Yesterday, my verticals went. For those of you lucky enough not to know what verticals mean, it means the plumbing that runs verticular (is that a word?) in the cold plaster -yes cold plaster- walls of our home. When we bought our house, our real estate agent told us we had 20 years on those pipes. Well turns out he was wrong. That's ok. He told us we had at least 15 years on the furnace - we got two. The windows were good for a lifetime -they made it 7 years. Ah well, no one can't be right all of the time especially when they're trying to sell you a house, can they?
Anyhoo, this is all Robbo's fault. Yes it is. It my payback for pushing him, as he himself once described, into The Tiber. If you know anything about Robbo the Llama Butcher, then you know besides being a recent convert to the Roman Catholic Church, the man has more plumbing problems than the average Roman Cathoilc convert. Being educated in an almost Ivy League school, and attending an almost decent law school, Robbo's up on all things psychological too. He doesn't totally buy into all things psychological because if he did, he never would have left the Episcopal Church. But he must buy into transferrance because he transferred his plumbing problems onto me very nicely. Thanks a lot Robbo.
So, our plumber has yet to add up all the numbers and tell me how much $$$$$ this verticular thingummy is going to cost Mr. P. Then I've got to call the kilt-wearing cold plaster Scottish guy Mr. P cannot stand to see how much it will cost to put a new ceiling back into our breakfast room (the plumbers have to take it out) and then call the paratrooper turned craftsman who did my kitchen to find out how much it will cost for him to reline the alcove for the double oven in the kitchen with cottageboard (that's history too because I'm not letting the plumbers, as nice and competent as they are, put one finger on the wormy chestnut paneling in the breakfast room). *Sigh* It's moments like these when I wish I could help Mr. P with the financial burdens of our home. But I can't. *Sigh* The trials of a stay-at-home Mom. All I can do for Mr. P is try and make his home a happy one so that when things burst like dreams or pipes he can laugh about it and say it really doesn't matter. Of course that wisdom hits him after a stiff bourbon or two does first.
So Mr. P, this one's for you.
Oh, and Robbo, no this is not the future short story with you in it that I was babbling on about. This, most unfortunately, is real life.
From the May 2003 NYTimes obit for the late Bishop of NYC for the Episcopal Church, Paul Moore Jr. :
Paul Moore Jr., the retired Episcopal bishop of New York who for more than a decade was the most formidable liberal Christian voice in the city, died yesterday at home in Greenwich Village. [...] Bishop Moore spoke out against corporate greed, racism, military spending and for more assistance to the nation's poor, pursuing his political and social agenda in both the city and within the national Episcopal denomination. He was an early advocate of women's ordination and, in 1977, was the first Episcopal bishop to ordain a gay woman as an Episcopal priest. [...] During his tenure, Bishop Moore transformed the seat of the diocese, the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, at 112th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, from a moribund backwater church to a place where peacocks roamed, orchestras performed, elephants lumbered, inner city youth found jobs and the homeless slept in supervised shelters. [...] Bishop Moore was married in 1944 to Jenny McKean with whom he had nine children. [...] Standing 6 feet 4 -- something of a human rallying pole -- he became the consummate urban priest.
From The Bishop's Daughter by the eldest child of Bishop Moore and his first wife, Jenny McKean, Honor Moore:
At the time, I was still ignorant of any fissures in my parents’ marriage, and I learned that my mother’s dissatisfaction had a sexual element only after she and my father separated, some years later. It was the early nineteen-seventies, and I was visiting her in Washington. [...] My mother and I often talked about the changes in sexual attitudes from her generation to mine. At the time, for instance, like many of my friends, I was living with a man to whom I was not married. I don’t remember how the conversation began, but suddenly my mother was saying, “I didn’t have an orgasm until I was forty.” I had no reply. “And when I finally did,” she continued, “Paul said, ‘What’s the matter, Jenny?’
February 28, 2008 -- MANY Episcopalians are reeling from the news in this week's New Yorker that the late Bishop Paul Moore - the 6-foot-5 patrician whose political activism drove many parishioners from the church - was a closeted homosexual who had a gay lover for the last 30 years of his life.
He had a confident voice. Andrew Verver (as I’ll call him) was the only person in my father’s will whose name was unfamiliar when we sat in the lawyer’s office the day before the funeral. [...]
The beginning of the conversation was formal.
“Your father was a close friend of mine.”
“Yes.”
“For almost thirty years.”
“Yes. You said so in your letter—”
[...]Andrew had been a student at Columbia, a Roman Catholic. “I was considering being received into the Episcopal Church,” he said. This was in 1975. “I went to your father for advice. He was very helpful. At first it was a pastoral thing, and after a while we became friends.” [...]
“I’m so happy to be talking to you,” I said.
“I would have called sooner—”
[...]
“Did he tell you about us? About . . . me?”
“You had some problems with each other.”
“Yes,” I said, “we did.”
“We were so close, your father and I. He told me a lot of things.” He didn’t want to get off the telephone either.
“About—”
“About your family. About his life. We missed our plane to Patmos, and we had to spend the night on Samos, another island.[...]
“Did he talk to you about his sexual life?” Two men in Greece, a beautiful night.
“I was his sexual life,” Andrew said.
“You were?” There was a silence and then we both began to laugh.
“For a long time.”
“I am so happy he had someone like you,” I managed to say.
“Of course, there were other men,” he said.
I asked him whether there was any significance to the table that my father had left him in his will.
“Only that it was next to the bed!” he said. “Your father had a sense of humor.” That quiet laugh again.
“Once, we were on the sofa, talking,” he continued, “and Paul took off his bishop’s ring and put it on my hand for a minute. The New York bishop’s ring has windmills on it, and your father smiled and said, ‘I’m your Dutch uncle.’".
Paul Moore was a polarizing figure long before his daughter's book. Born into a family of privilege—his grandfather, William Moore, was a founding member of the Bankers Trust Co.—he embraced a radical form of Christianity that focused on social justice, choosing poor parishes and moving his family to the then gritty Jersey City, N.J. ("On the Waterfront" was filmed in the Moores' neighborhood a few years later), where he and his wife, Jenny, opened their house to the community. He marched with Martin Luther King Jr. and Dorothy Day.
The bishop also struggled with his attraction to men and had adulterous affairs with both men and women throughout his marriage. He told his children about his double life when he was 70, after the death of their mother, when his second wife discovered an affair with a man. But he never came out publicly, despite ongoing rumors.
Jenny McKean Moore died of colon cancer in 1973 [she and Bishop Moore had separated before her illness and remained separated until her death]. Eighteen months later Moore married Brenda Hughes Eagle, a childless widow twenty two years his junior. She died of alcoholism in 1999. It was she who discovered his bisexual infidelity, around 1990, and made it known to his children, who kept the secret, as he had asked them to, until Honor Moore's revelations in 2008.
From The NYTimes obit for Bishop Moore's second wife, Brenda Hughes Eagle:
Brenda Hughes Moore, a human-rights advocate and arts consultant and the wife of the Right Rev. Paul Moore Jr., retired bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of New York, died Sunday at New York Presbyterian Hospital. She was 56 and lived in Greenwich Village and Stonington, Conn.
The cause was hepatitis, her husband said.
A native of Richmond, Mrs. Moore graduated from Salem College in North Carolina and studied at the University of Aix-Marseille and the University of Perugia.
She accompanied her first husband, John Franklin Campbell, a Foreign Service officer, to Ethiopia, where she became a special assistant to Emperor Haile Selassie and arranged a national exposition of Ethiopian crafts. [...]
Mr. Campbell died in 1971 at age 31, and the next year she married Vernon Eagle, then the executive director of the New World Foundation, which supported civil rights and community projects.
The year after Mr. Eagle's death in 1974, she married Bishop Moore, who had officiated at her second wedding and had himself recently been widowed.
With moving elegiac sentiments, my sister Honor Moore has outed my recently deceased father, Bishop Paul Moore, against his clearly and often stated will.[...] We have kept my father’s confidence since 1990, when our stepmother discovered his infidelity. It is this trust that Honor has breached.[...] Nowhere does Honor mention the extent of the anguish suffered by my mother, my stepmother, and my siblings as a result of his betrayals. Instead, she exposes intimate sexual details. Like so many others, we loved him despite his dishonesty, and we recall with deep fondness his courage and affection.
Relish the Gentleman: Man About Mayfair Sir Basil Seal
I realize that you are all aware of this already, but I wanted to point it out just on the off chance that someone has been on holiday, or, in hospital and wasn't paying attention...May 28, 2008 is, of course, the centenary of Ian Fleming's birth, and to mark this momentous day and year Ian Fleming Productions Ltd (which is wholly owned by the Fleming family and administers Ian's literary estate) has commissioned some special works to commemorate the event. This is strictly concerning the literary Bond and not the movies, which are a different thing altogether. EON Productions owns the film rights and their Bond is a different character from the one depicted in the books. I personally do not follow the film Bond, but for those of you who do, there is a new Bond film due out in November of 2008. Of course there have been continuation Bond novels written for years by several different authors. I have not read any of these, because I personally do not like the idea of continuing books after the author is dead. I will make an exception in the case of Devil May Care. Faulks has gone to great pains to write as Fleming and he has kept the story in the original time frame, not yanking Bond into the present where he has to give up cigarettes, trade his Bentley for a REVA, watch his cholesterol intake, be wary of date rape law suits, get in touch with his feminine side and drink bottled water instead of whiskey. Here are some highlights of the years festivities:
Imperial War Museum
For Your Eyes Only: Ian Fleming and James Bond
Thursday 17th April 2008—Sunday 1st March 2009
To celebrate the centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth, Imperial War Museum London is producing the first major exhibition devoted to the life and work of the man who created the world’s most famous secret agent, James Bond.
Featuring fascinating material, much on public display for the first time, For Your Eyes Only will look at the author and his fictional character in their historical context and examine how much of the Bond novels were imaginary and how far they were based on real people and events. This exhibition will explore the early life of Ian Fleming, his wartime career and work as a journalist and travel writer and how, as an author, he drew upon his own experiences to create the iconic character of James Bond that continues to have global appeal.
For Your Eyes Only
Ian Fleming and James Bond is the new book accompanying the Imperial War Museum exhibition and written by Ben MacIntyre, a columnist and associate editor on The Times. The book is published by Bloomsbury and will be released on 17th April.
Bond Bound: Ian Fleming & The Art of Cover Design
A major exhibition ‘Bond Bound: Ian Fleming & The Art of Cover Design’ will be on show at the Fleming Collection from 22 April to 28 June 2008. The exhibition, covering each book published, will also chart the role of artists and designers in creating and defining the Bond look. Casino Royale, the first of the Bond novels spanning half a century, established the James Bond brand. It was a compelling mixture of sex, style and violence that soon turned Bond into the most famous fictional secret agent in history. This provided artists and designers with invaluable opportunities to maximize their talents.
Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang
Not only was Ian Fleming the creator of James Bond, but he also invented Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang for his young son Caspar, and it went on to become the most famous and best-loved car in fiction.
This treasured story inspired a film and a musical and is celebrated in this lavish, highly collectible new edition, complete with its original timeless artwork by John Burningham, one of Britain’s most popular author/illustrators. It will published in hardback on the 8th April by Puffin Books.
James Bond: The Authorized Biography
First published in 1973, this book has been reissued in conjunction with the Ian Fleming centenary. Highly recommended.
"Five years ago, Pearson wrote the best-selling authorized biography of Ian Fleming. At the time, like most of the many million James Bond fans around the world he assumed that Bond was nothing more than a figment of Fleming's highly charged imagination. Then he began to have his doubts - doubts which soon were reaching such a pitch that the British secret service tried to warn him off the scent. Despite this, he finally became convinced that James Bond was not only real but was actually alive.
Thanks to a change of policy within the secret service (for reasons which Pearson carefully explains), he was invited to embark upon a companion volume to his life of Fleming. This was a book which must surely be one of the most extraordinary biographies of our times - the authorized life of a myth, the official biography of James Bond."
The Moneypenny Diaries
This is an authorized book edited by Kate Westbrook. First of three books in the series. Already published in the UK, the final book is being published there this year. We find out that her Christian name is Jane...
My heart breaks for James---so begin the explosive, true, private diaries of Miss Jane Moneypenny, personal secretary to Secret Service chief M and colleague and confidante of James Bond. Bound by the Official Secrets Act not to reveal anything about her work, Miss Moneypenny is forced to lead a secretive, clandestine life. But, contrary to popular belief, she was not simply a bystander while James Bond saw all the action.
Miss Moneypenny’s experience with mystery stretches all the way back to her childhood in Africa, when her father inexplicably disappeared in action during World War II. Now, as a young woman in 1960s London, Miss Moneypenny unknowingly stumbles upon her father’s trail. In a position like hers, there’s no file she can’t access, and no document she can’t read. Yet Miss Moneypenny is forced to decide whether it’s worth risking everything---her job, her safety, and even international security---for the possibility of finding her father alive.
A life of espionage has personal as well as political ramifications. For Jane Moneypenny, the price is high. Romantic relationships with outsiders are necessarily built on lies, and she automatically questions the motives of every man she grows close to. For as her diary quickly reveals, Miss Moneypenny is involved in far more than office politics.
Guarding so many secrets and with no one to confide in, she finds herself breaking the first rule of espionage. Unbeknownst to anyone, she keeps a diary charting her innermost thoughts and state secrets.
These diaries should not have been written. They were never supposed to be read...
Devil May Care By Sebastian Faulks writing as Ian Fleming
Devil May Care will be published on Wednesday 28th May 2008 to celebrate the centenary of Ian Fleming’s birth. This new installment in the adventures of the world’s most iconic spy has been written by one of Britain’s most admired novelists, Sebastian Faulks.
'My novel is meant to stand in the line of Fleming’s own books, where the story is everything,' said Faulks, 'In his house in Jamaica, Ian Fleming used to write a thousand words in the morning, then go snorkeling, have a cocktail, lunch on the terrace, more diving, another thousand words in late afternoon, then more Martinis and glamorous women. In my house in London, I followed this routine exactly, apart from the cocktails, the lunch and the snorkeling.'
Picking up from where Fleming left off in 1966 with Octopussy and The Living Daylights, Faulks has written the perfect continuation of the James Bond legacy. Devil May Care is set during the Cold War and features all the glamour, thrills and excitement that one would expect from any adventure involving Bond . . . James Bond.
Quantum of Solace: The Complete James Bond Short Stories
This will be published in August by Penguin. As noted, it is a collection of all the short stories into one volume.
Centenary Edition Hardbacks by Penguin 007
On May 29 Penguin 007 will publish hard back editions of all 14 Fleming Bond books featuring new cover art by Michael Gillette.
"That was the day she [Kate Middleton] revealed her jam filling for charity's sake."
Ah, do I even want to know?
- Robbo the Llama Butcher
Robbo, as your doctor I would say since you asked you really do want to know. I'm not an authority on slang, American or British, but knowing my way around the kitchen particualry with a pound or two of unsalted butter in my hands, I knew exactly what Elspeth, Jane and their unnamed token Catholic roommate meant with their quaint (and very clever, I might add) use of peek-a-boo tart and jam filling to describe Kate Middleton's female attributes. Clearly these 3 young ladies, even though they reside somewhat near old Brompton Road, possess some knowledge of the kitchen arts. I do not know if Kate Middleton does.
A peek-a-boo jam tart is a classic jam tart with strips of pastry (lovingly) laid across the top to hide parts of the sumptuous and quite delicious jam filling. The jam actually is to peek out and bubble up during baking at a high temperature from beneath the pastry strips.
Classic peek-a-boo jam tarts
The presumed future Tart of England, after the Buried-In-A-Y-Shaped-Coffin, old Tart Camilla, Kate Middleton in her classic black peek-a-boo cocktail dress.
Yeah, it's a safe bet Prince William's favorite dish is bubble and squeak....
It was with great disappointment, confusion and we'll admit since we are women, a fair amount of consternation, to learn that you think that our Prince William looks like your Eleanor Roosevelt. Surely you cannot believe Wills resembles America's First Lesbian? This appears to be most unfair. Even uncalled for. Yes, it is true, as you never hesitate to point out, that lesbianism is all the rage among young men of marrying age in the Church of England today. While Wills intends to be the head of the Church someday, this does not mean he automatically looks like a lesbian. Why, one of our own mothers found Wills to be so good-looking that one of us was actually sent to St. Andrew's in hopes of catching his eye. But much to this mother's disappointment, Kate Middleton had already appeared before him doing her best impression of a peek-a-boo tart. That was the day she revealed her jam filling for charity's sake. (Sweet Charity all of our mothers now say.) Wills was firmly in her grasp by the time one of us appeared within the environs of St. Andrew's.
You may not be aware but in certain rooms in St. Andrew's it was and still is believed that you have a devil-may-care attitude with the many of the things you say. And even more of a devilish proposal for your friends and readers, is that it is near to impossible to determine when you are serious and when you aren't. This is why we felt we needed to address you. Are you serious?
Yours as ever,
Elspeth and Jane (the names have been changed), plus 1 other flatmate who desires to remain nameless as she's the token Catholic
Somewhat near, you could say, Old Brompton Road, South Kensington
(Elspeth and Jane and their token Catholic flatmate who desires to remain nameless have very kindly allowed the following to be shared with you.)
My Dear Elspeth and Jane and their token Catholic flatmate who desires to remain nameless,
First, I must say I am delighted to learn we have three young readers of the female persuasion from somewhat near, you could say, Old Brompton Road in South Kensington. If memory still holds, Mr. P used to order books for me from a bookseller on Old Brompton Road.
Now, let's address your questions, shall we?
First, does Prince William or Wills, resemble Eleanor Roosevelt? Well, it's Spring and I'm in a sporting mood. Why don't we allow Messrs. Eastman and Kodak to settle this one, once and for all?
Eleanor Roosevelt, view I
Eleanor Roosevelt, view II
Prince William, view I
Prince William, view II
Messrs. Eastman and Kodak say the resemblance between Eleanor Roosevelt is not only a strong one, it is a scary one. Very scary considering the developments of the last 50 years within the walls of the Church of England and Viscount David Linley's recent scandal it must be noted. While I must agree with Messrs. Eastman and Kodak's assessment, I would say Prince William himself, can do much to cut down on his resemblance to America's First Lesbian, Eleanor Roosevelt. Prince William must stop listening to Kate Middleton. Now. It is she who is behind this lesbian look for Prince William because she cannot accept the fact her Prince has lost his hair.
How do I know this you ask? Easy. Look at the top of View II of Prince William. As you can see he has a ruff of hair just above his forehead and behind that, most of his hair has departed for greener pastures. This is no big deal. Really. It happens to many, if not most men at some point in their lives. It's all how one handles this departure of hair loss that separates the men from the lesbians. Prince William, no doubt due to Kate Middleton's influence is trying to pretend he has not lost his hair. In the haircutting world, this is called Mistake No.1 with male hair loss.
It is not uncommon for women, like Kate Middleton, who have forced their men to commit Mistake No.1 with male hair loss to then make them worse felons in the haircutting world by committing Mistake No.2 with male hair loss. Mistake No.2 is trying to make the remaining hair appear much more thick than it is. If you look at Prince William, View II you can easily detect by the most unnatural texture and dull appearance of his ruff, that he is trying to thicken it with hair mousse or something even worse; eye of newt. Kate might even be forcing him to 'perm' it. As a result, Will's ruff is doing its best impression of the 'shingled bob' style that Eleanor Roosevelt is sporting in View I. The 'shingled bob' was a form of permanent wave and was very popular among women and lesbians in Eleanor Roosevelt's day. The main complaint by men concerning the shingled bob was that when backs were turned it was impossible to tell the difference between a man, a woman, and a lesbian. Since Eleanor Roosevelt was 5'11 3/4" and Prince William is 6'3" it would be next to impossible for a man of good eyesight to determine which one of them was the lesbian if their had their backs turned to him.
When it comes to losing his hair Prince William must not do as lesbians do, he must do as men do. Men suck it up and cut what remaining hair they have left. They cut it short. Very short. Men do not need hair to be attractive. Only women do. And do you know what, when a man loses his hair and has the courage to cut what is left short, it looks positively fabulous as Prince William's uncle, Prince Edward, demonstrates here
Just look how attractive Prince Edward is. But of course being attractive comes easier to him than Prince William as Edward got his mother's teeth. Unfortunately, Prince William got his mother's chipmunk teeth. Oh, and will you look at where Edward's baby boy has his hand. No confusion there. Prince Edward is getting his little Viscount off to the right start. Good job Prince Edward! Oh, if only you could inherit the throne then England might be England again.
Now, for your second question, am I serious?
I am always serious. It's just that my subjects aren't.
Thank you for writing Elspeth, Jane and the flatmate who desires to remain nameless as she's the token Catholic. All in all, it has been a highly enjoyable correspondance. Please send in more questions and do visit us often here at Patum Peperium.
Last night over the adult beverages and Benedryl (Mr. P has been flattened by seasonal allergies this week.), Mr. P discussed my school year. All in all he said, it hasn't been a very good one. And when I gave it some thought, I had to agree. So I accepted my punishment like a proper middle-aged lady; evening detention in his office (the old four poster) for the next 2 weeks. Mr. P did add if there's another incident before school is out, then it's summer school for me. Well, if that isn't just the reason to shift the Jeep into 3rd gear and maybe even up into 4th, cut in pickup line this afternoon leaving a 20 ft skidmark in my wake just to prove beyond a reasonable doubt I was guilty, then I don't know what is. But as usual, I am digressing.
Anyhoo, this is the perfect time to share with you how I developed the necessary backbone when dealing with the Hillary Clintons of the world. It took a Mount Holyoke girl who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, don't you know? to properly fuse and calcify the connecting tissue. This Mount Holyoke girl who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, Mrs. Dingwall, was the mother of my girlhood best friend, Eleanor. Now at the time I fell afoul of Mrs. Dingwall,who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, Eleanor and I were already on the skids, friendship-wise. This is because being a daughter of a Mount Holyoke girl who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife she had zero coping skills. I was beating her in the horse shows and she couldn't hack it. She'd cry all the way home in the leather backseat of her mother's Caddy saying it wasn't fair. (Though in Eleanor's eyes it was perfectly fair when she bested me. Why it was laughter and smiles all the way home, I might add.) The Dingwalls always gave me a ride because thanks to my dad the psychopath, my mother was the only working mother in my set which not only made her unable to watch my horse shows, it made her unable to ferry me to and from the barn. We had to rely on the kindness of friends. (Some friends as we later learned.) Mrs. Dingwall went on to handle her daughter's unhappiness at my horse show wins by pulling her out of riding school.
Mr. Dingwall was completely unlike his wife. Sure, he too was a bleeding heart liberal Democrat and agreed with Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife of only allowing his daughters to watch PBS, but he paid an enormous price for that incredibly stupid idea. One of his girls (and I am employing the term most loosely) went on to an Ivy League eduction, naturally, and then on, even more naturally, to become an Evangelical lesbian priest in the Episcopal Church, evangelizing the good news about lesbians, naturally. But for a starter, Mr. Dingwall was fun. He also like women to dress like women, he thought my mother was a better cook than his wife and would openly say so to his wife and daughters whenever he queried what we were having for dinner at my house and Mr. Dingwall was one of the few dads in our neighborhood who had a subscription to Playboy. Yup, he did. More than that, we knew where Mr. Dingwall hid his Playobys - in his workshop in the basement. So, naturally I liked Mr. Dingwall, who wouldn't? All the other kids in the neighborhood liked him too. Because of his popularity on Doorbell Night (the night before Halloween) Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife let Mr. Dingwall off his choke collar and leash, and he was allowed to come into his own. He would hide in the bushes, do you know he did a much better job of hiding himself in the bushes than he ever did with his hiding his Playboys but as usual I'm digressing, and attack us with the garden hose, water balloons (the old-fashioned kind made out of Baggies) and even his shaving cream. It was great.
So, the Doorbell Night I was in 7th grade (I think that would be the infamous Doorbell Night in my neck of the woods as that was the Doorbell Night the cousins of Kennedys murdered 15 year-old Martha Moxely -see Domminick Dunne if you need more explanation), the boys in the neighborhood got together to plan a full-scale attack on Mr. Dingwall. My older brother was one of the commanding officers of said attack. Since our home was across the pebbled street from Mr. Dingwall, our home was fortified against reprisal attacks. The day beforehand so no one would notice especially my mother, my brother and his friends took rope and strung it about 6 inches off the ground and through all of the Maple and dogwood trees, plus Evergreen bushes. Then they disguised the rope with covering it with fallen leaves from the other boys' yards. The plan was that Mr. Dingwall, or his daughters, and if they were really lucky, Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, once their home had been assualted would naturally try to mount a surprise attack on our house. But the surprise would be on them as the rope would naturally trip them to the ground, and once they were there, 3 7 year-old boys were under orders to emerge from the bushes and pelt them with eggs taken from my mother's refrigerator when she wasn't looking. My mother had 5 kids. She always had at least 2 dozen eggs in that thing at any given time. You must admit the plan was sheer brilliance. Too bad my brother had been struck with Juvenile Diabetes just a few years earlier. It ended what could only have been a brilliant military career.
Unfortunately there was only one flaw with this plan and it was a variable. You've got to, when making strategies for anything, count on variables as they always happen. The variable that Doorbell Night, which worked enormously in my brother and his friends' favour, was that Mr. Dingwall was out of town on business. His home, which had the largest Doorbell Night attack ever planned in the history of our neighborhood was left completely unguarded. Even worse for Mr. Dingwall, that was the night Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife and her daughters were coming into their own, socially. Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife had invited several of the very wealthy girls from our Episcopal parish to spend the night. And guess who had not been invited to this most posh of slumber parties? Why me, of course. Eleanor Dingwall's very best friend of many years running now. And once my brother and his friends plus the other kids in the neighborhood realised I had been dissed by Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, the attack on the Dingwall home took on a life of its own.
Then the worse thing that could of happened, happened. Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife,, got mad and told her girls and the posh girls to attack....
But this was before feminism had really taken hold in my neighborhood and boys were still very much boys. Those girls were Silly Putty in the hands of my brother and his friends. The ended up all quickly retreating into the Dingwall home completely covered in water, eggs, and shaving cream. We could hear Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife screaming all the way from the street.
Understanding that Mrs. Dingwall's who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife wrath was going to spur on the counter attack on our home, my brother and his friends rustled the 7 year-olds who had been stationed all this time in our bushes and sent those boys home with orders to return as quickly as possible with all of their mother's eggs. Which they did. And it was just in time to see the Dingwall girls along with the posh friends creep out of the bushes of the Dingwall yard and make a run for it to our front door with Mr. Dingwall's shaving cream. They never made it. The rope stretching between two giant Maple trees did its job proudly. It took all six of them down in one fell swoop. Then my brother and his friends sprang out and just pelted them with eggs. They all limped back to the Dingwall house crying.
So, it came as little surprise the next morning (this would be Halloween) to see that someone, or many ones, had during the very late hours of the night, smashed all of our pumpkins and more than that soaped all of the our windows panes (6 over 4 paned windows) with very nasty words about one of my sisters. She had gotten in on the egg pelting the evening before. It was when my mother saw this, she figured out something had transpired the evening before. The piano teacher (a man of mature years who just adored her) and she had spent the evening discussing life over coffee (probably spiked with whiskey) in the breakfast room. We told my mother this had to be the work of the Dingwall girls and their posh friends. She wasn't mad. She just told us to clean it all up. Which we were in the process of doing when 8 year-old Edwin Tall (who had not been allowed out the evening before) rode up the front walk on his new bike to ask me what happened to our pumpkins and our windows.
"The Dingwalls and their friends did this."
"The Dingwalls smashed your pumpkins and soaped your windows?"
"Yeah, look what they wrote too."
"The Dingwalls wrote that?"
"Yup."
So, off rode little Edwin Tall right over across the street to Mrs. Dingwallwho was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife and we have all safely assumed for the last 33 years that little Edwin Tall told Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife that I, Mrs. P, had said her daughters had used bad language. Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife came flying over her hedge and across the street with the smoke coming out of her nose and ears. She srceamed at me for saying such horrible things about her girls and demanded one of my sisters, who was standing there with her mouth wide open, to go and get my mother NOW!. Which my sister did.
My mother emerged from our house, smiling, to be on the receiving end of one of the worse tongue lashings I have ever witnessed in my 45 years. Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife did not hold back. She let my mother know, in no uncertain terms, just exactly what she thought of us. And the evidence of how awful she thought we were, was that if anyone's children used such bad language, it would be my mother's children, not hers.
That was all I ever needed to see. Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife had revealed herself and her true thoughts about my family. I was done with the Dingwalls. Forever. Eleanor Dingwall and I did not speak again, in any serious manner, until she was engaged many years later (and a few years before me). Then, that was only to advise if I ever got married to not go to a jewelry store to get my ring but buy it under the table from her father's friend as I'll get a much bigger one that way. Hells bells, Mr. P not only took me to the best jewelry store in my hometown, he wrote a check right there on the spot for a ring that had 3X more carat weight than hers and, unlike hers was not set in white gold but platinum, but as usual, I am digressing. Back to school years. Eleanor and I never were friends again. Her mother had killed our already struggling friendship. Eleanor knew the truth about had happened and she knew why I wouldn't speak to her.
Mr. Dingwall returned home from his business trip and one can only imagine what a homecoming that was. In the years after, his career just took off and he was a golden boy in the publishing world. Before you knew it he was tooling by our home (at 15mph) with an English driving cap on his head, leather gloves on his hands in a Jaguar on weekdays and Porsche on the weekends. Then, he got the Golden Parachute early and went to Yale Divinity School to take orders to become an Episcopalian priest. This was one of the few times I regretted not being on speaking terms with the Dingwalls. I would have loved to asked him if he still took Playboy or had gotten rid of his bootleg copy of Yoko OhNo's "The Fly". After a few years of preaching on the evils of corporate America, the evils of first George Bush who he refused to say prayers for in the Prayers of the People, and promoting the active homoseuxal life in the clergy and laity of the Episcopal Church, Mr. Dingwall retired. Soon the Dingwall home was sold and the Dingwalls were retiring to a very posh place in Florida. A few days before the moving van arrived, Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife called my mother and asked her to go have dinner with her the night before she departed. At the restaurant, Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife ordered some wine and when it began to have it affect, she said,
"Mrs. P's mother, there's something I've needed to tell you for 24 years."
"What?"
"It was my daughters who wrote those words on your windows."
"What windows?" my mother asked before taking a sip from her wine glass.
Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife then learned the most awful truth. My mother had moved on as they like to say in the Episcopal Church long, long ago. She had completely forgotten what had happened that Doorbell Night 24 years earlier. So, Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife because she had brought the whole thing up again, had to explain to my mother how she had been such an Hillary Clinton towards me (and my mother) and ruined forever my friendship with her daughter, Eleanor. According to Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife, it was Eleanor's younger sister who confessed that very Halloween night to her that it had not been us but them and their posh friends from our Episcopal parish who had written those bad words in soap on our windows.
24 years later I had Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife right where I wanted her. A bible study friend and retired Junior Leaguer like Mrs. Dingwall who was at school with Henry Kissinger's wife had moved a few years ealier to the very same posh place (and in a much more posh house) that the Dingwalls would now be residing and begining their new life in retirement. I rang my bible study friend up and asked her to tell Mrs. Dingwall at her forthcoming 'Welcome Retired Junior Girl Tea' that her old neighbor from Connecticut, Mrs. P, sends her, her very best regards.
I understand my bible study friend executed my reprisal as flawlessly as my brother and his friends executed their plans on that fateful Doorbell Night 24 years earlier.
It's Prize Giving Day at the Piddle North, I mean North Piddle School for young and occasionally Catholic girls and boys. And do you know what? I, for outstanding performance in the parking lot, am being given an award. Yes-sir-ee! I grabbed the Worse Driving award. It's a new award, created especially for me and I've heard that odds are I shall be the title holder for at least a decade. And I'm not talking a decade of the Rosary either. More than winning the prize for outstanding performance in the parking lot, I am being made an example of what not to emmulate for all the rest of the occasionally Catholic parents of Piddle North, I mean North Piddle School for young and occasionally Catholic boys and girls.
My momentous win recalled to mind of a very pleasant August day about 22 summers ago when I and a group of friends had been invited for tennis and cocktails on the island next door by some highly attractive and currently unattached gentlemen. That would be the afternoon I won an award for outstanding perfomance on a open road while managing to lose a man I had nibbling on my hook. That weekend, like many, many other weekends, I had brought a party of bright young things from Boston up to my grandmother's house in Maine. My party was rather large and it required taking two cars to the island next door for tennis and cocktails with the highly attractive and currently unattached gentlemen. The smokers in my party all piled into one speedy German-made automobile so they could make a pit stop at the General Store. A roommate of mine (I always had at least 2 at any given time) and I took my grandmother's top-of-the-line Volare. Only my grandmother would have owned a top-of-the-line Volare, but as usual I digress. This top-of-the-line Volare led a very charmed existence. It drove from Cambridge to Maine and back again. While in Maine it drove into town for the weekly shopping. This was it. Nothing more unless maybe the very occasional visit to Connecticut or to see cousins on the Cape. As a result the Volare had to be 7 or 8 years old and it had maybe 12,000 miles on it, give or take 4. Because my grandmother never drove it, she never had it serviced. Seriously. She refused to have it serviced and it was a Chrylser product from the late '70's. Say no more as those with memories as to why the Big Three really got to be the Small 3. The brakes on the Volare, because my grandmother was such a leadfoot (she'd pass 3 cars at once-no joke), were shot. So now you get the idea that my roommate and I were driving a deathtrap over to play tennis followed by cocktails on the lawn with some highly-attractive and currently unattached gentlemen.
So, being young and currently unattached girls we had glammed ourselves up in our tennis togs, applied just the right amount of make-up and were heading down the main road at a clip towards the bridge. At this point I was still driving on that island at a good clip because I had yet to get pulled over for speeding while going from one cocktail party to another by the sheriff's deputy who had earlier spied me sunbathing on my grandmother's veranda roof and decided he wanted to ask me out. Handing a girl a $80 ticket after asking her her weight is hardly the way to go about asking said girl out and then showing up for brunch and signing her grandmother's guestbook (dating all the way back to the 1940's) as her arresting officer just finished off any chance you had with her no matter how much she admired your revolver the table (yes, the sheriff's deputy came in uniform, packing heat, to brunch with my grandmother - I've got not only the photos but the negatives as well.), but as usual I am digressing so back to the story. My roommate and I were chatting. She picked something up on the seat and asked "What's this?"
I took my eyes off the road but not my foot off the gas pedal and looked at what she was holding up. It was a very fancy hairclip. "Oh, Hugh bought that last night for me in Freeport at the Ralph Lauren outlet store." (Hugh was one of the guys up from Boston with us.)
"Hugh bought you this? For your hair?" she asked.
"Yes." I responded still looking at the hair clip and not at the road.
"Why did he do that?"
"He said it would look pretty at a Black Tie this Fall with my hair in a chignon."
"He did?"
"Yeah, he did."
"What does this mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
We never discussed what this meant because just at that very moment we had cleared the crest of a hill only to find ourselves staring at a complete standstill of traffic down below us and about 20 feet in front of us due to the ferry boat's imminent arrival. As I said, the brakes on my grandmother's deathtrap were shot, and I had to slam them on downhill to avoid hitting the car full of elderly people in front of us and driving them inot the half of dozen cars in front of them. I hit the brakes and while they did let out an enormous squeal, they did not stop the deathtrap from going headlong into the carload of elderly people. My roommate screamed, threw Hugh's hairclip up in the air and ducked. I did the only thing I could do : I wrenched the steering wheel hard to the left and before we knew what had happened next, the deathtrap had come to a complete stop in the drainage ditch. I looked at my roommate and saw she wasn't injured so I asked her a very important question,
"Hey, where's my hairclip?"
"You almost killed us!"
"No I didn't. My grandmother's brakes almost did."
"Get us out of here! Hugh and Spence will be over that hill any moment and we'll never live it down."
As if just on cue, Hugh and Spence (and the rest of the party) cleared the hill in Spence's German-made sportscar to see my grandmother's deathtrap holding up traffic as I attempted to back it out of the drainage ditch with my roommate covering her face in shame. Both Hugh and Spence wore expressions of shock. Then Spence started laughing. Hugh never did. In fact when we got to the island next door, and just before we began our first match, he took a time out to yell at me for be so irresponsible. I kept maintaining it wasn't my fault. He kept telling me it was. So I did the only thing I could do. I switched partners and played with Spence that afternoon.
So it turned out Hugh's gift of a hairclip meant nothing at all. That was certainly a heck of a way for a girl to find that out, let me tell you.
Deer hunters tell me that they often experience a phenomenon in which they have fatally shot a deer with an arrow or a bullet but the animal will run for some distance before collapsing. As one man put it to me, “The deer is dead; it just doesn’t know it right away.”
Last night, after being drubbed in North Carolina and eking out a victory in Indiana (as of this morning the margin is less than 23,000 votes out of more than 1.25 million cast), Mrs. Clinton uttered brave words about being headed “full speed” to the White House. News accounts this morning state that she plans to hit the campaign trail in West Virginia , a state, like Kentucky , in which the demography of the Democratic primary electorate would seem to give her an advantage. She also is scheduled to hold a fundraiser this evening in Washington , at which she is expected to rake in $500,000.
The trouble is that, as of this morning, the Clinton campaign is dead; she doesn’t know it yet. A report this morning is that the Clintons loaned her campaign almost $6.5 million; other reports are stating that the surge in fundraising success that her campaign experienced after Pennsylvania was short-lived. Taken as a whole, these reports indicate a campaign in perilous financial condition. By any of the standards that she has insisted that her performance and that of Senator Obama be judged, e.g., popular vote and pledged delegate count, she is behind and closing the gap would be nigh impossible. Even if the Democratic Party concedes her “victories” in Michigan and Florida , for example, she still would be behind in popular vote by approximately 90,000 votes.
Obama won the expectations game last night by scoring a double-digit win in North Carolina and coming as close as he did in Indiana. Political professionals and, one would think, superdelegates probably are impressed this morning by his comeback in North Carolina and his strong showings in central and northern Indiana where he carried majority-white counties by substantial margins. Watch for some members of the press to declare that Senator Obama’s success in last night’s primaries, after what can only be described as some very rough weeks—e.g., getting around the “Reverend Wright problem”—prove that he can “take a punch” and, therefore, is battle-ready for the general election. As soon as this line becomes accepted as conventional wisdom (and it won’t take long, as the news media seems more than a little tired of this race) and polls continue to show Obama besting McCain in any match-up (as they now are), the final rationale for the Clinton candidacy—that she would be the strong general election candidate—will evaporate in short order.
Admittedly, Barack Obama has not won the nomination outright and he’ll probably need superdelegates to put him over the top. However, over the next few days, Senator Clinton’s obstinacy in pressing on to what is sure defeat will seem ever more delusional and divisive. Watch for calls for Hillary to admit defeat and withdraw gracefully from Democratic leaders, like Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid, to increase in frequency and volume and for pressure, public and private, to be exerted on currently uncommitted superdelegates to emerge, possibly in groups, to declare their preference for Senator Obama. In the end, therefore, do not be surprised if this race is over by Memorial Day.
Yes, it is true, I am writing this note to you with the aid of a feather-filled pillow. At 9:10 am (but who's counting?) I got spanked like I've never been spanked before. This spanking was unlike no other because it was not Mr. P doing the spanking. I enjoy his spankings but as usual, I am digressing. Suffice it to say, if there was Rogues Gallery of the worst mothers of our hamlet, this morning Michangelo would have been be summoned from his grave to carve my image out of marble -- with no fig leaves either just to heighten my embarassment. Oh well, it could be worse : I could be still be an Episcopalian.
Anyhoo, the few friends I do have are marveling at how well I have accepted my punishment (public ridicule). While there are loads of reasons for the grace under fire, the main reason is punishment is often loads of fun. Yes, really fun. At least I've always tried to make it so.
You see, the summer I was 12, actually it was the spring I was 12, a new man came into my life. Yes, a new man. A 12 year-old man but who was counting? Well, I was. This new man did something no other man had ever done for me in all of my 12 years. He fought for me. Yes, he most certainly did. He fought the previous man in my life, another 12 year-old who had held my attention since he had been all of 9 years old. More than just fighting for me, this new man fought for me in front of other girls. Girls who some were much richer than I by 100's of millions.
This all happened at the barn I had begun my riding career at the tender age of 9. The first man and I had met up that summer and become best of pals. Since we were both short, once we had been taught to jump, we'd tool around the outside course on Shetland ponies at high rates of speed trying to best each other. Everyone thought we'd kill ourselves but we didn't. Instead we had a ball. That was until the spring I was 12 and the new man showed up one cold morning. By this time, I had grown a tad and was now seated on much larger ponies. The new man was taller that I and rode an actual horse.
But Man No. 2 rode a horse terribly. He needed help. Lots of help. Out of all the girls available that year, he asked for my help. I gave it to him, freely. And do you know what? It was just a few years later that he was showing in Madison Square Garden but as usual I am digressing. Anyway, the first man in my life had been too busy to come to the barn during the early spring months. In about June he showed up just in time to see me riding side-by-side with the new man instructing him on how to better hold his hands on the nape of his horse's neck. Man No. 1 was furious with me and being 12, he didn't know enough to hide it. When Man no. 2 and I exited the ring to dismount, Man No. 1 was sitting on the mounting block waiting for us. I was happy to see him. Very happy. He, being a hot-headed 12 year-old, ignored my delight and went right after Man No 2, verbally. He ridiculed his riding right there in front of me and many other girls. Man No. 2 had been my private student for a few weeks now and I thought this was totally out of line. So I got mad. Then Man No. 2 handled my outrage and his own outrage, quickly. He punched Man No 1 right in the face. And what the punch hadn't wounded, I finished off, forever, by not chasing after Man No. 1 when he responded by turning around and walking away --hey, I was only 12 and not sophisticated in the art of men. Well, old Ichabod, whose family had owned the riding stable, technically land, since before the Revolutionary War, wasn't too pleased with me for allowing one of his better playing customers, Man No. 1, be chased off his land. But since the new man, Man No. 2, was casting about for a horse of his own and promising to board it there, old Ichabod said nothing. He just glared at me whenever he could and told me in no uncertain terms to watch my step.
Which of course I didn't. I was 12 and this was the land the Pequot indians had once roamed on and so I thought riding without a saddle and a bridle was the way to go. If the indians could do, then why couldn't we? Well we couldn't because the indians had lived there in the days before law schools had been established in this country and the land was filled with lawyers eager to sue. Not to mention the insurance guys that had to be paid vast sums of cash to keep a man in his riding stable. But we were 12 and didn't understand this. But Ichabod did. So when he emerged from his house after one particularly unsatisfying lunch one late August day, it was just in time to see Man No. 2 and I racing each other across his lower field with absolutely nothing on....
....Nothing on our horses, that is. And technically-speaking, they were old Ichabod's horses which we had borowed for a small sum of cash. Or even more technically-speaking, had told Ichabod's wife, who handled the books, to put the small sum of cash on our accounts.
Boy, were we ever spanked when we got back to the barn.
Our punishment was to dust the barn. A barn that parts of had been built in 1770. The dust in that barn was older than our country. More than that, I'm allergic to dust. Ichabod handed us an armload of white rags and said, "Dust or go home - now!." Well going home was the last thing either one of us wanted to do so we scaled the box stalls and got to work first by dusting the crossbeams and lightbulbs. Then we moved on to all the box stalls and the tackroom. Ichabod did not make us do the feed room because he was concerned we might disturb the rats.
While we dusted, all the trust fund babettes in their little jodphurs, boots and Lacoste shirts who had felt very slighted by Man No.2 for months now, followed us around sipping their Fanta orange and root beer sodas pointing out when we missed a spot. They had him and I exactly where they wanted us..in total disgrace. But when Man No. 2 and I made a swing from the rafters in the hay loft and declared it to be only for 'the dusters' we spoiled their pleasure. And we had a ball. I can still see Man No.2 there that day in his blue jeans with a spare rag hanging out of his back pocket laughing.
It was a ball until much later that night the 200+ year old dust back up my system so much that I was unable to breathe. But a long hot bath cured what ailed me. And do you know what?
On that Thursday afternoon I was out on the veranda taking my exercise, which I do each day with religious devotion to maintaining my genteel figah. I had sat down to rest a bit after my second set of martini dead lifts and lighted a Chesterfield when Weimer announced that a Mr. Lout had arrived. Show him in, my good man I said, and The Fiendish One was shown in. A wonderful man, is Fiendish, for a New Yorker, he does seem to talk rather loudly, but I suppose city people develop this habit in order to be heard over all that machinery. But I like him all the same. Like the sportsman he is he manfully agreed to join me in my daily exercise regimen, so we sat and I poured.
We were sipping our way through my rigorous program, reminiscing about our adventures in New York, mutual acquaintances, family, my wardrobe and what have you. I outlined the plan for the morrow, whereby The Fiendish One, Lord St. John and myself had been delegated to fetch Mr. and Mrs. P and their entourage from the airport. The plan calls for breaking out the T'all (yes, I have one, brought over from the "spredin' out far and wide", a 1974 1210 with the magical 393 V8 and the rare 5 speed transmission, if you were to imagine driving your house down the highway, you would just about have the complete picture. Oh, T'all is short for an International Harvester Travelall, best truck evah) and loading the guests and carrying them back, without any stops coming or going per explicit orders from you know who. Being a manly man, who like myself, enjoys doing manly things in a manly way, TFL expressed interest in my rare gem of a truck. I began to outline the history of said vehicle when:
"Do. Not. Move."
"What?"
"Remain. Perfectly. Still."
"I'm not sure I'm reading you..."
"Shhhhhh....If you value your life you will remain quiet and still."
"Well, I say..."
"Ima Knut"
"You're a Ka-nut?"
"No, no, don't you know how to whisper? Ima Knut"
"I think I'm beginning to realize that you're a Ka-nut, but what..."
"No you fool, Miss Ima Knut is walking up the path, and you do not want to meet her. Slide slowly to the floor..."
We slid, and about that time the faithful Weimer poked his oblong head out the door...
"I see sir from your prone position that you have noticed the approach of Miss Knut."
"You're quite the observant one there Weimer...Of course I noticed...You know what to do"
"Yes sir"
"This will be close, you have to buy us some time..."
"I will endeavor to do my best sir"
"Right, you go that way, we'll go this way. OK Lout, do you see that small gap in the hedge over there near the corner? We will slowly, slowly make our way to that opening. Now, follow me and stay low."
We made our slow and agonizing way toward the safety of the hedge. The Lout looked confused, as I am sure he was, but I was too busy praying that Weimer had way-laid Miss Knut at the top of the path to provide any sympathy. We finally, painfully crawled into the hedge and sat up to do a reccee...
"I say Seal, what the hell are we doing?"
"I'm saving our lives, you fool, be quiet."
"But, why are we hiding from this Ka-nut women? Is that her over there with your butler?"
"Yes, that's the demon seed herself, nice bum, you can't see it in that dress, but it's there, but the price you'd pay is way too high, and if you don't keep quiet she'll hear us and then the game's up."
"What the hell does she have on, is that a flour sack or a tent fly? Who the devil is she, does the nose come off with the glasses?"
"She's Ima Knut, and she is the head of the local TRAD chapter. She's always trying to corner me and lecture me on my wicked ways. Of course I'm a professional and don't need any help from her. Last time she cornered me I hugged her and asked her to be my mistress and she ran off crying and swearing to tell the Countess...She didn't, she fears the Countess, so she's not totally stupid, and the Countess knows I have much better taste than that. She always tries to talk me into getting her a gig at the school. I'll tell you about the school later."
"What's TRAD?"
"Traditional Romans Against Décolletage...A real pain in the arse, if you ask me. You know, no sex, no drinks, no fun and of course no décolletage, that sort of thing. Of course most of them are against décolletage because they haven't any breasts, but that's just my theory. But they flock around young handsome priests like flies...Poor fellows can't shake them off for anything. She must have got word of Father M's visit."
"Good Lord, is there any way she can get past the butler? You're not armed are you? We'll have to warn Father M about this..."
"No, she won't get past him, and no I am not armed but soon will be...Father M will be under the protection of the Countess all weekend, so he's safe. Knut won't dare go up against the Countess. Who would?
We have to make our way slowly down the hedge while Weimer keeps her busy...One of the barns is just down at the end, and we'll be safe there.
"Well, can't we just tell the Countess about it and let her handle it?"
"Good God man, I don't hate the girl that much...You don't know what you're asking. And the problem is that Knut knows I won't tell because the results wouldn't be very pretty. We'll just have to stay out of her way...I haven't the heart to sign her death warrant, along with the rest of her family...You don't know the Countess."
"Well, now what? I say Seal, you have a spot of dirt on your trousers..."
"Let's move out, the Baron's down there somewhere and he'll give us aid and succor. Yes, I noticed the dirt...The Knut has a lot to answer for..."
All original material published here is the property of the writer who penned it. Stealing is not only frowned upon but will be dealt with by strong-armed men trained in the art of legal jujitsu. The views put forth here are not the views of any employer we know which is most unfortunate.
The Peperium's basement
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