tourists swarming all over it.
I speak French well enough, the natives understand me. Yesterday I, well my lady wife too of course, established an immediate rapport with the Proprietor’s wife. She had something about her that I found appealing. One has to be careful in front of Lady P, but I know how to handle her when necessary. To cut a longer story short, language seemed to be no sort of problem between Madame and I. After a couple of glasses of Kir I was positively eloquent. It was only then that my wife pointed that Madame was speaking Franglais for our benefit. Seemingly she had come to France as a Cornish Bride.
After the Kir, we had an hors d’ oeuvre of grilled Sardine with hot chestnut purée, the whole wrapped in a smoked lettuce leaf. A most unusual dish and I certainly complimented the Chef on the originality of his creation.
An Officer’s lady doesn’t have to be trained in Pastoral matters, it is an inbred skill. They instinctively know how to deal with the wives and women of other ranks, and are able to put them at their ease, even when visiting them in their own homes. Naturally A chap needs to marry the right sort of woman if he intends to make any sort of Career, be it in the Army or elsewhere.
Madame was most attentive, and in no time at all, my wife had extracted the relevant detail of her dossier. She came from St. Teath Cornwall, her parents catered to the seasonal trade. Visitors think that it’s what the Cornish do, serve teas. The Grockels that’s what they term them, consider it churlish not to buy the things, but I find the cream doesn’t agree with me, so never touch the stuff.
Seemingly Madame when still in Cornwall had been standing in for her parents one afternoon. A couple of very polite elderly gentleman had dropped in to enquire if it would be possible to take afternoon tea there, said that they had been visiting the Church. Well that was what she was there for, and after passing a few pleasantries, she popped some scones in the oven and served them Cornish Cream Teas. Neither man seemed to have much to say to the other, but the one who had spoken to her was seemingly taking notes on the back of the menu. That she’d said is the menu over there, in the frame hanging on the wall. It is a bit of a conversation piece, the French are very jealous of all the different creams that the English have, I do like to tease them over the ‘Clotted Cream’.
She went on to explain that it was what that gentleman had written on the back that made it so special to her. Seemingly as the two had left the Restaurant he’d asked her name, then wrote that too on the back of the menu before handing it to her with an apology for scribbling on it. He’d said that the doggerel he had written had been inspired by Madame, or maybe I should say mademoiselle as she then was. She didn’t think much about it at the time being too busy with other customers. It was only later that She’d read what was written.
She got the frame down off the Wall that we too might see it, adding that she would appreciate my wife’s comments. After first wiping it with her tea cloth, she handed it to Phyllis.
It was indeed a poem, written in soft pencil. My wife has a very even temperament, but as she read it, she became quite flustered. Asked Madame whether it was what it seemed to be? Madame smiled and said that she had always considered it was so.
Phyllis asked whether she might take a copy of it, to ascertain whether the tea guest who wrote the poem really had been the famed Centenarian.
It is in the hope of seeking literary appraisal that she requested that I transcribe the poem onto this web site. If anyone can help with authentication, Lady P. and Madame would be grateful.
To Tamsin
A CORNISH ‘DAIRY MAID’ .
May I take you out to luncheon
Could we munch upon a pie,
fill our time with idle chatter
In the heat of mid July?
I’ll Slumber off or doze a little
waiting for your Maiden’s Cry.
‘Tea is served with Cornish Split
clotted cream, and ‘Strawberi’.
With what rapture to your table
Summoned as in earlier times ,
I muse your Celtic delectation
Wish that all of it was mine.
Fairest skin, and freckled hand
Fraises de Bois your hair.
Oh what rapture oh which joy
That fills me with despair?
You view me as a Father figure
indulged in clotted dreams.
know not that in my early years
I was not, what now I seem.
For I was young, and fresh in hope.
Alas away time frittered,
It left me with my joie de vivre
in a pair of Carpet Slippers.
J.B.
**************
I think that there is a certain reminiscent lilt to the patter, it would not be the first time the ‘Author’ had been Summoned by ‘Belles’ in a Restaurant. There was that Joan someone or another he met in the war. Fine girl that, quite an inspiration to us Subalterns. This ‘Dairy Maid’ business is all very well, but the bit about the strawberry doesn’t really rhyme. Lady P says that doesn’t matter for it was that which makes it doggerel. Anyway she would be grateful to hear from any Critic familiar with the fellow’s work. Very good of you, damsels in distress and all that, what?
We have been visited by my God Daughter Susan and what she terms as her young man. They of course have to amuse themselves. Spend much of the day on the beach, and we meet up for an evening meal outside some café or another, before they go off dancing. One is only young once.
They persuaded me to go to the beach one afternoon. I don’t shock easily but well, well, well put it this way propriety is not what it was in my day. Of course in the Army one did that sort of thing, all men together, but one didn’t do it in front of the ladies. Dammed pretty girls too some of them. Well I am broad minded, ‘Chaque un a son gout’ and all that, but even so. Not sure I will be able to look her father Archibald, my friend and ADC, in the eye next time we meet. Only another month to go, might pop down to the beach gain after Susan has returned home. General Wrant 1/9/06
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